The Rotters' Club
Autor Jonathan Coeen Limba Engleză Paperback – 25 iun 2014
Winner of the Everyman Wodehouse prize, The Rotters' Clubfollows Benjamin Trotter - bestselling author Jonathan Coe's most iconic character - through the hilarious and, at times, touching trials and tribulations of growing up in 1970s Britain.
Unforgettably funny and painfully honest, Jonathan Coe's tale of Benjamin Trotter and his friends' coming of age during the 1970s is a heartfelt celebration of the joys and agonies of growing up.
Featuring, among other things, IRA bombs, prog rock, punk rock, bad poetry, first love, love on the side. Prefects, detention, a few bottles of Blue Nun, lots of brown wallpaper, industrial strife, and divine intervention in the form of a pair of swimming trunks.
Set against the backdrop of the decade's class struggles, tragic and riotous by turns, packed with thwarted romance and furtive sex,The Rotters' Clubwill be enjoyed by readers of Nick Hornby and William Boyd and anyone who ever experienced adolescence the hard way.
'One of those sweeping, ambitious yet hugely readable, moving and richly comic novels that you find all too rarely in English fiction...a masterpiece'Daily Telegraph
'Very funny...a compulsive and gripping read. Coe had achieved that rare feat: a novel stuffed with characters you really care for'The Times
'A book to cherish, a book to reread, a book to buy for all your friends'Independent on Sunday
Jonathan Coe's novels are filled with biting political satire, moving and astute observations of life and hilarious set pieces that have made him one of the most popular writers of his generation. His other titles,The Closed Circle(sequel to The Rotters' Club),The Accidental Woman,The Dwarves of Death,The Terrible Privacy of Maxwell Sim,The House of Sleep(winner of the 1998 Prix Médicis Étranger),A Touch of Love,What a Carve Up!(winner of the 1995 John Llewellyn Rhys Prize) andThe Rain Before it Falls, are all available in Penguin paperback.
| Toate formatele și edițiile | Preț | Express |
|---|---|---|
| Paperback (3) | 53.47 lei 24-35 zile | +19.61 lei 4-10 zile |
| Penguin Books – 5 iun 2019 | 53.47 lei 24-35 zile | +19.61 lei 4-10 zile |
| Penguin Books – 25 iun 2014 | 64.26 lei 3-5 săpt. | +11.81 lei 4-10 zile |
| Vintage Books USA – 31 ian 2003 | 116.73 lei 3-5 săpt. |
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780241967768
ISBN-10: 0241967767
Pagini: 416
Dimensiuni: 129 x 198 x 25 mm
Greutate: 0.29 kg
Editura: Penguin Books
Colecția Penguin
Locul publicării:London, United Kingdom
ISBN-10: 0241967767
Pagini: 416
Dimensiuni: 129 x 198 x 25 mm
Greutate: 0.29 kg
Editura: Penguin Books
Colecția Penguin
Locul publicării:London, United Kingdom
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Notă biografică
Jonathan
Coeis
the
author
of
thirteen
novels,
all
published
by
Penguin,
which
include
the
highly
acclaimed
bestsellersWhat
a
Carve
Up!,The
House
of
Sleep,The
Rotters'
Club,Number
11andMiddle
England,
which
won
the
Costa
Novel
of
the
Year
Award
and
the
Prix
du
Livre
Européen.He
is
also
the
author
of
a
biography
of
B.S
Johnson,Like
a
Fiery
Elephant,
andThe
Broken
Mirror,
a
children's
book.
