Notes From A Small Island
(Bill Bryson)
Bill Bryson offers the reader a humourous tour of the green and pleasent land in which I inhabit. He takes stock of all the funny little eccentries of our tiny island such as why we enjoy the taste of Marmite so much. I mean its basically black goo with a yeasty taste in a jar. Other items, people and places he takes note of are a mental institution in a non-descript part of London. It is heartwarming to learn that this institution is where he met his future wife (he happened to be employed there as a junior member of staff). Throughout the book, he meanders his way along the British coast, staying in (of particular interest to me seeing as I live nearby,) Bournmouth. His lively accounts are extremely accurate as I have visited Bournmouth myself and seen in my own eyes the splendid hotels which dominate the landscape. Other accurate observations are the shell suited bloaters that frequent Calais to buy, of all the things that you would associate with such persons, posh little rounds of goats cheese. Hi relationship with his surroundings are humourous, from a run in with a polite owner of a hotel at 9:00 at night in which he throws a tantrum because the hotel is already locked for the night, to the press office where he observed an old gentleman who did nothing the whole time he was there except shuffle to open the window every now and again. I also find it curious to note that here is an author who willingly squanders his savings at a seedy, little amusement arcade. And an author who is willing to give completey of himself, revealing his bafflement with how one should use chopsticks in a Chinese retaurant.
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