Kamis, 29 Desember 2011

[G198.Ebook] PDF Ebook Madison's Gift: Five Partnerships That Built America, by David O. Stewart

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Madison's Gift: Five Partnerships That Built America, by David O. Stewart

Madison's Gift: Five Partnerships That Built America, by David O. Stewart



Madison's Gift: Five Partnerships That Built America, by David O. Stewart

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Madison's Gift: Five Partnerships That Built America, by David O. Stewart

Historian David O. Stewart restores James Madison, sometimes overshadowed by his fellow Founders, to his proper place as the most significant framer of the new nation.

Short, plain, balding, neither soldier nor orator, low on charisma and high on intelligence, Madison cared more about achieving results than taking the credit. To reach his lifelong goal of a self-governing constitutional republic, he blended his talents with those of key partners. It was Madison who led the drive for the Constitutional Convention and pressed for an effective new government as his patron George Washington lent the effort legitimacy; Madison who wrote the Federalist Papers with Alexander Hamilton to secure the Constitution's ratification; Madison who corrected the greatest blunder of the Constitution by drafting and securing passage of the Bill of Rights with Washington's support; Madison who joined Thomas Jefferson to found the nation’s first political party and move the nation toward broad democratic principles; Madison, with James Monroe, who guided the new nation through its first war in 1812, really its Second War of Independence; and it was Madison who handed the reins of government to the last of the Founders, his old friend and sometime rival Monroe. These were the main characters in his life.

But it was his final partnership that allowed Madison to escape his natural shyness and reach the greatest heights. Dolley was the woman he married in middle age and who presided over both him and an enlivened White House. This partnership was a love story, a unique one that sustained Madison through his political rise, his presidency, and a fruitful retirement.

  • Sales Rank: #459354 in Books
  • Published on: 2015-02-10
  • Released on: 2015-02-10
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 9.25" h x 1.20" w x 6.25" l, .0 pounds
  • Binding: Hardcover
  • 432 pages

Review
“[Stewart’s] insights are illuminating . . . He weaves vivid, sometimes poignant details throughout the grand sweep of historical events. He brings early history alive in a way that offers today's readers perspective.” (Christian Science Monitor)

“Stewart has a knack for offering telling details that humanize historical figures . . . Madison’s Gift is a fascinating look at how unfinished the nation was in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, and how one unlikely figure managed to help guide it from a precarious confederation of reluctant states to a self-governing republic that has prospered for more than two centuries.” (Richmond Times-Dispatch)

“Stewart is an acknowledged master of narrative history. He can explain a political crisis or an ideological debate with perfect clarity and exactly the sense of urgency required to capture and hold the reader’s attention.” (The Washington Post)

“A fond portrait of the mild-mannered Virginian and implacable advocate for the young American government. . . . Historian and novelist Stewart offers a pertinent lesson on Madison's ability to forge working bonds with other founding members of the new American government, even if they did not always see eye to eye. . . . Stewart's lively character sketches employ sprightly prose and impeccable research.” (Kirkus Reviews)

Stewart examines [Madison] from a fresh angle . . . [he] illuminates much about the history-making relationships among these celebrated figures that in other books might remain obscured. Readers of history are in good hands with this dependable guide, which approaches its subject with a smooth, easy going style. (Publishers Weekly)

“A sparkling, well-written work that tells a balanced story of a man who worked diligently with his contemporaries for the greater good. . . . Madison is a hero for our times, and David O. Stewart nimbly re-introduces us to him.” (Washington Independent Review of Books)

“This eminently readable work is recommended for lay readers and should be considered alongside Lynne Cheney’s James Madison.” (Library Journal)

“This is a well-done effort to provide a different perspective on Madison’s career.” (Booklist)

“It’s hard to imagine anyone saying anything new about James Madison, but David O. Stewart with his ‘five partnerships’ has done it; and he has done it in a very beautifully written book.” (Gordon S. Wood, author of "The Idea of America: Reflections on the Birth of the United States")

“David Stewart has created a compelling and nuanced portrait of Madison that reveals him anew. Madison’s Gift is a fascinating exploration of the profound emotional bonds behind the young Republic.” (Amanda Foreman, author of "A World on Fire")

“In this brilliantly conceived and beautifully written work, Stewart has contributed not only the best of the many recent volumes on Madison himself, but also made a signal contribution to our understanding of the founding of the Republic.” (Ralph Ketcham, author of "James Madison: A Biography")

“James Madison was the shy, bookish, serviceable man who always managed to come out on top. David O. Stewart tracks him through the partnerships, personal and political, that defined his career, shaped a new nation—and lifted him to the White House.” (Richard Brookhiser, author of "James Madison")

About the Author
David O. Stewart is an award-winning author and the president of the Washington Independent Review of Books. He is the author of several acclaimed histories, including Madison’s Gift: Five Partnerships That Built America; The Summer of 1787: The Men Who Invented the Constitution; Impeached: The Trial of President Andrew Johnson and the Fight for Lincoln’s Legacy; and American Emperor: Aaron Burr’s Challenge to Jefferson’s America. Stewart’s first novel is The Lincoln Deception.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Madison’s Gift 1

THE END OF THE BEGINNING
The great news reached Philadelphia in November of 1783, when James Madison was packing for home. Britain had signed a peace treaty that recognized American independence, redeeming eight years of bitter sacrifices by the American rebels. They had defeated the most powerful nation on earth and won the right to govern themselves.

Madison and his three million countrymen faced fundamental questions. Could the thirteen states remain united across fifteen hundred miles of Atlantic coast and almost as far into the western forests? Could they maintain a republic in a world of monarchies? Could they avoid anarchy at one extreme and autocratic rule at the other?

The thirty-two-year-old Madison, who was finishing four years as a Virginia delegate to Congress, faced questions of his own. After a spell of ill health and aimlessness as a wealthy graduate of the College of New Jersey (now Princeton), he had found purpose in the Revolution. A month with his county militia in 1775 established that the bookish Virginian was a poor candidate for soldiering. He not only was short and slight—no taller than five feet six inches and a bit over one hundred pounds—but also suffered from chronic intestinal woes and fits that resembled epilepsy. He put down his musket and applied his revolutionary ardor to politics. After serving in Virginia’s provisional government, Madison went to Congress in 1779, still only twenty-eight. Through hard work and talent, he became a central figure in a legislative body crowded with the second-raters.

The past year had been a turbulent one. Madison had lost his heart to Kitty Floyd, the fifteen-year-old daughter of a New York delegate who lived in the same Philadelphia boardinghouse as Madison. He had hoped to marry Kitty and had courted her assiduously. In late April, when the Floyd family journeyed to New Jersey, the infatuated Madison rode sixty miles with them, then returned to Philadelphia.1

But by early August the affair was off; within a year, Kitty would be engaged to a medical student much nearer her own age. The blow fell hard on Madison. Fifty years later, the hurt was still so sharp that he blacked out portions of an old letter that mentioned the failed romance.2

Madison’s public life had also brought disappointments. The new nation could not pay its bills, starting with huge debts to France and to its own citizens. The government created by the Articles of Confederation could impose taxes only with the consent of all thirteen states. Because no tax ever commanded such unanimous support, Congress had to ask the states, politely, to send money to pay for the war, and now for the peace. Voluntary state payments always fell below what was needed, so Congress gasped along on whatever came to hand.

The lack of money ignited a crisis in the winter of 1783. Unpaid soldiers, camped on the Hudson River above New York City, grumbled about mutiny. A delegation of officers carried a petition to Congress in Philadelphia, demanding their back pay. In late February, Madison joined five congressional delegates in a dramatic evening session with the disgruntled soldiers. By the flickering firelight, delegate Alexander Hamilton of New York made dark pronouncements. A former army officer himself, Hamilton warned that some officers aimed to oust George Washington as commander and to remain in arms until they were paid.3

Congress made more promises to the soldiers, as did state officials, but they were empty ones. There was no money. It was a recipe for insurrection: an army with no enemy to fight and real grievances against its own government.4 Inflammatory letters circulated among the officers, urging an end to the waiting. Lest they “grow old in poverty, wretchedness and contempt,” one railed, the soldiers must “change the milk and water style” of their demands.5

In Congress, Madison urged the fractious states to agree on a national tax that would pay the nation’s soldiers and its debts. Without such action, he predicted, “a dissolution of the Union would be inevitable”; the southern states would go one way, New England another, the middle states a third, each seeking alliances with European powers.6 Congress appointed Madison to a committee charged with developing a fiscal solution.

While Congress dithered, one man prevented mutiny. General Washington called an assembly of officers for March 15, the ides of March. For those who knew their Shakespeare, it must have seemed a portentous date.

Standing before his brother officers, Washington recalled sacrifices shared through battle and privation, misery and loss. This was not the time, he said, to “open the floodgates of civil discord and deluge our rising empire in blood.” It was not his prepared statement, but a theatrical aside, that carried the day. When he began to read a letter aloud, Washington stumbled over the words, then donned a pair of spectacles. “Gentlemen,” he said. “You must pardon me. I have grown gray in your service and now find myself growing blind.” Some wept. Most were ashamed. All were moved. The mutiny dissolved with a unanimous resolution supporting Washington.