Recenzii
“Reflective and compelling, satirical and tender, wildly imaginative and painstakingly realistic.” –Chris Lehmann, The Washington Post Book World
“The gritty, cross-pond equivalent to Look Homeward, Angel. . . . The pangs of embarrassment, the anguish of uncertainty, the awkwardness of success [are] vividly present here.” – Mike Francis, The Oregonian
“Funny and astute . . . The strength of The Rotters’ Club lies in its comic humanity.” – Stephen Amidon, The Atlantic Monthly
“Please, God . . . if there’s a next life, let me write as well as Jonathan Coe. The Rotters’ Club offers a thick slice of seventies Birmingham–sharp, acerbic, and menacingly true; a sad, funny, thoroughly engaging look at compromise, complicity, and change in a decade many of us would choose to forget.” –Anthony Bourdain, author of Kitchen Confidential and A Cook’s Tour
“Its tinder-dry combustion of comic, indignant and elegiac suggests an Evelyn Waugh of the left.” –Richard Eder, The New York Times Book Review
“A thrillingly traitorous work. It hums along for a hundred pages of wise comedy about teenage love’s mortifications, then cold cocks us with an honest surprise as cruel as it is earned.” –David Kipen, San Francisco Chronicle
“Jonathan Coe is a mesmerizing writer. . . . The Rotters’ Club is a wonderfully gripping novel, by turns funny, heartbreaking and terrifying.” –The Seattle Times
“The novel’s many intricate parts manage to mesh and turn with the startling harmony you find in Robert Altman’s movies.” –Todd Pruzan, The Village Voice
“If there’s a contemporary novelist who combines sharp and sometimes savage social commentary with the classic, full-blooded pleasures novels are supposed to give readers as well as Jonathan Coe does, I must have missed him.” –Charles Taylor, Salon.com
and from the UK . . .
“A must-read for anyone who cares about contemporary literature.” –Katie Owen, The Telegraph
“Filled with characters whose destinies we care about, whose welfare moves us. This is the simplest but highest calling of literature.” –William Sutcliffe, The Independent on Sunday
“As always with Jonathan Coe, the sheer intelligent good nature that suffuses his work makes it a pleasure to read.” –Peter Bradshaw, The Guardian
“As a study of adolescence, it is hard to beat. The aching naivety and intensity of the main characters made me think of Salinger.” –John de Falbe, The Spectator
“Coe handles his complex approach to a complex era effortlessly, and the end product is a compulsive and gripping read.” –Paul Connolly, The Times
“At once uproariously entertaining and deadly serious–a comedy of manners and mores, but also a conscientious and politically charged reminder of an age quite easily forgotten, yet not far removed from our own.” –Henry Hitchings, Times Literary Supplement
“Like all of Coe’s novels, The Rotters’ Club is brilliant, funny, apposite, informed and unflaggingly truth-seeking.” –Rachel Cusk, The Evening Standard
“Superior entertainment. The pages seem to turn themselves.” –Hugo Barnacle, The New Statesman
“The gritty, cross-pond equivalent to Look Homeward, Angel. . . . The pangs of embarrassment, the anguish of uncertainty, the awkwardness of success [are] vividly present here.” – Mike Francis, The Oregonian
“Funny and astute . . . The strength of The Rotters’ Club lies in its comic humanity.” – Stephen Amidon, The Atlantic Monthly
“Please, God . . . if there’s a next life, let me write as well as Jonathan Coe. The Rotters’ Club offers a thick slice of seventies Birmingham–sharp, acerbic, and menacingly true; a sad, funny, thoroughly engaging look at compromise, complicity, and change in a decade many of us would choose to forget.” –Anthony Bourdain, author of Kitchen Confidential and A Cook’s Tour
“Its tinder-dry combustion of comic, indignant and elegiac suggests an Evelyn Waugh of the left.” –Richard Eder, The New York Times Book Review
“A thrillingly traitorous work. It hums along for a hundred pages of wise comedy about teenage love’s mortifications, then cold cocks us with an honest surprise as cruel as it is earned.” –David Kipen, San Francisco Chronicle
“Jonathan Coe is a mesmerizing writer. . . . The Rotters’ Club is a wonderfully gripping novel, by turns funny, heartbreaking and terrifying.” –The Seattle Times
“The novel’s many intricate parts manage to mesh and turn with the startling harmony you find in Robert Altman’s movies.” –Todd Pruzan, The Village Voice
“If there’s a contemporary novelist who combines sharp and sometimes savage social commentary with the classic, full-blooded pleasures novels are supposed to give readers as well as Jonathan Coe does, I must have missed him.” –Charles Taylor, Salon.com
and from the UK . . .
