Pumping Up Napoleon Read Online Free PDF

Burchill,’ he says. ‘This is a local paper; end of story.’ Apparently my review of the Brownies’ Christmas concert has upset some parents.
    Where did I go wrong? After all, I had faithfully reported the enthusiasm of family members: vying for camera angles and clapping loudly; but I had also added – unforgivably, as it turns out – my own opinion, calling the choice of material ‘unoriginal and yawn-inspiring’. I think this was justified when you consider that the high point was a shaky rendition, sung in the round, of ‘Campfire’s Burning’ for which the lights had been dimmed to heighten the effect of seeing half a dozen timid little girls clustered around a stack of twigs with a red light underneath. It was exactly the same set-up as when I was a Buckington Brownie, nearly thirty years before.
    â€˜People aren’t interested in what you think,’ says the editor. ‘The job of the art critic in this town is to describe what’s on offer and reflect what people are saying about it.’
    He makes it clear that I will get one more chance.
    But do I care? Do I care whether I’m a success by the standards of this small-town paper? I’ve been away long enough not to mind what people think of me, and I’m back here for my own reasons. I’m not exactly looking to fit in. If I want a social life I can head up to London for a weekend; no, I’m here to write my own work, if I can. It had seemed like a good idea to work for the local paper while I was doing it, that was all. With my track record as a freelance, I thought they’d be glad (and lucky) to get me.
    Not so. My editor was grudging, making it clear that I would have to prove my worth.
    So nothing has changed in my home town. Twenty years ago, when I left school with no idea of what I wanted to do, except write, I sent a letter to the Buckington Bugle , asking if they would take me on. There was no reply and I went elsewhere, halfway around the world and back, gradually building up my freelance portfolio. So I knew I could support myself. It was just that I thought this job would be easy and regular and leave me plenty of time for my higher purpose: finishing my first novel.
    â€˜I’m going to send you on one more assignment,’ he says, ‘and if I don’t like your piece then I’ll pull it and write one myself. If that happens, don’t expect to get any more work.’
    He’s sending me to the arts centre to interview the two young people responsible for a new exhibition: ‘Girl on a Pedestal’.
    â€˜Hannah Gifford is a local girl,’ says the editor. ‘Not long out of art college. Her parents are farmers, well liked and well connected. Don’t be too critical. It’s probably rubbish, but remember: it’s not just about the work.’
    â€˜So how do you want me to approach it?’ I say.
    â€˜Find out what the public thinks,’ he says. ‘Give us the view of the majority. That’s what they want to hear; that’s what sells newspapers in this part of the world.’
    â€˜I am an Installation,’ says the girl, ‘and this is Stew.’
    They sit together, on a table, side by side, Hannah and Stew, looking out at me with grey moody eyes through identical jagged black fringes.
    â€˜Are you brother and sister?’ I ask.
    â€˜No,’ says Stew, taking Hannah’s hand.
    Hannah has long straight hair and pale skin; she is petite but well made; she is…
    â€˜Aren’t you going to write that down?’ says Stew, meaning, I assume, Hannah’s portentous announcement, not my own wayward thoughts.
    I look past him, round the gallery space where Hannah will give her performance, or show her art, or install herself, or whatever it is she thinks she’s doing. It is a wide, square, white-painted room with tall arched windows; they let in plenty of light. No furniture except the table. No