Last week came the news, which gave me a slight shock, that Jan Ormerod has died. We loved her two books, Sunshine and Moonlight. I read them to numerous children before I had my own, and then read them to mine, over and over: our copies are worn out. The frames that follow this alarm clock one are brilliant, and form a very enduring sort of model in my mind, which comes into play whenever I find myself doing this:
I never realised Jan Ormerod was so young – only 66, now, which means she made these books when she really was young. It highlights how we take the work someone has produced, love it for itself, and often forget to ask about the person who made it.
Rest in peace, Jan Ormerod. And thank you!
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Dear Katy
Talking of writers who die young, I’ve just finished ‘The Bell Jar’ by Sylvia Plath. It was screamingly funny which I hadn’t expected – Sylvia had a deliciously wicked sense of humour. I think that Father Ted, who always took himself extremely seriously, never really understood her. A lot of feminists blame him for her suicide and I’m inclined to agree with them. It’s true that she already had psychological problems but with a kinder partner, she might have lasted a lot longer than she did. Good luck with your forthcoming eye operation, by the way.
Best wishes from Simon
Dear Katy
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
My name’s not Fred
And yours isn’t Sue.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
When I’m in bed
I still dream about you.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
My hamster is dead
But my heart is still true!
Love from me