“A must-read for anyone who cares about contemporary literature.” –Katie Owen, The Telegraph
“Filled with characters whose destinies we care about, whose welfare moves us. This is the simplest but highest calling of literature.” –William Sutcliffe, The Independent on Sunday
“As always with Jonathan Coe, the sheer intelligent good nature that suffuses his work makes it a pleasure to read.” –Peter Bradshaw, The Guardian
“As a study of adolescence, it is hard to beat. The aching naivety and intensity of the main characters made me think of Salinger.” –John de Falbe, The Spectator
“Coe handles his complex approach to a complex era effortlessly, and the end product is a compulsive and gripping read.” –Paul Connolly, The Times
“At once uproariously entertaining and deadly serious–a comedy of manners and mores, but also a conscientious and politically charged reminder of an age quite easily forgotten, yet not far removed from our own.” –Henry Hitchings, Times Literary Supplement
“Like all of Coe’s novels, The Rotters’ Club is brilliant, funny, apposite, informed and unflaggingly truth-seeking.” –Rachel Cusk, The Evening Standard
“Superior entertainment. The pages seem to turn themselves.” –Hugo Barnacle, The New Statesman
Descriere
Descriere de la o altă ediție sau format:
'Sometimes I feel that I am destined always to be offstage whenever the main action occurs. That God has made me the victim of some cosmic practical joke, by assigning me little more than a walk-on part in my own life . . .'
Coming of age in 1970s' Birmingham, teenager Benjamin Trotter is about to discover the agonies and ecstasies of growing up. Whether it is first love or last rites, IRA bombs or industrial strife, prog versus punk rock, expectations of bad poetry or an unexpected life-changing experience involving lost swimming trunks, The Rotters' Club is a heartfelt and hilarious portrait of a particular time and place featuring characters recognisable the world over . . .
'Very funny, a compulsive and gripping read' The Times
'Hugely entertaining' The Observer
'A book to cherish, a book to reread, a book to buy for all your friends' Independent on Sunday
Extras
1
Imagine!
November the 15th, 1973. A Thursday evening, drizzle whispering against the window-panes, and the family gathered in the living room. All except Colin, who is out on business, and has told his wife and children not to wait up. Weak light from a pair of wrought-iron standard lamps. The coal-effect fire hisses.
Sheila Trotter is reading the Daily Mail: "'˜To have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health–"these are the promises which do in fact sustain most married couples through the bad patches."
Lois is reading Sounds: "Guy, 18, cat lover, seeks London chick, into Sabbath. Only Freaks please."
Paul, precociously, is reading Watership Down: "Simple African villagers, who have never left their remote homes, may not be particularly surprised by their first sight of an aeroplane: it is outside their comprehension."
As for Benjamin . . . I suppose he is doing his homework at the dining table. The frown of concentration, the slightly protruding tongue (a family trait, of course: I've seen my mother look the same way, crouched over her laptop). History, probably. Or maybe physics. Something which doesn't come easily, at any rate. He looks across at the clock on the mantelpiece. The organized type, he has set himself a deadline. He has ten minutes to go. Ten more minutes in which to write up the experiment.
I'm doing my best, Patrick. Really I am. But it's not an easy one to tell, the story of my family. Uncle Benjamin's story, if you like.
I'm not even sure this is the right place to start. But perhaps one place is as good as any other. And this is the one I've chosen. Mid-November, the dark promise of an English winter, almost thirty years ago.
November the 15th, 1973.
Long periods of silence were common. They were a family who had never learned the art of talking to one another. All of them inscrutable, even to themselves: all except Lois, of course. Her needs were simple, defined, and in the end she was punished for it. That's how I see things, anyway.
I don't think she wanted much, at this stage of her life. I think she only wanted companionship, and the occasional babble of voices around her. She would have had a craving for chatter, coming from that family; but she was not the sort to lose herself in a giggling circus of friends. She knew what she was looking for, I'm sure of that; already knew, even then, even at the age of sixteen. And she knew where to look for it, too. Ever since her brother had started buying Sounds every Thursday, on the way home from school, it had become her furtive weekly ritual to feign interest in the back-page adverts for posters and clothes ("Cotton drill shirts in black, navy, flame-red, cranberry–great to team with loons") when her real focus of attention was the personal column. She was looking for a man.
She had read nearly all of the personals by now. She was beginning to despair.
"Freaky Guy (20) wants crazy chick (16+) for love. Into Quo and Zep."
Once again, not exactly ideal. Did she want her guy to be freaky? Could she honestly describe herself as crazy? Who were Quo and Zep, anyway?
"Great guy wishes groovy chick to write, into Tull, Pink Floyd, 17–28."
"Two freaky guys seek heavy chicks. 16+, love and affection."
"Guy (20), back in Kidderminster area, seeks attractive chick(s)."
Kidderminster was only a few miles away, so this last one might have been promising, if it weren't for the giveaway plural in parentheses. He'd definitely blown his cover, there. Out for a good time, and little else. Though perhaps that was preferable, in a way, to the whiff of desperation that came off some of the other messages.
