Book to Movie Dilemma

I read some news this morning that has left me befuddled. The brilliant book, 'Ender's Game' by Orson Scott Card, has been made into a movie. On the face of it, I should be excited. I loved the book which, despite the extreme violence, actually had surprising depth.
The plot is that Earth has been at war with an alien race for seventy years and, in a desperate attempt to gain the upper hand, a radical new approach is adopted, where the world's most talented children are whisked away to a military training school where they learn warcraft in a zero gravity 'game'. I shan't say any more, for fear of spoiling it for anyone who hasn't read it, but the resulting story is every bit as emotionally challenging as it is violent. It was a fabulous book, and the news of the movie has tempted me to rummage through our crowded bookshelves for our well thumbed copy.
But for all that, I have reservations. I worry the movie will weigh in too heavily with the violence, the awesome battles, the gungho manly type stuff, ignoring the psychological and ethical questions raised by Orson Scott Card's original work. The trailer is impressive, as is the cast list, and I'm so very keen to watch it, but many a good book has been ruined by a crudely interpreted movie. I really hope it won't be the case with this one.

A Race to be Reckoned With

Allow me to set the scene: the sun is shining, not a cloud in the sky. A large crowd gathers, the bunting is out, a large inflatable starting gate has been erected, and runners form up, some in fancy dress, others kitted out in the technical gear favoured by the serious runner. They await the starting gun ... and they're off! Pounding the street, taking the tight turns of the local park with ease, the cheering of the crowd, the slap, slap of trainers striking tarmac and ... they finish! Seven seconds later! Eh?
This was the 55 yard dash around what is officially Britain's smallest park, Prince's Park, Burntwood, Staffordshire. 400 runners took part and, if the photographs on the Mail's site are anything to go by, the whole community turned out to cheer them on. The combined effort raised £750 for local charities.
I think, with the right training, nutritional guidance, and sustained encouragement, I might be able to complete that course. Perhaps I'll put my name down for next year.

Real Life Trumps Fiction

There are times when a news story breaks that is just so extraordinary it makes any attempt at writing fiction seem puny, unimaginative and futile. The story of the three women, missing for ten years, rescued by a stunned neighbour is one such tale.
The women had been kidnapped aged 14, 16 and 19, and kept in the 'dungeon' of a house in their home town for the last ten years. They were rescued when one of the women managed to alert a neighbour by screaming for help. He kicked down the door and freed the woman and her daughter, who then sprinted across the road to call the police, telling them she'd been missing for ten years but 'I'm free. I'm here now'. I can't hear that without the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
Where do you begin unravelling a story like this? With the men who kidnapped them and held them captive for so long? With the women who must have believed they would never see the light of day again? Or with the neighbour who came to their rescue? Fiction becomes irrelevant, the truth is more fantastic than anything I could invent.

Long Live the Internet

A few weeks ago I received a text from that certain special someone telling me it was a lovely day where she was and that she was standing in front of a webcam not far from her term-time home. My immediate reaction was to completely forget how to type as I fumbled about trying to get to the website. I must have clicked on half a dozen wrong links in my excitement before I finally forced myself to calm down and behave like a computer literate adult. And there she was, our beautiful daughter, waving to me down the internet. I know she could do the same with Skype, but this was special, a sort of sneaky wormhole through the 160 miles that separate us when she's at uni.
With this memory still fresh in my mind, the story of the U.S. Air Force man based in Afghanistan, who happened by chance to see his family on a Scottish webcam, really struck a chord. He had known his family would be visiting the site and was looking it up on the internet when suddenly, there they were, walking into shot of the webcam. The fact that he then called her on her mobile phone and told her she looked beautiful today is just the jolly sentimental icing on the cake.
You know, these computer wizards might speak a peculiar language and be in the possession of weird and mysterious skills, but when they get things right, they really get them right. Long live the internet, mobile phones, and webcams (and yes, computer wizards too of course!).

Shark in the Grass

Trawling through the news sites this morning one image jumped out at me. It's pretty odd, so it seems appropriate to mention it here. The image was that of a knitted shark. Hm, see! Odd. Even odder is that the knitted shark is actually a suit crocheted for ... a tortoise.
A lady in Canada, keeper of seven tortoises, knits tortoise suits in all manner of designs and colours. It struck me as a really bizarre thing to do to the poor creatures, until I realised that the bright colours make it much easier to spot a foraging tortoise in long grass.
I don't have a tortoise and I don't have grass, so I won't be placing an order, but good luck to Katie Bradley and her posse of shark fin tortoises.

Right to Vote

Today across England it's polling day for the local elections. Only one candidate even bothered to canvas our area, but that's English democracy for you: if you don't live in a large conurbation, would-be politicians are content to overlook you. It can be hard to conjure the motivation to walk to the polling station to vote, but I have a firm resolve this time.
I've just finished reading 'My Own Story: Emmeline Pankhurst', and it was a revelation. I thought I knew the story of the suffragettes, I thought history lessons in school had covered their struggle fairly comprehensively. How little I knew. And how can I, a woman who has just read of the struggles those amazing women went through in order to secure our political freedom, not make the effort to use it? It was a fascinating and, at times, infuriating read, not because it was in any way badly written, but because of the flagrant abuses perpetrated by the political classes of that time.
So, I'll be off to vote this evening. And I'll put my cross beside the one candidate who could be bothered to ask for it.

No News

There are no unique and amusing news stories out there today. Well, there probably are, but I haven't been able to find them. But the sun is out, the sky is blue and it's May Day! I've seen people walking around quite contentedly in shirtsleeves and shorts and everyone seems to be smiling - apart from the chap in the Mondeo who nearly ran me over at a crossing this morning (luckily I was quick enough on my feet to avoid becoming an unsightly splodge in the road).
So, Happy May Day, hope the sun's shining wherever you are, and if you drive a Mondeo and decided not to stop for a mop-haired woman on a crossing today, you're forgiven, just this once.