When God Was a Rabbit

 A Christmas stocking filler that sixty pages in has me hooked, and knocked me side ways with childhood nostalgia. I will follow this post with a final review once I have managed to put it down. But so far this, recommended by Muma read, has really beckoned memories. Winman’s own, or rather Elly's,  are relatable and others not so. Such as naive friendships with elderly, male neighbours (big on the dementia front) and dodgy Womble spottings. Thank rabbit!

Her depiction of being exquisitely intrigued by anything away from the norm is so familiar to me, especially those insights to family lives outside my own where 'umm' words and scandal were a casual constant.

It didn't take much to baffle me, but when it got serious-  adding peas and carrots to Spaghetti Bolognese (must be error) I was transfixed by how different families could be. Friends who knew the innards of divorce, had two of everything or nothing of a lot of things, dads firmly positioned at the local pub, the Porche Boxter pick up, these were totally alien to me.

Elly’s urgency to understand and be equal part to adult conversation, identity, wisdom and wit is also just as mine was. Hearing half whispers and wonderings then making my own juvenile assumptions would all too often get me into a tummy knot.

Pangs of angst at the likes of school plays, school moves and school scraps are all hideously and wonderfully memorable too. As are the first glimpses of experience. Oh yes- finding the first traces (or tatters) of porn whilst staying at a friend’s, her brothers we later learnt. Game play, river jumping, cow-pat pies, back combing, combating, den making and generally being kids about the countryside is so resonant!

I have endless memories: my brother pulling off a cat’s tail recently loosened after being caught in a car wheel (accidental of course) was classic, his look of horror/ wizardry is something I will never forget.

Nor my twisting a friend on a swing, winding her higher and higher only to release into an awesome spiralling, verging on nauseating, blur...which with it released a mass of her hair. The balding look was not in that year!  My sister’s obsession with collecting moving slime from the undergrowth, which actually explains her OCD hand santiser tendancies of now.

I could go on and on, and as I scour the pages I am unconsciously filled with memories of my own childhood whilst envisioning the events of our heroine's too.

I love the way that Winman talks about her people, those that are every part of her memory and make up. Of her Mum: ‘Her glass was not only half full, it was gold plated with a permanent refill’. I can just sense that there is much to come from this new novelist and the pages I have yet to turn. *and back to the book!