In the breathing space won by the general, Madison concocted a plan. It was a political hodgepodge. He proposed a twenty-five-year import tax that was set too low to pay off the debt, so he wishfully assumed that states would continue to contribute money to the national government, plus additional revenues from the sale of western lands. In a closing exhortation, Madison argued that through this plan “the cause of liberty will acquire a dignity and luster which it has never yet enjoyed.” Continued drift, he warned, would mean the failure of “the last and fairest experiment in favor of the rights of human nature.”7

Six weeks later, Washington echoed Madison’s appeal in his own “Circular Letter of Farewell to the Army.” The states’ actions on the national tax would determine, he wrote, “whether the Revolution must ultimately be considered . . . a blessing or a curse, not to the present age alone, for with our fate will the destiny of unborn millions be involved.”8

Neither appeal worked. Virginia, home to both Madison and Washington, refused to adopt the plan, killing it outright. Worse was coming.

Within days of Washington’s circular, disgruntled Pennsylvania soldiers surrounded Philadelphia’s State House, where Congress was sitting, and demanded their back pay. When Pennsylvania’s governor refused to call out his state’s militia to oppose the mutineers, the congressional delegates fled, resolving to reconvene in tiny Princeton, New Jersey.

Although Madison had spent three happy years in Princeton as a student, he despised it as the nation’s temporary capital. He was depressed by the spectacle of Congress cowering in a remote village to escape its own soldiers. The room he shared with another Virginian measured “not more than 10 square feet.” For one roommate to dress, the other had to remain in the single bed. The only position available for writing “scarcely admits the use of any of my limbs.”9 On top of the rejection by Kitty Floyd, his world was turning bleak.

For the first time in his career, Madison began to play hooky. He missed more than half of the congressional sessions between June 30 and early November, when his term expired. Unless he was needed in Princeton to achieve a quorum, he stayed in Philadelphia. Even when he was in Princeton, Madison was listless. Usually a compulsive note taker, he wrote down nothing about the debates. He offered no excuse for his inattention to duty. One letter recorded, almost defiantly, that he was composing it “in bed in my Chamber in the Hotel” at six-thirty in the evening. When Virginia again missed its voluntary payment to Congress, Madison’s disenchantment grew stronger.10

Madison was changing his focus. With the end of the war and the end of his congressional term, he was lifting his gaze from the daily struggles in Congress to the largest challenge facing Americans: whether they could create a government that preserved the Revolution’s exhilarating ideals yet functioned effectively. This would be the work of his life.11

For the next three decades, Madison’s contributions to his country would be incomparable. Without Madison, the Constitutional Convention of 1787 might never have happened. But for him, that gathering could have ended in failure. He led the difficult fight to ratify the Constitution, then a lonely crusade for the Bill of Rights. In the first months of the new government in 1789, it was Madison who advised President Washington on the critical decisions and legislation that established the new republic on a solid footing. When political conflict began to tear the infant nation apart in the 1790s, Madison joined with Thomas Jefferson to form the first true political party and steer it to a position of dominance. And when the republic faced its first foreign war, the profoundly unmilitary Madison, as America’s first war president, unsteadily coaxed an unprepared nation to a surprisingly satisfactory peace and a flowering prosperity.

In Philadelphia in 1783, at the threshold of this extraordinary future, Madison’s mind did not hold dreams of power or of political office. Instead, he turned inward, resolving to improve himself through a course of study in law, government, and history. To meet the mighty challenges before it, America would need wisdom and judgment. Madison aimed to deepen his knowledge and powers of reason so he could serve the nation better.12

Earlier in 1783, Madison had intended to pursue his course of study as a newlywed in cosmopolitan Philadelphia. When Miss Floyd’s inconstancy sent that plan up in smoke, he resolved to return to Montpelier, his father’s sprawling plantation in the western hills of Virginia, setting another pattern for the rest of his life. Past thirty and unmarried, Madison’s ties remained strong to his parents and five surviving siblings (he was the eldest). Though the young Madison had chafed against Virginia’s aristocratic slave culture, Montpelier was his home and a comfortable one at that. He would never really leave it. Until he was fifty, he honored and was financially dependent upon his father; he shared Montpelier with his mother until he was seventy-eight. Mother and son also shared a steady disposition that carried both through troubled times. An old friend recalled Mrs. Madison possessing “a certain mildness and equanimity for which I ever considered her remarkable.”13

As he prepared to leave Philadelphia in late 1783, Madison bought gifts for his sisters and a new carriage for his father, plus medicine for his mother, whose recent illness alarmed him.14 At home in Virginia, he shed the political and personal failures of the last year. By the new year, he was deep into his reading. He celebrated the harsh winter in a letter to Thomas Jefferson, claiming it kept visitors from Montpelier and left him more time for study.15

Despite its disappointments, 1783 proved to be a pivotal year in James Madison’s life, not for what he did but for what he prepared himself to do, beginning with his self-prescribed course of study and thinking. A man of the mind in so many ways—surely among the most intellectual of American leaders—he aspired to serve America’s Revolution directly. Small, reserved in company, never a soldier, he was not an obvious candidate to leave a large imprint on the founding of the new republic. Lacking the narcissism of most political leaders, Madison did not elbow his way into the limelight or preen on public stages. Avuncular with friends, he could be ill at ease at public events. Rather than thrust himself forward, Madison preferred to blend his talents with those of others.

Madison’s indelible imprint on the new nation sprang in large part from his ability to form rich partnerships with five talented contemporaries, an ability that blossomed in 1783. Those five partnerships underlay his greatest achievements. Late in life, when a correspondent tried to christen him the Father of the Constitution, Madison would have none of it. The Constitution was not, he insisted, “like the fabled Goddess of Wisdom, the offspring of a single brain. It ought to be regarded as the work of many hands and many heads.” And so, he plainly thought, was the launching of the American republic.16

His steady disposition was central to his many partnerships. “Nothing could excite or ruffle him,” wrote a longtime friend. “Under all circumstances he was collected, and ever mindful of what was due from him to others, and cautious not to wound the feelings of any one.” That description captures an unusual leadership style, one focused on what “was due from him to others” and careful to impose no injury. Collegiality can be undervalued in public life. The solitary hero, the man on horseback, readily commands emotional attention. Madison’s heroic moments tended, like him, to be quiet ones.

Madison brought many gifts to his public career. He combined a sharp understanding of political and economic forces with an inspiring vision of a government that could achieve public goals while respecting personal liberty. But ultimately it was his gift for working with others that allowed him to play an outsize role in building the nation.17

Students of America’s early years often neglect Madison, a mistake his contemporaries did not make. They named fifty-nine counties and towns after him, more than any other president. He is the only president to have a major avenue in Manhattan named after him; indeed, that street named an entire industry—advertising—which carries his name: Madison Avenue.18

Yet he has become easy to miss in accounts of the early republic. His soft voice has carried little better in the halls of history than it did in public chambers. His manner was unobtrusive. Some misjudged his talents. “Madison,” claimed the acid-tongued John Randolph of Roanoke, “was always some great man’s mistress—first Hamilton’s, then Jefferson’s.” Even Jefferson, on his deathbed, betrayed a core misunderstanding of the man who was his closest friend. After fondly reciting Madison’s virtues, the dying man added, “But, ah! He could never in his life stand up against strenuous opposition.” It would have been more accurate to say that Madison wasted little time in frontal assaults on entrenched opponents but, rather, searched for ways to persuade or work around those who disagreed with him, including Jefferson.19

Madison forged the five defining partnerships of his life with strikingly different characters. The small man from Virginia could assume different roles, adapting himself to the situations and personalities around him. Three of his partners were revolutionary leaders—Alexander Hamilton, George Washington, and Jefferson—each of whom radiated the personal magnetism that Madison lacked. The fourth, fellow Virginian James Monroe, was sometimes a sharp rival, sometimes a key ally, usually a warm friend. Through alliances with these four men, all of whom had talents he lacked, Madison was able to extend his own reach and amplify his own influence over events. With each, he assumed a different role, one that suited the situation and the partnership.

With Hamilton, a contemporary and intellectual peer, he joined in brotherly combat on behalf of the new Constitution. Washington was a generation older and the nation’s great leader, so Madison was a confidential adviser and consummate aide to the first president. With Jefferson he formed the deepest and most complex connection: political partnership, intellectual camaraderie, and personal friendship. With Monroe, who was younger and more impulsive, he played the role of elder brother, guide, and friend. In turn, each relied heavily on Madison at critical moments of their careers.

Those four partnerships all can be traced to 1783, but not the fifth. Though Madison and his fifth partner both lived in Philadelphia that year, not for ten more years would Madison meet Dolley Payne Todd and win her as his wife. To her, like the others, Madison conceded the spotlight, helping her become a public figure in her own right, sometimes called the “Lady Presidentess.” He happily yielded public acclaim to his gracious and outgoing partner. In return, she brought cheer and warmth into his life and became an integral part of his political success.

