Waiting for Bojangles

On Sunday they decided they'd search us on entering prison. Of course they did. It had to be the day I was wearing my coat - Husband had forecast rain- with its pockets full of tissues, fresh and used, sweet wrappings, poo bags, and doggy biscuits. Strangely enough she didn't make me throw away what was potentially the most suspect: a sachet of sugar.

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On the radio in the car I kept catching parts of a drama serial from the book, The Bastard of Istanbul. It sounded really good so I ordered it from the library. I've started reading it but it's very intense and detailed and, worst of all, in small writing. I can't cope late at night so I'm abandoning it, with regret. Moving on to one of my charity shop buys, Mr Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore. 

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Waiting for Bojangles
By Olivier Bourdeaut
Translated by Regan Kramer

Another library book, an award winner and international bestseller, this French novel is unusual and delightful. Both funny and sad, grim and exuberant, it's a story about mental illness and its effect on both the sufferer and her family. 

I have great respect for anyone who can translate a novel but when that novel is written in internal rhyme - sort of - my respect turns into awe. This is one of my favourite bits and fits with today's world well I think. At one point the mother spends time in a mental institution and the her son, the narrator, in part, makes friends with other inmates. Yogurt believes he is president, and every Friday night he holds a political rally.
"He was a bit of a ham, but those elections made him happy as a clam. Dad said he was a fool, with all the charisma of a kitchen stool, but everyone liked him anyway. He my have made a perfectly ridiculous president, but he was a perfectly nice patient."
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