Wowzers!  This was so similar and different to the podcast.  I had head of Night Vale for quite some time and when I saw the book on sale a while ago, I decided I should find out what it was all about.  But it sat on my shelf for and embarrassingly long time.  I finally checked out the podcast this year and was instantly hooked on the world, the craziness of it all and "The Voice of Night Vale" Cecil.  When I decided to finally read this, I thought it would be awesome to listen to tha audio while reading along--cuz Cecil.  I swear I would listen to him read stereo instructions.

Anyway, this was a very indepth story about Diane and her form-shifting son, Josh and the unaging Jackie.  This had all of the weirdness and shenanigans of Night Vale.  Time is a mess and there are multiple Troys spread across mutliple towns bringing the mess of Night Vale to other times and wreaking all kids of havoc.  This is full of adventure and mystery.  It was an excellent read/listen.

I meant to write this update earlier this evening, but got side-tracked.

Obviously, I opted for some light entertainment this evening, just to chill out with and to lighten the mood. 

This scene is one of my all-time favourite ones by Wodehouse. It seems to be based on the requests frequently issued by Sherlock Holmes to his friend Dr. Watson, the most famous of which can be found in The Adventure of the Creeping Man:

"Come at once if convenient--if inconvenient come all the same. S.H."

In Right Ho, Jeeves, Wodehouse plays on this...but Bertie is no Watson:

"The first of the telegrams arrived shortly after noon, and Jeeves brought it in with the before-luncheon snifter. It was from my Aunt Dahlia, operating from Market Snodsbury, a small town of sorts a mile or two along the main road as you leave her country seat.

It ran as follows:

 

Come at once. Travers.

 

And when I say it puzzled me like the dickens, I am understating it; if anything. As mysterious a communication, I considered, as was ever flashed over the wires. I studied it in a profound reverie for the best part of two dry Martinis and a dividend. I read it backwards. I read it forwards. As a matter of fact, I have a sort of recollection of even smelling it. But it still baffled me.

 

Consider the facts, I mean. It was only a few hours since this aunt and I had parted, after being in constant association for nearly two months. And yet here she was— with my farewell kiss still lingering on her cheek, so to speak— pleading for another reunion. Bertram Wooster is not accustomed to this gluttonous appetite for his society. Ask anyone who knows me, and they will tell you that after two months of my company, what the normal person feels is that that will about do for the present. Indeed, I have known people who couldn't stick it out for more than a few days.

 

Before sitting down to the well-cooked, therefore, I sent this reply:

 

Perplexed. Explain. Bertie.

 

To this I received an answer during the after-luncheon sleep:

 

What on earth is there to be perplexed about, ass? Come at once. Travers.

 

Three cigarettes and a couple of turns about the room, and I had my response ready:

 

How do you mean come at once? Regards. Bertie.

 

I append the comeback:

 

I mean come at once, you maddening half-wit. What did you think I meant? Come at once or expect an aunt's curse first post tomorrow. Love. Travers.

 

I then dispatched the following message, wishing to get everything quite clear:

 

When you say "Come" do you mean "Come to Brinkley Court"? And when you say "At once" do you mean "At once"? Fogged. At a loss. All the best. Bertie.

 

I sent this one off on my way to the Drones, where I spent a restful afternoon throwing cards into a top-hat with some of the better element. Returning in the evening hush, I found the answer waiting for me:

 

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. It doesn't matter whether you understand or not. You just come at once, as I tell you, and for heaven's sake stop this back-chat. Do you think I am made of money that I can afford to send you telegrams every ten minutes. Stop being a fathead and come immediately. Love. Travers.

 

It was at this point that I felt the need of getting a second opinion.

I pressed the bell.

"Jeeves," I said, "a V-shaped rumminess has manifested itself from the direction of Worcestershire. Read these," I said, handing him the papers in the case.

He scanned them.

"What do you make of it, Jeeves?"

"I think Mrs. Travers wishes you to come at once, sir."

"You gather that too, do you?"

"Yes, sir."

 

I picked this up when it was offered for free.

This short kindle book is about Olive Dove. It's okay, I hadn't heard of her either. She also had more than one name.

She also had a very interesting life and might have been the last "old fashioned" cattle thief.

McDonald's book might be geared toward younger readers, but it reads like it is just a general book for whomever.

(So the book is supposedly 11 pages, but it felt a bit longer than that. In a good way.)

This proved a curious novella, from a writer unfamiliar to me, with echoes of those black and white Ealing Studio movies, where the British cast spoke in plummy tones and the criminal classes were still referred to as ‘rascals’ and ‘scoundrels’. Less surprising when the reader realises that Henry Cecil is the pseudonym of Judge Henry Cecil Leon (born 1902), yet the humour coursing through this charming tale does make it satisfying, albeit in a rather nostalgic way.

Cambridge-educated, Cecil was called to the bar in 1923 and post-World War II was appointed a County Court Judge in 1949. Still, it is unusual that such a pillar of the establishment should expose some of the potential absurdities of the law and how it might play out within the vagaries of ordinary lives.

In this example, the reader is introduced to Mrs Harriet Hunt, who was successfully married to her husband (Graham) for twenty years, when without warning, he disappeared. That was seven years ago. Having experienced the predictable gamut of emotions, Harriet might have reasonably assumed Graham was dead, when he did not return home or make contact. However, the arrival of a mysterious cheque for £100 every month since, from a firm of solicitors, lent probability to her husband’s survival and increased the likelihood that he had in fact run off with another woman. Harriet continued to be perplexed by such a scenario, when she felt certain they had been happily married, but she was also hurt by the possibility that Graham might have 'pensioned her off' in this way. Still, in the light of the prevailing evidence she reluctantly accepts the need to settle the future and having been pursued assiduously by the couple’s former friend, the gentle George, seeks to petition the court for a divorce.

Stage set and having sealed the legal argument with an agreement to go to bed with George later that evening to consummate their relationship (to be followed by supper), Harriet returns home to find Graham has also returned, just as suddenly as he departed.

In his mild and comical approach to this story, Cecil almost imperceptibly weighs complex issues, such as the disparity between the moral and legal status of marriage, the expectations of men, women and society and the meaning of ‘love’. For the contemporary reader it might appear dated and yet I suspect, if one cares to settle down with a ‘whisky and a splash’, this is a funny, short, but welcome glimpse of a mythically  halcyon era.