Two centuries later, James Madison’s America can exist only in our imaginations, framed by the words he and his contemporaries wrote, the land on which they lived, the objects they used, and the buildings they walked through. It was a world lit by the sun or the glow of candle, oil lamp, or fireplace. Travel was grueling, sometimes nightmarish. Foul weather delayed ships for weeks or months. Roads were cloying bogs on wet days, then rutted corduroy on dry ones. Wooden-wheeled vehicles punished the body even when not overset by drunken hostlers. In summer, river crossings were slow and ferry schedules unpredictable; winter gallops across frozen streams carried the constant risk of crashing through into frigid waters.

Home, even for the wealthy, was drafty and dark, heated by smoky fires. Personal hygiene was a challenge, hot water a luxury. Human waste was deposited in containers and sometimes thrown into the street, sometimes carried to disposal sites. Washing clothes was hard physical labor. Food preparation consumed hours. Unreliable drinking water drove most to prefer distilled or fermented beverages. Medical care featured the bleeding of ill patients. Death was a constant companion. Of James Madison’s ten siblings, five died by the age of seven and three others in middle age. (Some Madisons, though, reached great age: James lived to eighty-five; his father, a brother, and a sister all came close to that number; his mother died at ninety-seven.)20

Though many elements of Madison’s world are unfamiliar, the human beings in it are not. We recognize immediately their feelings and thoughts, their conflicts and affections. Through his correspondence, essays, and speeches, Madison primarily addressed the public issues of his time, often similar to those of our time. In letters with Dolley and close friends, the private Madison spoke directly, with genuine feeling. His sentences could be wooden, but his sentiments and ideas are as winning today as they were to his friends.

Madison lived in a network of intimate connections, from his large family to the most fertile political partnerships in our history, to a loving marriage that spanned four decades. With James Madison, often depicted in history as a dry creature of intellect, the core of his life was a genuine heart.

Most helpful customer reviews

6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
Best Madison bio out there!
By Luz Shepherd
Finally a great biography of James Madison! Unlike Ketcham's very dry and overly detailed bio or Brookhiser's brief bio, Stewart's book was the perfect length and focused on Madison's key accomplishments, including the colorful Dolley Madison. It was very well written, making it a joy to read. Based on this experience, I'm going to check out Stewart's other books about Andrew Johnson and Aaron Burr. This presidential bio is up there with my other favorites: Edmund Morris and William Harbaugh on TR, Chernow on Washington and Jean Edward Smith on FDR.

41 of 41 people found the following review helpful.
at thirty-one spurned by the love of his life (a girl but fifteen) at 43 ...
By Andrew I. Dayton
Philosopher king, regional politician, scheming plotter, failed war leader, at thirty-one spurned by the love of his life (a girl but fifteen) at 43 married to the vivacious Dolly (seventeen years his junior) who would frolic before guests with her husband riding on her back, champion of the rights of man yet confirmed slave holder, the diminutive James Madison was a compendium of contradictions and a giant among men. Madison is known, of course, as the father of the Constitution, but in our collective memory he is overshadowed by the flamboyant Thomas Jefferson and the stately George Washington. In Madison’s Gift, Stewart has examined the many sides of James Madison with insight and compassion, following his shifting political alliances with Hamilton, Washington, Jefferson and Monroe, from the early post war years through his dotage in the 1830s.
In his earlier Summer of 1787, Stewart recounted the events of the Philadelphia Convention with an emphasis on the horse trading and shenanigans associated with a large delegation banging out a contentious compromise. In Madison’s Gift Stewart puts more emphasis on the many constitutional issues that concerned and involved the most central delegate throughout his life, using the lens of his reasoning. The result is a splendid elaboration of and companion piece to the earlier work, portraying not just the human Madison, but the many fruits of his incisive intellect, whose insights from over two hundred years ago are as poignant as they are stellar. Two gems of note: “War is in fact the true nurse of executive aggrandizement;” and ”The stockjobbers will become the praetorian band of the Government, at once its tool and its tyrant, bribed by its largess, and overawing it, by clamors and combinations.” Seen anything like these happening recently?
You will definitely want to add Madison’s Gift to your Stewart collection.

4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Gifted Madison
By VA Duck
Author David O. Stewart has found a new treatment for one of the "Revered Six" founders that tells the story of James Madison Jr. via his associations with five of his most critical personal relationships. It looks at the founder from only a slightly adjusted vantage point - compared to the standard biography - and yet it works as something new on a known subject! If you are familiar with Madison, the accomplishments, defeats & draws are all there, but Stewart is able to bring a different light to events by stressing friendships and political alliances that made Madison's contribution so critical to the Founding period. Washington, Hamilton, Jefferson, Monroe and even Mrs. Madison, Dolly, are the 'character actors' in this rendition - with Madison playing the 'staring role'.

Stewart doesn't aim for the impossibly 'perfect' founder in Madison. Occasionally a blemish is allowed to show through such as Madison's dismissal of his own gift for impeccable logic in favor of an embarrassingly illogical argument against ratification of the Jay Treaty of 1795. Madison tried to argue the House had a role in treaty ratification despite the explicit words of the Constitution and despite a failed attempt (by others) at the Constitutional Convention to require treaty via statute (pg. 162). Others even less gifted - would have none of it. And even "it" may have been undertaken only as an effort to avoid having to go one-on-one with the deviously clever Hamilton in another public essays war.

It is not surprising that Stewart provides an easy and well written read, his earlier books (American Emperor..., and The Summer of 1787...) established that talent. The stories of "Madison's Gift" show the development of friendships and alliances - and in the case of both Washington and Hamilton - the decline of friendship the result of partisan politics. The book, even in kindle format, also includes a number of portraits of the subjects - personalizing the read in addition to Stewart's talented style. The final three chapters free Stewart of the narrative style and he impresses with Madison observations, anecdotes & factoids. Even for those readers experienced by a number of Madison biographies (Ketcham's, James Madison: A Biography is the acknowledged standard of comparison) there are some object lessons and reminders of Madison's brilliance, modesty, honesty and integrity. As a first read of Madison, the breadth of this book - that is, the scope of Madison's accomplishments - make the read a great start, solidly based in detailed research (and well cited facts) as well as thorough editing & fact checking. (This last point conspicuously missing in another recent offering on Madison.)

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Rabu, 14 Desember 2011

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The Moccasin GoalieWilliam Roy Brownridge

Danny and his friends, Anita, Petou and Marcel, are typical youngsters—hockey mad. Danny's disability means that he can’t wear skates, but his leather moccasins work just fine and earn him the name “Moccasin Danny.” When a town team is formed, the friends are overjoyed, but only Marcel is picked for the team. Will Danny get the chance to prove that even though he can’t wear a pair of skates, he can still play the game?

Originally released over a decade ago, The Moccasin Goalie is the first of three books in a well-loved series that includes The Final Game and Victory at Paradise Hill.

  • Sales Rank: #5266084 in Books
  • Published on: 2016-10-11
  • Released on: 2016-10-11
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 10.00" h x .13" w x 8.00" l, .0 pounds
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 32 pages

From School Library Journal

K-Gr 3--Danny loves to play hockey with his friends in their small Canadian town. Though he can't skate because of a ``crippled leg and foot,'' he plays goalie in his leather moccasins. When a town team is formed, he is cut because he can't skate. Very disappointed, his spirits are revived when weeks later the coach asks him to replace the team's injured goalie in the biggest game of the year. Danny steps in, plays well, and is invited to stay on the squad for the playoffs. While the large, lavishly colored paintings adequately sustain the mood of the story, the text leaves much to be desired. Told in the first person, it often reads in a staccato manner. Except for regional interest, ``ice'' any thoughts of purchasing this one.

Tom S. Hurlburt, La Crosse Public Library, WI

Copyright 1996 Cahners Business Information, Inc.

Review
"Brownridge's paintings of the wintry Canadian landscape feature bold dabs of paint applied in an impressionistic style to create a mosaic of blues, golds, and brilliant pinks...It's enough to make you put down your book, bundle up, and head out into the snow." (Hungry Mind Review 1995-10-01)

"Makes a nice read-aloud book as well as a read-by-myself book for early readers. It contains beautiful, big, full-color illustrations that add feeling to this emotional story." (Christian Library Journal 1996-09-01)

"Although it's a winter story, the direct language and zinging art 'score' with boys and girls all year-around." (Mosaic 1996-07-01)

"Although the story highlights hockey, it also deals with friendship, abilities and prejudice." "There are never enough good hockey stories for young children. This is a welcome addition." "The happiness of the friends and the feelings...are vividly portrayed." (Resource Links 1995-10-01)

"The illustrations are impressive." "Children will sense [Brownridge's] love for hockey and his experiences as a 'moccasin goalie.'" "Remember to stock this picture book for young hockey fans." (Canadian Bookseller 1995-10-01)

"This book is highly recommended both for its positive message and for its joyous celebration of youthful pastimes." "The pointillist technique used to depict ice and snow gives the pictures a scintillating, sparkling effect." (Canadian Children's Literature 1995-10-01)

"Brownridge's full-colour paintings...powerfully capture both the biting cold of prairie winters and the eye-dazzling brightness of the season's days." "The combination of a warm, affirming story and fine illustration makes this a book for all collections serving young listeners and readers." (CM Magazine 1995-11-24)

"The art of William Brownridge charges the white small-town Prairie winter with the excitement and energy of a child's perception. The story captures both the pain and the glory for children involved in minor sports." (Regina Sun 1995-12-24)

About the Author
Author and illustrator William Roy Brownridge is a native of Saskatchewan. Like the hero of his Moccasin Goalie titles, Bill lived for hockey and played goal despite being unable to wear skates. In The Moccasin Goalie, he demonstrates the unique artistic style, the flair for storytelling and the feel for prairie life that have made all three of his volumes perennial favorites. After a successful career as a graphic designer, Bill now devotes himself full time to painting.