"Disenchanted, lonely guy (21), long dark hair, would like communication with aware, thoughtful girl, appreciate anything creative like: progressive, folk, fine art."
"Lonely, unattractive guy (22), needs female companionship, looks unimportant. Into Moodies, BJH, Camel etc."
"Lonely Hairy, Who and Floyd freak, needs a chick for friendship, love and peace. Stockport area."
Her mother put the newspaper aside and said: "Cup of tea, anyone? Lemonade?"
When she had gone to the kitchen, Paul laid down his rabbit saga and picked up the Daily Mail. He began reading it with a tired, sceptical smile on his face.
"Any chick want to go to India. Split end of Dec, no Straights."
"Any chick who wants to see the world, please write."
Yes, she did want to see the world, now that she thought of it. The slow awareness had been growing inside her, fuelled by holiday programmes on the television and colour photos in the Sunday Times magazine, that a universe existed beyond the confines of Longbridge, beyond the terminus of the 62 bus route, beyond Birmingham, beyond England, even. What's more, she wanted to see it, and she wanted to share it with someone. She wanted someone to hold her hand as she watched the moon rise over the Taj Mahal. She wanted to be kissed, softly but at great length, against the magnificent backdrop of the Canadian Rockies. She wanted to climb Ayers Rock at dawn. She wanted someone to propose marriage to her as the setting sun draped its blood-red fingers over the rose-tinted minarets of the Alhambra.
"Leeds boy with scooter, looks OK, seeks girlfriend 17–21 for discos, concerts. Photo appreciated."
"Wanted girl friend, any age, but 4 ft. 10 in. or under, all letters answered."
"Finished."
Benjamin slammed his exercise book shut and made a big show of packing his pens and books away in the little briefcase he always took to school. His physics text book had started to come apart, so he had re-covered it with a remnant of the anaglypta his father had used to wallpaper the living room two years ago. On the front of his English book he had drawn a big cartoon foot, like the one at the end of the Monty Python signature tune.
"That's me done for the night." He stood over his sister, who was sprawled across both halves of the settee. "Gimme that."
It always annoyed him when Lois got to read Sounds before he did. He seemed to think this gave her privileged access to top-secret information. But in truth she cared nothing for the news pages over which he was ready to pore so avidly. Most of the headlines she didn't even understand. "Beefheart here in May." "New Heep album due." "Another split in Fanny."
"What's a Freak?" she asked, handing him the magazine.
Benjamin laughed tartly and pointed at their nine-year-old brother, whose face was aglow with amused contempt as he perused the Daily Mail. "You're looking at one."
"I know that. But a Freak with a capital 'F.' I mean, it's obviously some sort of technical term."
Benjamin did not reply; and he somehow managed to leave Lois with the impression that he knew the answer well enough, but had chosen to withhold it, for reasons of his own. People always tended to regard him as knowledgeable, well-informed, even though the evidence was plainly to the contrary. There must have been some air about him, some indefinable sense of confidence, which it was easy to mistake for youthful wisdom.
"Mother," said Paul, when she came in with his fizzy drink, "why do we take this newspaper?"
Sheila glared at him, obscurely resentful. She had told him many times before to call her "Mum," not "Mother."
"No reason," she said. "Why shouldn't we?"
"Because it's full," said Paul, flicking through the pages, "of platitudinous codswallop."
Ben and Lois giggled helplessly. "I thought 'platitudinous' was an animal they had in Australia," she said.
"The lesser-spotted platitudinous," said Benjamin, honking and squawking in imitation of this mythical beast.
"Take this leading article, for instance," Paul continued, undeterred. "'That precise pageantry which Britain manages so well keeps its hold on our hearts. There's nothing like a Royal Wedding for lifting our spirits.'"
"What about it?" said Sheila, stirring sugar into her tea. "I don't agree with everything I read in there."
"'As Princess Anne and Mark Phillips walked out of the Abbey, their faces broke into that slow, spreading smile of people who are really happy.'" Pass the sick bag, please! "'The Prayer Book may be three hundred years old, but its promises are as clear as yesterday's sunlight.'" Pukerocious! "'To have and to hold, for better for worse–'"
"That's quite enough from you, Mr. Know-All." The quiver in Sheila's voice was enough to expose, just for a second, the sudden panic her youngest son was learning to inspire in her. "Drink that up and put your pyjamas on."
