it’s very cleverly done as we only know more, as Richard knows more.

The book is written in the first person singular, and the narrator is Richard Gayford. Of it’s time is usually code for, racist, sexism, transphobic, casual violence etc, take your pick. I actually really enjoyed it once I accepted that it was a book that showed “ its time” as people like to put it these days. You can feel the privilege, condescension, misogyny and navel gazing from page one. The narrator’s use of language brought to mind a man sitting in a manor, resplendent in his black gown with red velvet lining, smoking a pipe as he writes the story at his hundred year old desk that has been in the family for centuries. You can tell that this book was written in 1957. This brings them into conflict with the villagers just as a chilling realization dawns on the world outside. They grow up too fast and their minds exhibit frightening abilities that give them control over others. The resultant children of Midwich do no belong to their parents: all are blond, all are golden-eyed. A day later the object is gone and everyone awakens unharmed – except that all the women in the village are discovered to be pregnant. so you can avoid the paragraphs between the >Spoiler<< section.īook Blurb : In the sleepy English village of Midwich, a mysterious silver object appears and all the inhabitants fall unconscious.

There will be spoilers, but I’ll tag them with a start and finish so that if you don’t want to, you don’t have to look at that section.

I was home for the guts of nine months doing sweet f-all, and it was wonderfully simple in many ways. It really brought back those days when I had finished by GCSEs, was back home from boarding school, and hadn’t started college yet. The past is a different country, but be assured I gave all huge plants a wide berth after that. Why my parents let me watch that at such a young age, I’ll never know. I generally like John Wyndham’s writing and remember my teenage mind being blown to pieces by his post- apocalyptic book The Chrysalids, and my poor ten year old self terrified to bits by the miniseries adaptation of his book, The day of The Triffids. It was called Village of the D amned and starred Christopher Reeves in cringe worthy, wooden performance that made me think it was probably his tall, dark and handsome looks that made him a “good actor” as Superman. I remember watching and re – watching the movie based on the book, so many with my sisters.

The cuckoo of midwich