Most helpful customer reviews

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
A book that makes me look forward to story time.
By Michael L. La Porte
This is a book that my 5 year old son and I both love and we revisit it over and over again. I usually let him choose the 2 books I'll read before bed and this book is chosen many times. The story is engaging for him and me, the illustrations have a surreal quality that make you feel like you've been there. There is even the lesson about working hard, teamwork, and not underestimating anyone. A great childs book that adults can enjoy also. The illustrations are dreamlike, and the story is one of determination and working to make your dreams come true that is sure to delight any kid (or Dad!).

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Great Book!
By A Customer
This was a really good book. I liked the characters.

I really wish they lived in my neighbourhood. I would

join them at the outdoor rink near my house. I'm not

not sure I would be able to keep up with Marcel though, and

Danny seems pretty hard to score on, but I would try.

The pictures in the book are very nice. They make

you imagine what the players were going through.

This is an exciting book.

I can't wait until The Final Game is published.

Paul H. Age 7

4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
A book that makes me look forward to story time.
By A Customer
This is a book that my 5 year old son and I both love and we revisit it over and over again. I usually let him choose the 2 books I'll read before bed and this book is chosen many times. The story is engaging for him and me, the illustrations have a surreal quality that make you feel like you've been there. There is even the lesson about working hard, teamwork, and not underestimating anyone. A great childs book that adults can enjoy also.

See all 3 customer reviews...

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Kamis, 08 Desember 2011

[U825.Ebook] Ebook Download My Not So Perfect Life: A Novel, by Sophie Kinsella

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My Not So Perfect Life: A Novel, by Sophie Kinsella

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • Part love story, part workplace drama, this sharply observed novel is a witty critique of the false judgments we make in a social-media-obsessed world. New York Times bestselling author Sophie Kinsella has written her most timely novel yet.

Everywhere Katie Brenner looks, someone else is living the life she longs for, particularly her boss, Demeter Farlowe. Demeter is brilliant and creative, lives with her perfect family in a posh townhouse, and wears the coolest clothes. Katie’s life, meanwhile, is a daily struggle—from her dismal rental to her oddball flatmates to the tense office politics she’s trying to negotiate.�No wonder Katie takes refuge in not-quite-true Instagram posts, especially as she's desperate to make her dad proud.

Then, just as she’s finding her feet—not to mention a possible new romance—the worst happens. Demeter fires Katie. Shattered but determined to stay positive, Katie retreats to her family’s farm in Somerset to help them set up a vacation business. London has never seemed so far away—until Demeter unexpectedly turns up as a guest. Secrets are spilled and relationships rejiggered, and as the stakes for Katie’s future get higher, she must question her own assumptions about what makes for a truly meaningful life.

Sophie Kinsella is celebrated for her vibrant, relatable characters and her great storytelling gifts. Now she returns with all of the wit, warmth, and wisdom that are the hallmarks of her bestsellers to spin this fresh, modern story about presenting the perfect life when the reality is far from the truth.

Praise for My Not So Perfect Life

“A sparkling, witty novel about social media and the stories we tell ourselves.”—People (Book of the Week)

“And something else separates this comic novel from the usual fare . . . the soul of this book concerns female friendship and its dynamics . . . a touch of real wisdom in its slapstick hand that will satisfy Kinsella die-hards as well as new readers.”—The Washington Post

“With both warmhearted and laugh-out-loud moments, Sophie Kinsella’s�My Not So Perfect Life�was a joy to read. . . . Katie is relatable, bright and quirky—you’ll find yourself cheering for her from the start, even as she learns that a perfect life isn’t always what it seems, or what it’s cracked up to be. Themes of friendship, love and living your true life rise to the top in this must-read stand-alone romantic comedy.”—USA Today

“[There are ] many laugh-out-loud hilarious moments in this feel-good�novel about social media�and personal branding, and the hectic realities behind our perfect online lives.”—Bustle

“Pure escapist fun.”—PopSugar

“Sophie Kinsella keeps her finger on the cultural pulse, while leaving me giddy with laughter. I loved it.”—Jojo Moyes

“Katie is a winning heroine. . . . Kinsella creates characters that are well-rounded, quirky, and a complete joy to read.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Driven by Katie’s witty observations and numerous missteps as she attempts to reconcile various aspects of her identity, this novel is smartly satirical and entertaining.”—Publishers Weekly

“Another outstanding novel . . . a perfect combination of fun, laughable moments rounded out with some deep-seated family and relationship issues.”—Booklist

  • Sales Rank: #508 in Books
  • Published on: 2017-02-07
  • Released on: 2017-02-07
  • Original language: English
  • Dimensions: 8.50" h x 1.40" w x 5.70" l, 1.25 pounds
  • Binding: Hardcover
  • 448 pages

Review
“A sparkling, witty novel about social media and the stories we tell ourselves.”—People (Book of the Week)

“And something else separates this comic novel from the usual fare . . . the soul of this book concerns female friendship and its dynamics . . . a touch of real wisdom in its slapstick hand that will satisfy Kinsella die-hards as well as new readers.”—The Washington Post

“With both warmhearted and laugh-out-loud moments, Sophie Kinsella’s�My Not So Perfect Life�was a joy to read. . . . Katie is relatable, bright and quirky—you’ll find yourself cheering for her from the start, even as she learns that a perfect life isn’t always what it seems, or what it’s cracked up to be. Themes of friendship, love and living your true life rise to the top in this must-read stand-alone romantic comedy.”—USA Today

“The book is fun, as Kinsella’s books are, but it delivers a strong positive message, as well. . . . Kinsella creates a solid, likable character—one that I got to know and root for throughout the book.”—Fairfield Daily Republic

“This is a really funny and relatable story about working women, women’s relationships with each other and one plucky heroine’s journey. This is a perfect pick-me-up.”—The Parkersburg News and Sentinel

“[There are ] many laugh-out-loud hilarious moments in this feel-good�novel about social media�and personal branding, and the hectic realities behind our perfect online lives.”—Bustle

“Pure escapist fun.”—PopSugar

“This latest stand-alone from bestselling author Kinsella is top-notch, thanks to a lovable, slightly flawed leading lady, many true-life situations, and loads of giggle-inducing humor. As Bridget Jones would say, ‘Well done!’”—Library Journal

“Another outstanding novel . . . a perfect combination of fun, laughable moments rounded out with some deep-seated family and relationship issues.”—Booklist

“Sophie Kinsella keeps her finger on the cultural pulse, while leaving me giddy with laughter. I loved it.”—Jojo Moyes

“Katie is a winning heroine. . . . Kinsella creates characters that are well-rounded, quirky, and a complete joy to read.”—Kirkus Reviews�(starred review)

“Driven by Katie’s witty observations and numerous missteps as she attempts to reconcile various aspects of her identity, this novel is smartly satirical and entertaining.”—Publishers Weekly

About the Author
Sophie Kinsella is the author of the bestselling Shopaholic series, as well as the novels Can You Keep a Secret?, The Undomestic Goddess, Remember Me?, Twenties Girl, I’ve Got Your Number, and Wedding Night. She lives between London and the country.

Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright � 2017 Sophie Kinsella

MY NOT SO PERFECT LIFE / SOPHIE KINSELLA

CHAPTER ONE

First: It could be worse. As commutes go, it could be a lot worse, and I must keep remembering this. Second: It’s worth it. I�want�to live in London; I�want�to do this; and commuting is part of the deal. It’s part of the London experience, like Tate Modern.

(Actually, it’s not much like Tate Modern. Bad example.)

My dad always says: If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay under the porch. And I want to run with the big dogs. That’s why I’m here.

Anyway, my twenty-minute walk to the station is fine. Enjoyable, even. The gray December air is like iron in my chest, but I feel good. The day’s begun. I’m on my way.

My coat’s pretty warm, even though it cost �9.99 and came from the flea market. It had a label in it, Christin Bior, but I cut it out as soon as I got home. You can’t work where I work and have Christin Bior in your coat. You could have a genuine vintage Christian Dior label. Or something Japanese. Or maybe no label because you make your clothes yourself out of retro fabrics that you source at Alfies Antiques.

But�not�Christin Bior.