More squabbling ensued, with Benjamin making his own shrill interventions, but Lois did not listen to any of it. These were not the voices with which she longed to surround herself. She left them to it and withdrew to her bedroom, where she was able to re-enter her world of romantic daydreams, a kingdom of infinite colour and possibility. As for Benjamin's copy of Sounds, she had found what she was looking for there, and had no further use for it. She would not even need to sneak down later and take another look, for the box number was easy to remember (it was 247, the same as the Radio One waveband), and the message she had seized upon was one of perfect, magical simplicity. Perhaps that was how she knew that it was meant for her, and her alone.
"Hairy Guy seeks Chick. Birmingham area."
From the Hardcover edition.
Imagine!
November the 15th, 1973. A Thursday evening, drizzle whispering against the window-panes, and the family gathered in the living room. All except Colin, who is out on business, and has told his wife and children not to wait up. Weak light from a pair of wrought-iron standard lamps. The coal-effect fire hisses.
Sheila Trotter is reading the Daily Mail: "'˜To have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health–"these are the promises which do in fact sustain most married couples through the bad patches."
Lois is reading Sounds: "Guy, 18, cat lover, seeks London chick, into Sabbath. Only Freaks please."
Paul, precociously, is reading Watership Down: "Simple African villagers, who have never left their remote homes, may not be particularly surprised by their first sight of an aeroplane: it is outside their comprehension."
As for Benjamin . . . I suppose he is doing his homework at the dining table. The frown of concentration, the slightly protruding tongue (a family trait, of course: I've seen my mother look the same way, crouched over her laptop). History, probably. Or maybe physics. Something which doesn't come easily, at any rate. He looks across at the clock on the mantelpiece. The organized type, he has set himself a deadline. He has ten minutes to go. Ten more minutes in which to write up the experiment.
I'm doing my best, Patrick. Really I am. But it's not an easy one to tell, the story of my family. Uncle Benjamin's story, if you like.
I'm not even sure this is the right place to start. But perhaps one place is as good as any other. And this is the one I've chosen. Mid-November, the dark promise of an English winter, almost thirty years ago.
November the 15th, 1973.
Long periods of silence were common. They were a family who had never learned the art of talking to one another. All of them inscrutable, even to themselves: all except Lois, of course. Her needs were simple, defined, and in the end she was punished for it. That's how I see things, anyway.
I don't think she wanted much, at this stage of her life. I think she only wanted companionship, and the occasional babble of voices around her. She would have had a craving for chatter, coming from that family; but she was not the sort to lose herself in a giggling circus of friends. She knew what she was looking for, I'm sure of that; already knew, even then, even at the age of sixteen. And she knew where to look for it, too. Ever since her brother had started buying Sounds every Thursday, on the way home from school, it had become her furtive weekly ritual to feign interest in the back-page adverts for posters and clothes ("Cotton drill shirts in black, navy, flame-red, cranberry–great to team with loons") when her real focus of attention was the personal column. She was looking for a man.
She had read nearly all of the personals by now. She was beginning to despair.
"Freaky Guy (20) wants crazy chick (16+) for love. Into Quo and Zep."
Once again, not exactly ideal. Did she want her guy to be freaky? Could she honestly describe herself as crazy? Who were Quo and Zep, anyway?
"Great guy wishes groovy chick to write, into Tull, Pink Floyd, 17–28."
"Two freaky guys seek heavy chicks. 16+, love and affection."
"Guy (20), back in Kidderminster area, seeks attractive chick(s)."
Kidderminster was only a few miles away, so this last one might have been promising, if it weren't for the giveaway plural in parentheses. He'd definitely blown his cover, there. Out for a good time, and little else. Though perhaps that was preferable, in a way, to the whiff of desperation that came off some of the other messages.
"Disenchanted, lonely guy (21), long dark hair, would like communication with aware, thoughtful girl, appreciate anything creative like: progressive, folk, fine art."
"Lonely, unattractive guy (22), needs female companionship, looks unimportant. Into Moodies, BJH, Camel etc."
"Lonely Hairy, Who and Floyd freak, needs a chick for friendship, love and peace. Stockport area."
Her mother put the newspaper aside and said: "Cup of tea, anyone? Lemonade?"
When she had gone to the kitchen, Paul laid down his rabbit saga and picked up the Daily Mail. He began reading it with a tired, sceptical smile on his face.
