I was watching Finisterre again this afternoon. I had not seen in a long time, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Coincidentally, just as it ended an email arrived from Kevin Pearce with a link to this by Subway Sect. It is amazing footage, and I wondered if Vic rode home on his boneshaker bike afterwards.
Listening to Shena Mackay on the film made me want to dig out her Music Upstairs novel, but I could not find it anywhere on the bookshelves. I might have been blind though, as I did not see The Levels the other week when it was right in front of my eyes. I remember those early Shena Mackay books being so great. I devoured them in a rapid succession of days when I was young. And what was that Patrice Chaplin book that we obsessed over? Ah yes, Albany Park. Of course. The story of her going off and meeting Cocteau, wasn’t it? Mad. Well, that is another book that has ended up elsewhere. It’s quite sweet to think that they have gone off to other homes that might have welcomed them. Nevertheless, it would be interesting to read those all again, to see if they still seem so precious and special, or if they are part of a different life.
I did find my copy of Geoffrey Fletcher’s London At My Feet however, and what a lovely little volume that is.