As I get near Catford Bridge, I start to feel a knot of tension. I�really�don’t want to be late today. My boss has started throwing all sorts of hissy fits about people “swanning in at all times,” so I left an extra twenty minutes early, in case it was a bad day.

I can already see: It’s a god-awful day.

They’ve been having a lot of problems on our line recently and keep canceling trains with no warning. Trouble is, in London rush hour, you can’t just�cancel trains. What are all the people who were planning to get on that train supposed to do? Evaporate?

As I pass through the ticket barrier I can already see the answer. They’re crowded on the platform, squinting up at the information screen, jostling for position, peering down the line, scowling at one another and ignoring one another, all at the same time.

Oh�God. They must have canceled at least two trains, because this looks like three trainloads of people, all waiting for the next one, clustered near the edge of the platform at strategic points. It’s mid-December, but there’s no Christmas spirit here. Everyone’s too tense and cold and Monday-morning-ish. The only festive touch consists of a few miserable-looking fairy lights and a series of warning announcements about holiday transport.

Screwing up my nerve, I join the throng and exhale in relief as a train pulls into the station. Not that I’ll�get on�this train (Get on the first train? That would be ridiculous). There are people squashed up against the steamy windows, and as the doors slide open, only one woman gets off, looking pretty crumpled as she tries to extricate herself.

But even so, the crowd surges forward, and somehow a load of people insert themselves inside the train and it pulls away, and I’m that much farther forward on the platform. Now I just have to keep my place and�not�let that scrawny guy with gelled hair edge in front of me. I’ve taken out my earbuds so I can listen for announcements and stay poised and vigilant.

Commuting in London is basically warfare. It’s a constant campaign of claiming territory; inching forward; never relaxing for a moment. Because if you do, someone will step past you. Or step�on�you.

Exactly eleven minutes later, the next train pulls in. I head forward with the crowd, trying to block out the soundtrack of angry exclamations: “Can you move down?” “There’s room inside!” “They just need to move�down!”

I’ve noticed that people inside trains have completely different expressions from people on platforms—especially the ones who have managed to get a seat. They’re the ones who got over the mountains to Switzerland. They won’t even look up. They maintain this guilty, defiant refusal to engage:�I know you’re out there; I know it’s awful and I’m safe inside, but I suffered too, so let me just read my Kindle without bloody guilt-tripping me, OK?

People are pushing and pushing, and someone’s actually shoving me—I can feel fingers on my back—and suddenly I’m stepping onto the train floor. Now I need to grab onto a pole or a handle—anything—and use it as leverage. Once your foot’s on the train, you’re in.

A man way behind me seems very angry—I can hear extra- loud shouting and cursing. And suddenly there’s a ground- swell behind me, like a tsunami of people. I’ve only experienced this a couple of times, and it’s terrifying. I’m being pushed forward without even touching the ground, and as the train doors close I end up squeezed between two guys—one in a suit and one in a tracksuit—and a girl eating a panini.

We’re so tightly wedged that she’s holding her panini about three inches away from my face. Every time she takes a bite, I get a waft of pesto. But I studiously ignore it. And the girl. And the men. Even though I can feel the tracksuit guy’s warm thigh against mine and count the stubbly hairs on his neck. As the train starts moving we’re constantly bumped against one another, but no one even makes eye contact. I think if you make eye contact on the tube, they call the police or something.

To distract myself, I try to plan the rest of my journey. When I get to Waterloo East, I’ll check out which tube line is running best. I can do Jubilee-District (takes ages) or Jubilee-Central (longer walk at the other end) or Overground (even longer walk at the other end).

And, yes, if I’d�known�I was going to end up working in Chiswick, I wouldn’t have chosen to rent in Catford. But when I first came to London, it was to do an internship in east London. (They called it “Shoreditch” in the ad. It�so�wasn’t Shoreditch.) Catford was cheap and it wasn’t too far, and now I just can’t face west London prices, and the commute’s not�that�bad—

“Aargh!” I shriek as the train jolts and I’m thrown violently forward. The girl has been thrown too, and her hand shoots up toward my face and before I know it, my open mouth has landed on the end of her panini.

Wh—What?

I’m so shocked, I can’t react. My mouth is full of warm, doughy bread and melted mozzarella. How did this even�happen?

Instinctively my teeth clench shut, a move I immediately regret. Although . . . what else was I supposed to do? Nervously, I raise my eyes to hers, my mouth still full.

“Sorry,” I mumble, but it comes out “Obble.”

“What the�fuck?” The girl addresses the carriage incredulously. “She’s stealing my breakfast!”

My head’s sweating with stress. This is bad.�Bad. What do I do now? Bite off the panini? (Not good.) Just let it fall out of my mouth? (Even worse. Urgh.) There’s no good way out of this situation, none.

At last, I bite fully through the panini, my face burning with embarrassment. Now I have to chew my way through a mouthful of someone else’s claggy bread, with everyone watching.

“I’m really sorry,” I say awkwardly to the girl, as soon as I’ve managed to swallow. “I hope you enjoy the rest.”

“I don’t want it�now.” She glares at me. “It’s got your germs on it.”

“Well, I don’t want your germs either! It wasn’t my fault; I fell on it.”

“You�fell�on it,” she echoes, so skeptically that I stare at her. “Yes! Of course! I mean, what do you think—that I did that on�purpose?”

“Who knows?” She puts a protective hand around the rest of her panini, as though I might launch myself at her and bite another chunk off. “All kinds of weird people in London.”

“I’m not weird!”

“You can ‘fall’ on me anytime, love,” puts in the guy in the tracksuit with a smirk. “Only don’t chew,” he adds, and laughter comes from all around the carriage.

My face flames even redder, but I’m�not�going to react. In fact, this conversation is over.

For the next fifteen minutes I gaze sternly ahead, trying to exist in my own little bubble. At Waterloo East, we all disgorge from the train, and I breathe in the cold, fumey air with relief. I stride as quickly as I can to the Underground, opt for Jubilee-District, and join the crowd round the door. As I do so, I glance at my watch and quell a sigh. I’ve been traveling for forty-five minutes already, and I’m not even�nearly�there.

As someone steps on my foot with a stiletto, I have a sudden flashback to Dad pushing open our kitchen door, step- ping outside, spreading his arms wide to take in the view of fields and endless sky, and saying, “Shortest commute in the world, darling. Shortest commute in the world.” When I was little, I had no idea what he meant, but now—

“Move down! Will you move�down?” A man beside me on the platform is yelling so loudly, I flinch. The Underground train has arrived and there’s the usual battle between the people inside the carriage, who think it’s totally crammed, and the people outside, who are measuring the empty spaces with forensic, practiced eyes and reckon you could fit another twenty people in, easy.

Finally I get on the tube, and fight my way off at Westminster, and wait for the District line, then chug along to Turnham Green. As I get out of the tube station, I glance at my watch and start running. Shit. I barely have ten minutes.

Our office is a large pale building called Phillimore House.

As I get near, I slow to a walk, my heart still pounding. My left heel has a massive blister on it, but the main thing is, I’ve made it. I’m on time. Magically, there’s a lift waiting, and I step in, trying to smooth down my hair, which flew in all directions as I was pegging it down Chiswick High Road. The whole commute took an hour and twenty minutes in all, which actually could be worse—

“Wait!” An imperious voice makes me freeze. Across the lobby is striding a familiar figure. She has long legs, high- heeled boots, expensive highlights, a biker jacket, and a short skirt in an orange textured fabric which makes every other garment in the lift look suddenly old and obvious. Especially my �8.99 black jersey skirt.

She has amazing eyebrows. Some people are just granted amazing eyebrows, and she’s one of them.

“Horrendous journey,” she says as she gets into the lift. Her voice is husky, coppery, grown-up sounding. It’s a voice that knows stuff, that doesn’t have time for fools. She jabs the floor number with a manicured finger and we start to rise. “Absolutely horrendous,” she reiterates. “The lights would�not�change at the Chiswick Lane junction. It took me twenty- five minutes to get here from home. Twenty-five minutes!”

She gives me one of her swooping, eagle-like gazes, and I realize she’s waiting for a response.

“Oh,” I say feebly. “Poor you.”

The lift doors open and she strides out. A moment later I follow, watching her haircut fall perfectly back into shape with every step and breathing in that distinctive scent she wears (bespoke, created for her at Annick Goutal in Paris on her fifth-wedding-anniversary trip).

This is my boss. This is Demeter. The woman with the perfect life.

I’m not exaggerating. When I say Demeter has the perfect life, believe me, it’s true.�Everything you could want out of life, she has. Job, family, general coolness. Tick, tick, tick. Even her name. It’s so distinctive, she doesn’t need to bother with her surname (Farlowe). She’s just�Demeter. Like�Madonna. “Hi,” I’ll hear her saying on the phone, in that confident, louder-than-average voice of hers. “It’s De-meeee-ter.”

She’s forty-five and she’s been executive creative director at Cooper Clemmow for just over a year. Cooper Clemmow is a branding and strategy agency, and we have some pretty big clients—therefore Demeter’s a pretty big deal. Her office is full of awards, and framed photos of her with illustrious people, and displays of products she’s helped to brand.

