What makes great literature great? or Confessions of a chick lit lover. June 16, 2008

I love words. I love books. I love reading.

 It is my way of escaping the world and it’s sometimes all too awful realities: within the pages of many novels I have found the man I’ve been searching for all my life, the NYC lifestyle I aspire to, the places I long to visit, the jobs and children I wish to have.  My bookshelves are bowing under the sheer weight of my need and desire to escape.

 

I’m rarely happier than when I am in bookshop (and love the American trend that has taken over bookshops of the world; the inclusion of great coffee right beside the books bringing two of my greatest loves into a threesome that poses no moral ambiguity or real physical risk.) My shelves threaten collapse under the weight of the books other book lover’s have urged me to read; and small spaces await the return of volumes I’ve loaned to friends in the hope that they’ll love them to.

 

An indecisive by nature my book collection (like my that of my DVD and ever more so of my CD) is eclectic: books from my English degree at Queen’s are heaped side by side with political biographies, childhood favourites and realms of popular fiction: including many examples of what is patronisingly described as chick lit.(A Carrie O’Hara chick lit definition: scorned as book versions of chick flick films: emotional drivel only suitable for girls at a certain stage of their menstrual cycle as an outlet of frustration against the world in general and men in particular). And in the latter we meet my literary stumbling block.

 

As an English graduate and English teacher: I’m often asked for book recommendations and often when people are asked about or offer information about their own reading material it is accompanied by a muttered apology: as if I represent some sort of Literature Police: whose job it is to walk the earth and tut at the mediocrity of the book choices of others.  At the very least I should be able to quantify what makes great literature great.

 

I can’t.

 

Beauty or greatness in literature as in all art (and physical beauty in our ‘objects’ of sexual desire) lies in the eye of the beholder. For some that beauty will only be contained in the works of the established literary canon. And while we are tiptoeing across this much lauded plain, I have to confess that three years of ‘reading English at Queen’s’ didn’t quite establish the factors required to have your writing included in what is, I believe, quite an extensive list; instead I hid behind the viewpoint of one particularly feminist lecturer who demeaned the canon, and I paraphrase, as: ‘Yet another historical example of the patriarchy quelling the voice of the feminine’. This saved me from having to read more Dickens or ever having to read Thomas Hardy.

 

People are judged by their bookshelves, much like their houses, cars and fashion sense. In fact I love pouring over the books in other people’s houses; delighting in what the list of titles suggest about their owner. I often wonder if the readers of Plato and Dostoevsky have celebrity ‘biographies’ and chick lit hidden away under tear stained pillows: items scurried away with embarrassing photographs and dirty laundry when visitors come a calling. (The paperback equivalent to carrying The Sun wrapped up in The Guardian)

 

But as I stand and gaze often in wonder I can’t help but think of my own collection on my achingly full shelves at home. Often I find myself making a comparative literary study as I stand there only half listening to the chatter of my hosts: does my choice of titles measure up? Am I less intelligent if I haven’t studied various world religions? Does my lack of books of philosophical merit suggest I’m actually an unthinking bimbo? Does my penchant for popular fiction suggest I’m unworthy to enter into any debates of literary merit? What does my book collection say about me?

 

A closer look reveals many of the books I ‘had to read’ at Queen’s and in personal truthfulness I should rid myself of those that I never did and never shall read. Within these relics of my misspent youth are volumes and volumes of poetry: words I use for comfort; words I’ve read at weddings and funerals and transcribed upon cards to those I love hoping to somehow encapsulate the feelings I myself lack the creative power to order and articulate. Within these anthologies lie examples of great literature.

 

And yet alongside the meritorious lie childhood favourites I can’t let go and having lost my original copies have bought various replacements: many of these: the Anne of Green Gables collection and Little Women amongst them are also considered classics: works that have stood the test of time and continue to delight each new generation of library goers. Not having quite found their rightful place in my collection; are a collection of political biographies / books of contemporary political significance and also books of religious searching: the former help me find a reality I often loose between the English classroom and the Drama room and the latter are all too often disappointing as I remain a reluctant non-believer.

