A few things have been hampering my ability to get words down out of the cranium. Before I forget, thanks to everyone who wished me a happy day of exiting (no, not exciting) the womb. I’ve tried my best to say my thanks to each one of you lovelies, but I think I’ve missed one (or twelve), my apologies. I received my first ever, wish-list present: the pages read and re-read, scribbled, dog-eared and lovingly snuggled to sleep. Dearest long-lost twin, thank you very muchly. I can’t put it into words that’d do it justice, perhaps after I’ve dusted the cobwebs and wisps of cotton from my head.
Backcover said, ‘Evoking a sense of time and place as compelling as Angela’s Ashes and At Swim, Two Boys, and the courageous spirit of Billy Elliot . . .’ Should’ve known better: After all, praises for At Swim, Two Boys has already made me wonder if reviewers know any other Irish writers than Joyce. Aside from the fact that A Son Called Gabriel is set in Ireland (but in the 60s-70s) and the main character is struggling with the issues of homosexuality (among others), it doesn’t ‘evoke’ anything that remotely reminds me of At Swim, Two Boys. Frankly I think it’s rather… flat? It’s an easy read, one that you can easily finish in a few hours, and—having grown in a strictly Catholic family (and Catholic school) myself—I can somewhat relate to the ‘loving’ but stifling atmosphere. It has some good moments, but nothing memorable.
And you bundled-up folks in Melbourne, your promised packages will be sent come the afternoon. I’m sure the paperbag will make a nifty, crackling bonfire.