She’s tall and slim and has shiny brunette hair and, as I already mentioned, amazing eyebrows. I don’t know what she earns, but she lives in Shepherd’s Bush in this stunning house which apparently she paid over two million for—my friend Flora told me.

Flora also told me that Demeter had her sitting-room floor imported from France and it’s reclaimed oak parquet and cost a�fortune. Flora’s the closest in rank to me—she’s a creative associate—and she’s a constant source of gossip about Demeter.

I even went to look at Demeter’s house once, not because I’m a sad stalker, but because I happened to be in the area and I knew the address, and, you know, why�not�check out your boss’s house if you get the chance? (OK, full disclosure: I only knew the street name. I googled the number of the house when I got there.)

Of course, it’s heart-achingly tasteful. It looks like a house in a magazine. It�is�a house in a magazine. It’s been profiled in Living etc,�with Demeter standing in her all-white kitchen, looking elegant and creative in a retro-print top.

I stood and stared at it for a while. Not exactly lusting—it was more wistful than that.�Wisting. The front door is a gorgeous gray-green—Farrow & Ball or Little Greene, I’m sure— with an old-looking lion’s-head knocker and elegant pale-gray stone steps leading up to it. The rest of the house is pretty impressive too—all painted window frames and slatted blinds and a glimpse of a wooden tree house in the back garden— but it was the front door that mesmerized me. And the steps. Imagine having a set of beautiful stone steps to descend every day, like a princess in a fairy tale. You’d start every morning off feeling fabulous.

Two cars on the front forecourt. A gray Audi and a black Volvo SUV, all shiny and new. Everything Demeter has is either shiny and new and on-trend (designer juicing machine) or old and authentic and on-trend (huge antique wooden necklace that she got in South Africa). I think “authentic” might be Demeter’s favorite word in the whole world; she uses it about thirty times a day.

Demeter is married,�of course,�and she has two children,�of course:�a boy called Hal and a girl called Coco. She has zillions of friends she’s known “forever”�and is always going to parties and events and design awards. Sometimes she’ll sigh and say it’s her third night out that week and exclaim, “Glutton for punishment!” as she changes into her Miu Miu shoes. (I take quite a lot of her Net-A-Porter packaging to recycling for her, so I know what labels she wears. Miu Miu. Marni in the sale. Dries van Noten. Also quite a lot of Zara.) But then, as she’s heading out, her eyes will start sparkling and the next thing, the photos are all over Cooper Clemmow’s Facebook page and Twitter account and everywhere: Demeter in a cool black top (probably Helmut Lang; she likes him too), holding a wineglass and beaming with famous designer types and being perfect.

And, here’s the thing: I’m not�envious. Not exactly. I don’t want to be Demeter. I don’t want her things. I mean, I’m only twenty-six; what would I do with a Volvo SUV?

But when I look at her, I feel this pinprick of . . . some- thing, and I think: Could that be me? Could that ever be me? When I’ve earned it, could I have Demeter’s life? It’s not just the things but the confidence. The style. The sophistication. The connections. If it took me twenty years I wouldn’t mind—in fact, I’d be ecstatic! If you told me:�Guess what, if you work hard, in twenty years’ time you’ll be leading that life,�I’d put my head down right now and get to it.

It’s impossible, though. It could never happen. People talk about “ladders” and “career structures” and “rising through the ranks,” but I can’t see any ladder leading me to Demeter’s life, however hard I work.

I mean, two million pounds for a house? Two�million?

I worked it out once. Just suppose a bank ever lent me that kind of money—which they wouldn’t—on my current salary, it would take me 193.4 years to pay it off (and, you know, live).

When that number appeared on my calculator screen I actually laughed out loud a bit hysterically. People talk about the generation gap. Generation chasm, more like. Generation Grand Canyon. There isn’t any ladder big enough to stretch from my place in life to Demeter’s place in life, not without something extraordinary happening, like the lottery, or rich parents, or some genius website idea that makes my fortune. (Don’t think I’m not trying. I spend every night attempting to invent a new kind of bra, or low-calorie caramel. No joy yet.) So anyway. I can’t aim for Demeter’s life, not exactly. But I can aim for some of it. The achievable bits. I can watch her, study her. I can learn how to be like her.

And also, crucially, I can learn how to be�not�like her.

Because, didn’t I mention? She’s a nightmare. She’s perfect and�she’s a nightmare. Both.

I’m just powering up my computer when Demeter comes striding into our open-plan office, sipping her soy latte. “People,” she says. “People, listen up.”

This is another of Demeter’s favorite words: “people.” She comes into our space and says, “People,” in that drama-school voice, and we all have to stop what we’re doing, as though there’s going to be an important group announcement. When, in fact,�what she wants is something very specific that only one person knows, but since she can barely remember which of us does what, or even what our names are, she has to ask everyone.

All right, this is a slight exaggeration. But not much. I’ve never met anyone as terrible at remembering names as Demeter. Flora told me once that Demeter actually has a real visual problem, some facial-recognition thing, but she won’t admit it, because she reckons it doesn’t affect her ability to do her job.

Well, news flash: It does.

And second news flash: What does facial recognition have to do with remembering a name properly? I’ve been here seven months, and I swear she’s still not sure whether I’m Cath or Cat.

I’m Cat, in fact. Cat short for Catherine. Because . . . well. It’s a cool nickname. It’s short and punchy. It’s modern. It’s London. It’s me. Cat. Cat Brenner.

Hi, I’m Cat.

Hi, I’m Catherine, but call me Cat.

OK, full disclosure: It’s not�absolutely�me. Not yet. I’m still part-Katie. I’ve been calling myself “Cat” since I started this job, but for some reason it hasn’t fully taken. Sometimes I don’t respond as quickly as I should when people call out “Cat.” I hesitate before I sign it, and one hideous time I had to scrub out a “K” I’d started writing on one of those big office birthday cards. Luckily no one saw. I mean, who doesn’t know their own�name?

But I’m determined to be Cat. I�will�be Cat. It’s my all-new London name. I’ve had three jobs in my life (OK, two were internships), and at each new step I’ve reinvented myself a bit more. Changing from Katie to Cat is just the latest stage.

Katie is the home me. The Somerset me. A rosy-cheeked, curly-haired country girl who lives in jeans and wellies and a fleece which came free with a delivery of sheep food. A girl whose entire social life is the local pub or maybe the Ritzy in Warreton. A girl I’ve left behind.

As long as I can remember, I’ve wanted out of Somerset. I’ve wanted London. I never had boy bands on my bedroom wall; I had the tube map. Posters of the London Eye and the Gherkin.

The first internship I managed to scrape was in Birmingham, and that’s a big city too. It’s got the shops, the glamour, the buzz . . . but it’s not�London. It doesn’t have that�London-ness�that makes my heart soar. The skyline. The history. Walking past Big Ben and hearing it chime, in real life. Standing in the same tube stations that you’ve seen in a million films about the Blitz. Feeling that you’re in one of the best cities in the world, no question, hands down. Living in London is like living in a movie set, from the Dickensian backstreets to the glinting tower blocks to the secret garden squares. You can be anyone you want to be.

There’s not much in my life that would score in the top ten of any global survey. I don’t have a top-ten job or wardrobe or flat. But I live in a top-ten city. Living in London is something that people all over the world would love to do, and now I’m here. And that’s why I don’t care if my commute is the journey from hell and I don’t care if my bedroom is about three foot square.�I’m here.

I couldn’t get here straightaway. The only offer I had after uni was in a tiny marketing firm in Birmingham. So I moved up there and immediately started creating a new personality. I had bangs cut. I started straightening my hair every day and putting it in a smart knot. I bought myself a pair of black glasses with clear lenses. I looked different. I felt different. I even started doing my makeup differently, with super-defined lip liner every day and black liquid eyeliner in flicky curves.

(It took me a whole weekend to learn how to do that flicky eyeliner. It’s an actual skill, like trigonometry—so what I wonder is, why don’t they teach�that�at school? If I ran the country there’d be courses in things that you’d actually use your whole life. Like: How To Do Eyeliner. How To Fill In A Tax Return. What To Do When Your Loo Blocks And Your Dad Isn’t Answering The Phone And You’re About To Have A Party.)

It was in Birmingham that I decided to lose my West Country accent. I was in the loo, minding my own business, when I heard a couple of girls taking the piss out of me.�Farrrmer Katie,�they were calling me. And, yes, I was shocked, and, yes, it stung. I could have burst out of my cubicle and exclaimed,�Well, I don’t think your Brummie accent’s any better!

But I didn’t. I just sat there and thought hard. It was a reality check. By the time I got my second internship—the one in east London—I was a different person. I’d wised up. I didn’t look�or�sound like Katie Brenner from Ansters Farm.

And now I’m totally Cat Brenner from London. Cat Brenner who works in a cool office with distressed-brick walls and white shiny desks and funky chairs and a coat stand in the shape of a naked man. (It gives everyone a real shock, the first time they come to visit.)