"Any chick want to go to India. Split end of Dec, no Straights."
"Any chick who wants to see the world, please write."
Yes, she did want to see the world, now that she thought of it. The slow awareness had been growing inside her, fuelled by holiday programmes on the television and colour photos in the Sunday Times magazine, that a universe existed beyond the confines of Longbridge, beyond the terminus of the 62 bus route, beyond Birmingham, beyond England, even. What's more, she wanted to see it, and she wanted to share it with someone. She wanted someone to hold her hand as she watched the moon rise over the Taj Mahal. She wanted to be kissed, softly but at great length, against the magnificent backdrop of the Canadian Rockies. She wanted to climb Ayers Rock at dawn. She wanted someone to propose marriage to her as the setting sun draped its blood-red fingers over the rose-tinted minarets of the Alhambra.
"Leeds boy with scooter, looks OK, seeks girlfriend 17–21 for discos, concerts. Photo appreciated."
"Wanted girl friend, any age, but 4 ft. 10 in. or under, all letters answered."
"Finished."
Benjamin slammed his exercise book shut and made a big show of packing his pens and books away in the little briefcase he always took to school. His physics text book had started to come apart, so he had re-covered it with a remnant of the anaglypta his father had used to wallpaper the living room two years ago. On the front of his English book he had drawn a big cartoon foot, like the one at the end of the Monty Python signature tune.
"That's me done for the night." He stood over his sister, who was sprawled across both halves of the settee. "Gimme that."
It always annoyed him when Lois got to read Sounds before he did. He seemed to think this gave her privileged access to top-secret information. But in truth she cared nothing for the news pages over which he was ready to pore so avidly. Most of the headlines she didn't even understand. "Beefheart here in May." "New Heep album due." "Another split in Fanny."
"What's a Freak?" she asked, handing him the magazine.
Benjamin laughed tartly and pointed at their nine-year-old brother, whose face was aglow with amused contempt as he perused the Daily Mail. "You're looking at one."
"I know that. But a Freak with a capital 'F.' I mean, it's obviously some sort of technical term."
Benjamin did not reply; and he somehow managed to leave Lois with the impression that he knew the answer well enough, but had chosen to withhold it, for reasons of his own. People always tended to regard him as knowledgeable, well-informed, even though the evidence was plainly to the contrary. There must have been some air about him, some indefinable sense of confidence, which it was easy to mistake for youthful wisdom.
"Mother," said Paul, when she came in with his fizzy drink, "why do we take this newspaper?"
Sheila glared at him, obscurely resentful. She had told him many times before to call her "Mum," not "Mother."
"No reason," she said. "Why shouldn't we?"
"Because it's full," said Paul, flicking through the pages, "of platitudinous codswallop."
Ben and Lois giggled helplessly. "I thought 'platitudinous' was an animal they had in Australia," she said.
"The lesser-spotted platitudinous," said Benjamin, honking and squawking in imitation of this mythical beast.
"Take this leading article, for instance," Paul continued, undeterred. "'That precise pageantry which Britain manages so well keeps its hold on our hearts. There's nothing like a Royal Wedding for lifting our spirits.'"
"What about it?" said Sheila, stirring sugar into her tea. "I don't agree with everything I read in there."
"'As Princess Anne and Mark Phillips walked out of the Abbey, their faces broke into that slow, spreading smile of people who are really happy.'" Pass the sick bag, please! "'The Prayer Book may be three hundred years old, but its promises are as clear as yesterday's sunlight.'" Pukerocious! "'To have and to hold, for better for worse–'"
"That's quite enough from you, Mr. Know-All." The quiver in Sheila's voice was enough to expose, just for a second, the sudden panic her youngest son was learning to inspire in her. "Drink that up and put your pyjamas on."
More squabbling ensued, with Benjamin making his own shrill interventions, but Lois did not listen to any of it. These were not the voices with which she longed to surround herself. She left them to it and withdrew to her bedroom, where she was able to re-enter her world of romantic daydreams, a kingdom of infinite colour and possibility. As for Benjamin's copy of Sounds, she had found what she was looking for there, and had no further use for it. She would not even need to sneak down later and take another look, for the box number was easy to remember (it was 247, the same as the Radio One waveband), and the message she had seized upon was one of perfect, magical simplicity. Perhaps that was how she knew that it was meant for her, and her alone.
"Hairy Guy seeks Chick. Birmingham area."
From the Hardcover edition.