Libraries, Jigsaws and Buses

As part of our induction into Ventnor life we felt obliged to become members of Ventnor Library. The Council doesn't have an induction leaflet but we're using our initiative and it's good to get out and annoy people, as I like to do. We're all bookworms - indeed Freya and I have our own book club; we meet every Sunday in a pub and talk about our books. 

She introduced me to the app Goodreads (I'm unsure if it has a capital letter; there's a modern fad for doing away with such customs), in which you can set targets and comment on each other's profiles and updates - for example if you've finished a book or reached a reading target, your followers will be notified. As enthusiastic as Freya is about this, she can't resist being something of a 'wind up merchant' from time to time (it's in the genes!). Recently, I finished a book ('The Philosopher's Pupil' by Iris Murdoch) and updated Goodreads accordingly. Next time I logged in I was notified that Freya had commented the following on my update: 

"No-one cares!" 

That's gratitude for years of financing guitar and singing lessons for you.

Notifications are awful aren't they? The very word fills me with horror; a perfectly innocent word ten years ago now has baggage! I dread them like a Tory MP dreads a by-election (sorry I think I've used that simile before). I detest being notified about anything now - even good news.

But back to Ventnor Library - and who knew it would provide material for this blog, by the way. We decided, as I say, that becoming library members was a crucial part of becoming Ventnorians, and took a stroll there; once inside it became apparent we'd quadrupled the amount of customers, and the need to speak in whispers seemed redundant. The library was staffed by two women, who sat formally behind a screen - possibly a hangover from Covid. The one on the left was Scottish. And here's the thing: so was the one on the right. And here's another thing: they weren't related. There are two Scottish people in Ventnor, and they both work in the library. This is what Freya might call a 'fun fact'.  

After Ewan, Freya and I had officially joined, formally receiving our library cards from the two Caledonian ladies, we temporarily lost Mrs. Griffiths, eventually sourcing the aforementioned spouse in the jigsaw section. We found she'd all but wet herself with excitement (she's had two kids), because Ventnor library has a jigsaw section where customers can choose from a selection of jigsaws and sit and attempt them. Now Mrs. G adores doing jigsaws; they afford her the opportunity to temporarily escape from the unutterable chore of being married to this writer. Wearing her typical jigsaw-doing expression, which is basically a furrowed brow and glasses halfway down her petite nose, she was as happy as a pig in sh*t, though I'm aware the simile isn't a flattering one! The jigsaw she was attempting pictured a group of vaping teenagers, with a burnt out car and empty beer cans forming the backdrop. Not really! Jigsaws reflect the best of British life; an idealised world of thatched cottages and billowing trees. Have you ever seen a jigsaw of a derelict public toilet or an orgy! Or an orgy in a derelict toilet!

Later that afternoon, Mrs. G. took the Number 3 bus to Newport on the pretence of doing some Christmas shopping; I haven't done a full inventory of the items she procured from the shops of the Island's capital - I fear this would strain marital relations - but possibly the Christmas thing is just an excuse: "it's the most, wonderful time, of the year" -  for shopaholics! 

Isle of Wight buses, another prosaic but important aspect of island life are, in the main, great. I love being on a bus; it's a kind of temporary community - a transient experience that you can dip in and out of. They aren't the fastest in the world but are efficient and cheap. The Number 3 meanders to Newport via Wroxall and Godshill, and I'm informed that the Isle of Wight's newest jigsaw aficionado enjoyed the ride, sharing the lower deck with a man with Tourettes and a man with a dog. Or maybe it was a dog with Tourettes and two men. Or one man with Tourettes and two dogs. Or a man with a dog with a man with Tourettes. I'll clarify and get back to you.

The challenge of large double-decker buses on the Island is perhaps obvious. Like huge, green tyrannosauruses (yes that is the plural - I Googled it!) they roam the Island, bullying smaller vehicles and causing tailbacks and mayhem in their wake. I love the app and the green bus avatar, which unintentionally conveys their physical dominance as they wind their way through the small, suburban streets of the Island. 

The Isle of Wight is also not immune from the issue of roads with parked cars on one side, preventing traffic flowing freely in both directions; one of the curses of driving in Great Britain! Wroxall, a mile or two north of Ventnor, and Whitwell, a mile or two west, are cases in point. And so you have this 'after you, Claude' dance, a vehicle version of speed dating. I suspect it's a uniquely British thing, borne out of our imposing our modern life on a Victorian system. It's the same with trains, although at least the roads haven't been privatised.

Freya will have to get not one, but two buses to her College. Although this might be a little tedious for my delicate flower of a daughter, as an avid reader she can at least use the time to absorb herself in whatever teenage fiction she has managed to procure from the two Scottish lassies, following which she can log on to Goodreads and write disrespectful comments about this writer. 

And quite right too!