I mean, I�am�Cat. I will be. I just have to nail the not-signing-the-wrong-name thing.

“People,” Demeter says for a third time, and the office becomes quiet. There are ten of us in here, all with different titles and job descriptions. On the next floor up, there’s an events team, and a digital team, and the planning lot. There’s also some other group of creatives called the “vision team,” who work directly with Adrian, the CEO. Plus other offices for talent management and finance or whatever. But this floor is my world, and I’m at the bottom of the pile. I earn by far the least and my desk is the smallest, but you have to start somewhere. This is my first-ever paid job, and I thank my lucky stars for it every day. And, you know, my work�is�interesting. In a way.

Kind of.

I mean, I suppose it depends how you define “interesting.” I’m currently working on this really exciting project to launch a new self-foaming “cappuccino-style” creamer from Coffeewite. I’m on the research side. And what that�actually�comes down to, in terms of my day-to-day work, is . . .

Well. Here’s the thing. You have to be realistic. You can’t go straight in at the fun, glam stuff. Dad just doesn’t get that. He’s always asking: Do I come up with all the ideas? Or: Have I met lots of important people? Or: Do I go for swanky business lunches every day? Which is ridiculous.

And, yes, I’m probably defensive, but he doesn’t understand, and it�really�doesn’t help when he starts wincing and shaking his head and saying, “And you’re really happy in the Big Smoke, Katie my love?” I�am�happy. But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard. Dad doesn’t know anything about jobs, or London, or the economy, or, I don’t know, the price of a glass of wine in a London bar. I haven’t even told him exactly how much my rent is, because I know what he’d say; he’d say—

Oh God. Deep breath. Sorry. I didn’t mean to launch into some off-topic rant about my dad. Things haven’t been great between us, ever since I moved away after uni. He doesn’t understand why I moved here, and he never will. And I can try to explain it all I like, but if you can’t�feel�London, all you see are traffic and fumes and expense and your daughter choosing to move more than a hundred miles away.

I had a choice: Follow my heart or don’t break his. I think in the end I broke a bit of both our hearts. Which the rest of the world doesn’t understand, because they think it’s normal to move out and away from home. But they aren’t my dad and me, who lived together, just us, for all those years.

Anyway. Back to my work. People at my level don’t meet the clients—Demeter does that. And Rosa. They go out for the lunches and come back with pink cheeks and free samples and excitement. Then they put together a pitch, which usually involves Mark and Liz too, and someone from the digital team, and sometimes Adrian. He’s not just CEO but also the co-founder of Cooper Clemmow, and he has an office down- stairs. (There was another co-founder, called Max, but he retired early to the south of France.)

Adrian’s quite amazing, actually. He’s about fifty and has a shock of iron-gray wavy hair and wears a lot of denim shirts and looks like he comes from the seventies. Which I suppose, in a way, he does. He’s also properly famous. Like, there’s a display of alumni outside King’s College, London, on the Strand, and Adrian’s picture is up there.

Anyway, so that’s all the main players. But I’m not at that level, nothing like. As I said, I’m involved in the research side, which means what I’m�actually�doing this week is . . .

And, listen, before I say it, it doesn’t�sound�glamorous, OK? But it’s not as bad as it sounds, really.

I’m inputting data. To be specific, the results of this big customer survey we did for Coffeewite about coffee, creamers, cappuccinos, and, well, everything. Two thousand handwritten surveys, each eight pages long. I know, right? Paper? No one�does paper surveys anymore. But Demeter wanted to go “old school” because she read some research that said people are 25 percent more honest when they’re writing with a pen than they are online. Or something.

So here we are. Or, rather, here I am, with five boxfuls of questionnaires still to go.

It can get a�bit�tiring, because it’s the same old questions and the participants all scribbled their answers in Biro and they aren’t always clear. But on the plus side, this research will shape the whole project! Flora was all “My God, poor you, Cat, what a bloody nightmare!”—but actually it’s fascinating. Well. I mean, you have to�make�it fascinating. I’ve taken to guessing people’s income brackets based on what they said in the question about�foam density.�And you know what? I’m usually right. It’s like mind reading. The more I’m inputting these answers, the more I’m learning about consumers; at least I hope so—

“People. What the�fuck�is up with Trekbix?”

Demeter’s voice breaks into my thoughts again. She’s standing in her spiky heels, thrusting a hand through her hair, with that impatient, frustrated, what-is-wrong-with-the- world expression she gets.

“I wrote myself a set of notes about this.” She’s scrolling through her phone, ignoring us all again. “I know I did.”

“I haven’t seen any notes,” says Sarah from behind her desk, using her customary low, discreet voice.�Saint Sarah,�as Flora calls her. Sarah is Demeter’s assistant. She has luscious red hair which she ties into a ponytail and very white, pretty teeth. She’s the one who makes her own clothes: gorgeous retro fifties-style outfits with circular skirts. And how she keeps sane, I have no idea.

Demeter has got to be the scattiest person in the universe. Every day, it seems, she misplaces a document or gets the time of an appointment wrong. Sarah is always very patient and polite to Demeter, but you can see her frustration in her mouth. It goes all tight and one corner disappears into her cheek. She’s apparently the master of sending emails out from Demeter’s account, in Demeter’s voice, saving the situation, apologizing and generally smoothing things over.

I know it’s a big job that Demeter does. Plus she has her family to think about, and school concerts or whatever. But how can you be�this�flaky?

“Right. Found it. Why was it in my�personal�folder?” Demeter looks up from her phone with that confused, eye-darty look she sometimes gets, like the entire world confounds her.

“You just need to save it under—” Sarah tries to take Demeter’s phone, but she swipes it away.

“I know how to use my phone.�That’s�not the point. The point is—” She stops dead, and we all wait breathlessly. This is another Demeter habit: She starts a really arresting sentence and then stops halfway through, as though her batteries have been turned off. I glance at Flora and she does a little eye roll to the ceiling.

“Yes.�Yes.” Demeter resumes: “What’s going on with Trekbix? Because I thought Liz was going to write a response to their email, but I’ve just had a further email from Rob Kincaid asking why he’s heard nothing. So?” She swivels round to Liz, finally focusing on the person she needs to, finally coming alive. “Liz? Where is it? You promised me a draft by this morning.” She taps her phone. “It’s in my notes from last Monday’s meeting.�Liz to write draft. First rule of client care, Liz?”

Hold the client’s hand,�I think to myself, although I don’t say it out loud. That would be too geeky.

“Hold the client’s hand,” declaims Demeter. “Hold it�throughout. Make them feel secure every minute of the process. Then�you’ll have a happy customer. You’re not holding Rob Kincaid’s hand, Liz. His hand’s dangling and he’s not a happy bunny.”

Liz colors. “I’m still working on it.” “Still?”

“There’s a lot to put in.”

“Well, work faster.” Demeter frowns at her. “And send it to me for approval first. Don’t just ping it off to Rob. By lunchtime, OK?”

“OK,” mumbles Liz, looking pissed off. She doesn’t often put a foot wrong, Liz. She’s project manager and has a very tidy desk and straight fair hair which she washes every day with apple-scented shampoo. She eats a lot of apples too. Actually I’ve never connected those two facts before. Weird.

“Where�is�that email from Rob Kincaid?” Demeter is scrolling back and forth, peering at her phone. “It’s disappeared from my inbox.”

“Have you deleted it by mistake?” says Sarah patiently. “I’ll forward it to you again.”

This is Sarah’s other pet annoyance: Demeter is always carelessly deleting emails and then needing them urgently and getting in a tizz. Sarah says she spends half her life forwarding emails to Demeter, and thank God�one�of them has an efficient filing system.

“There you are.” Sarah clicks briskly. “I’ve forwarded Rob’s email to you. In fact, I’ve forwarded all his emails to you, just in case.”

“Thanks, Sarah.” Demeter subsides. “I don’t know�where�that email went. . . .” She’s peering at her phone, but Sarah doesn’t seem interested.

“So, Demeter, I’m going off to my first-aid training now,” she says, reaching for her bag. “I told you about it? Because I’m the first-aid officer?”

“Right.” Demeter looks bemused, and it’s clear she’d to- tally forgotten. “Great! Well done you. So, Sarah, before you go, let’s touch base. . . .” She scrolls through her phone. “It’s the London Food Awards tonight. . . . I need to get to the hairdressers this afternoon. . . .”

“You can’t,” Sarah interrupts. “This afternoon is solid.”

“What?”�Demeter looks up from her phone. “But I booked the hairdressers.”

“For tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”�Demeter sounds aghast and her eyes are swiveling again. “No. I booked it for Monday.”

“Look at your calendar.” Sarah sounds barely able to control her patience. “It was Tuesday, Demeter, always�Tuesday.”

“But I need my roots done, urgently. Can I cancel anyone this afternoon?”

“It’s those polenta people. And then it’s the team from Green Teen.”

“Shit.” Demeter screws up her face in agony.�“Shit.”

“And you’ve got a conference call in fifteen minutes. Can I go?” says Sarah in long-suffering tones.

“Yes. Yes. You go.” Demeter waves a hand. “Thanks, Sarah.” She heads back into her glass-walled office, exhaling sharply. “Shit,�shit. Oh.” She reappears. “Rosa. The Sensiquo logo? We should try it in a bigger point size. It came to me on my way in. And try the roundel in aquamarine. Can you talk to Mark? Where�is�Mark?” She glances querulously at his desk.

“Working from home today,” says Jon, a junior creative. “Oh,” says Demeter mistrustfully. “OK.”

Demeter doesn’t really believe in working from home. She says you lose the flow with people disappearing the whole time. But Mark had it negotiated into his contract before Demeter arrived, so there’s nothing she can do about it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him,” says Rosa, scribbling furiously on her notepad. “Point size, aquamarine.”

“Great. Oh, and Rosa.” She pops her head out yet again. “I want to discuss Python training. Everyone in this office should be able to code.”

“What?”

“Coding!” says Demeter impatiently. “I read a piece about it in�The Huffington Post. Put it on the agenda for the next group meeting.”

“OK.” Rosa looks baffled. “Coding. Fine.”

As Demeter closes her door, everyone breathes out. This is Demeter. Totally random. Keeping up with her is exhausting. Rosa is tapping frantically at her phone, and I know she’s sending a bitchy text about Demeter to Liz. Sure enough, a moment later Liz’s phone pings, and she nods vociferously at Rosa.

I haven’t totally fathomed the office politics of this place— it’s like trying to catch up on a TV soap opera mid-flow. But I do know that Rosa applied for Demeter’s job and didn’t get it. I also know that they had a massive row, just before I arrived. Rosa wanted to get on some big one-off special project that the mayor of London spearheaded. It was branding some new London athletics event, and he put together a team seconded from creative agencies all over London. The�Evening Standard�called it�a showcase for London’s best and brightest.�But Demeter wouldn’t let Rosa do it. She said she needed Rosa on her team 24/7, which was bullshit. Since then, Rosa has hated Demeter with a passion.

Flora’s theory is that Demeter’s so paranoid about being overtaken by her young staff that she won’t help anyone. If you even�try�to climb the ladder, she stamps on your fingers with her Miu Miu shoes. Apparently Rosa’s desperate to leave Cooper Clemmow now—but there’s not a lot out there in this market. So here poor Rosa stays, stuck with a boss she hates, basically loathing every moment of her work. You can see it in her hunched shoulders and frowning brow.

Mark also loathes Demeter, and I know the story there too. Demeter’s supposed to oversee the design team.�Oversee, not do it all herself. But she can’t stop herself. Design is Demeter’s thing—design and packaging. She knows the names of more typefaces than you can imagine, and sometimes she interrupts a meeting just to show us all some packaging design that she thinks really works. Which is, you know, great. But it’s also a problem, because she’s always wading in.

So last year Cooper Clemmow refreshed the branding of a big moisturizer called Drench, and it was Demeter’s idea to go pale orange with white type. Well, it’s been this massive hit, and we’ve won all sorts of prizes. All good—except for Mark, who’s head of design. Apparently he’d already created this whole�other�design package. But Demeter came up with the orange idea, mocked it up herself, and flung it out there at a client meeting. And apparently Mark felt totally belittled.

The worst thing is, Demeter didn’t even notice that Mark was pissed off. She doesn’t pick up on things like that. She’s all high five, great work team, move on, next project.�And then it was such a huge hit that Mark could hardly complain. I mean, in some ways, he’s lucky: He got a load of credit for that redesign. He can put it on his CV and everything. But still. He’s all bristly and has this sarcastic way of talking to Demeter which makes me wince.

The sad thing is, everyone else in the office knows Mark is really talented. Like, he’s just won the Stylesign Award for Innovation. (Apparently it’s some really prestigious thing.) But it’s as if Demeter doesn’t even�realize�what a great head of design she has.

Liz isn’t that happy here either, but she puts up with it. Flora, on the other hand, bitches about Demeter all the time, but I think that’s because she loves bitching. I’m not sure about the others.

As for me, I’m still the new girl. I’ve only been here seven months and I keep my head down and don’t venture my opinion too much. But I do have ambition; I do have ideas. I’m all about design too, especially typography—in fact, that’s what Demeter and I talked about in my interview.

Whenever a new project comes into the office, my brain fires up. I’ve put together�so�many bits of spec work in my spare time on my laptop. Logos, design concepts, strategy documents . . . I keep emailing them to Demeter, for feedback, and she keeps promising she�will�look at them, when she has a moment.

Everyone says you mustn’t chivvy Demeter or she flies off the handle. So I’m biding my time, like a surfer waiting for a wave. I’m pretty good at surfing, as it happens, and I know the wave will come. When the moment is right, I’ll get Demeter’s attention. She’ll look at my stuff, everything will click, and I’ll start riding my life. Not paddling, paddling, paddling, like I am right now.

I’m just picking up my next survey from the pile when Hannah, another of our designers, enters the office. There’s a general gasp and Flora turns to raise her eyebrows at me. Poor Hannah had to go home on Friday. She really wasn’t well. She’s had about five miscarriages over the last two years, and it’s left her a bit vulnerable, and occasionally she has a panic attack. It happened Friday, so Rosa told her to go home and have a rest. The truth is, Hannah works probably the hardest in the office. I’ve seen emails from her at 2:00 a.m. She de- serves a bit of a break.

“Hannah!” Rosa exclaims. “Are you OK? Take it really easy today.”

“I’m fine,” says Hannah, slipping into her seat, avoiding everyone’s eye. “I’m fine.” She instantly opens up a document and starts work, sipping from a bottle of filtered tap water. (Cooper Clemmow launched the brand, so we all have these freebie neon bottles on our desks.)

“Hannah!” Demeter appears at the door of her office. “You’re back. Well done.”

“I’m fine,” says Hannah yet again. I can tell she doesn’t want any fuss made, but Demeter comes right over to her desk.

“Now, please don’t worry, Hannah,” she says in her ringing, authoritative tones. “No one�thinks you’re a drama queen or anything like that. So don’t worry about it at all.”

She gives Hannah a friendly nod, then strides back into her office and shuts her door. The rest of us are watching, dumbstruck, and poor Hannah looks absolutely stricken. As soon as Demeter is back in her office, she turns to Rosa.

“Do you all think I’m a drama queen?” she gulps.

“No!” exclaims Rosa at once, and I can hear Liz muttering, “Bloody�Demeter.”

“Listen, Hannah,” Rosa continues, heading to Hannah’s desk, crouching down, and looking her straight in the eye. “You’ve just been Demetered.”

“That’s right,” agrees Liz. “You’ve been Demetered.”

“It happens to us all. She’s an insensitive cow and she says stupid stuff and you just have to�not listen,�OK? You’ve done really well coming in today, and we all really appreciate the effort you’ve made. Don’t we?” She looks around and a spatter of applause breaks out, whereupon Hannah’s cheeks flush with pleasure.

“Fuck Demeter,” ends Rosa succinctly, and she heads back to her desk, amid even more applause.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Demeter glancing out of her glass-walled office, as though wondering what’s going on. And I almost feel sorry for her. She really has no idea.

Most helpful customer reviews

8 of 9 people found the following review helpful.
Incredible!!
By Amanda
Sophie Kinsella hit this one out of the park. This is a charming novel with a modern edge and a great message. Fans of her earlier works, including The Undomestic Goddess, will appreciate this new novel of empowerment and truth. Highly recommended for anyone that enjoys the triumph of a deserving and intriguing heroine!

3 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Same Kinsella Fun, But Depth Under the Fluff
By Nadine Feldman
I love Kinsella's books in general. They're a great way to escape from all the bad news of the world. Of late, it feels as though her books are taking on new depth. The characters are not as they appear, and rather than taking an easy road with clear-cut heroes and villains, the characters in this book have more subtle shading.

It's tough to say much about the story without revealing spoilers. Let me just say that it went off in a surprising direction, and one I found fresh and pleasing. Kinsella could have taken an easier road, but she didn't.

Cat/Katie, the protagonist of the book, comes across as more competent than some of Kinsella's previous heroines. She's smart and ambitious as she tries to put aside her "farmer Katie" upbringing. She's not without flaws, but she's very likable, but I enjoyed her as the smart girl who's looking to make her mark in the world. Demeter is the brilliant but sometimes flaky boss who seems to have a perfect life.

As a stepmom, I thank Kinsella for having a stepmom character who is loving and important in Cat's life. At times I have feel like I'm battling a stereotype as people make assumptions about the role of a stepparent, so appreciate Biddy's sweet, smart, loving presence.

And, as someone who has experienced some of what Demeter does in this story (man, I wish I could think of a way to say this without spoiling it!!), I thank Kinsella for dealing with a workplace issue seldom discussed or acknowledged by women. I've SO been there.

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Lots of laughs!
By Alana
I thought this book was so funny and enlightening. It is a feel good book for sure. I will definitely be reading more by this author.

See all 211 customer reviews...

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