 

But this brings me to the point of contention: my contemporary literature/ popular fiction section. What distinguishes The Kite Runner and Boy in the Striped Pyjamas from the numerous Marian Keyes and John Grisham editions I’ve thoroughly enjoyed (and given that Ms Keyes and Mr Grisham have made handsome livings out of their ‘those who can do’ epistles and I’m firmly in the ‘those who can’t teach’ category do I have the right to condemn them by even the mildest of ridicule?)?  Is the hint in the genre title: this particular piece of fiction is great because it is popular? What makes a modern classic: is it selling figures alone? Does a book have to appear on a bestseller/ Oprah’s or Richard and Judy’s book club lists to gain credibility? Or should literary opinion rise above the purely mercenary? Should the books that make it all the way to Hollywood sound stage (and I’m purposefully avoiding the ‘What is better the book or the film?’ argument: feeling that only in the exception does the film win out: but I realise that for many without my ‘leaping imagination’ or free time, find cinema a much more engaging medium.)

 

I know that as much as enjoy the chick lit I read it is something of a guilty pleasure: to switch on only my emotional intelligence and escape; not to learn about war torn Afghanistan, not to re-engage with the horrors of the Holocaust or the lives of women in Tehran: sometimes I need my escapism to be just that: a trip to world where I’m guaranteed a happy ending. I make my book choices (from the two shelves of books I’ve bought but ‘have yet to read’: I’m Carrie and I’m a book shopping addict) based on my proposed emotional capability in the coming few weeks it will take me to read it: recently and probably the impetus of this meandering mouthful, because I knew I would be lost in that infuriating tidal wave of exam fever: the last two choices belong firmly in chick lit territory: and I loved every page of each of them: in fact I’m still recollecting my emotions from the tragic end of My Sister’s Keeper.

 

I love words. I love books. I love reading

 

Literature can be great, bad, indifferent and miraculously life changing: but as to which book falls into which category I don’t’ feel it is for me or anyone else to quantify. Literature is as diverse as humanity itself: what a reader brings  to and takes away from a particular work is as individual as that reader: and there, within the endless pages that stretch across time, place and culture; is perhaps the very quality that makes literature great.

The Crime and Punishment of the ‘Sons of Ulster’ March 25, 2008

This began life as a 365 blog but I realised that I wanted it to reach a broader audience (or perhaps just one more likely to comment): I’ve also been wanting to resurrect the pondering of Carrie for a while and hope that perhaps this will lead on to something bigger and better. I also thought I should wait until all four episodes of the ‘Sons of Ulster’ programme I’m writing about had aired; but social plans will interrupt my TV viewing for the remainder of the week (I am making a mental list of my ‘Sky-Plus’ friends or even just those I know who can work a video). So will too ponderous an intro…

I’ve just finished watching a BBC Northern Ireland programme: ‘Sons of Ulster’. It had been commissioned a while ago but bureaucratic red-tape got in the way. Over the next few nights it is telling the story of a group of young offenders incarcerated in Hydebank Wood Young Offenders’ Centre, being taken under the tutelage of local actor/ director Dan Gordon to present Frank McGuinnesses’ play Observe the Sons of Ulster Marching Towards the Somme, to an audience of their prison peers.

I’m a huge fan of the play; having seen a relatively recent production at Belfast’s Lyric Theatre I have ‘directed’ ( in the Drama teacher sense of the word); two A-level Exam performances of the same play. Each time I presented the story using a group of eight girls. It’s a man’s play; dealing with the complex relationships of Northern Irish World War One soldiers. A play that any synopsis here would do little justice too. It is an obvious choice for the project Dan Gordon is undertaking: it deals not only with male relationships but also political and religious identity,  sexual orientation and the inner-struggle each man’s encounters in  finding his sense of self and feelings of self-worth as he faces the fear of  ’going over the top.’ (So much for avoiding the synopsis…)

I was struck tonight by the humanity of the boys taking part; and how similar they are to the boys in my own classroom. Dan Gordon refuses to deal with the details of their criminal past; wanting instead to offer them a different perspective than whatever one had led them to this frightening and freedom-less place and time. My aunt used to teach in Hydebank and even now is still connected to Prisoners’ Education and I continually ask her how she copes with the idea that the men in her classroom are murderers, rapists, thugs of the highest order and her simple answer is always the same. She doesn’t: she sees them as students; men her education can help in the slow process of re-entering society.

It is easy, to only see the positive here. As a Drama teacher it is easy to applaud the inter and intra-personal skills these boys will gain from their literary and theatrical experience; to write at length of how the exposure to literary culture that is both alien but entirely relevant to their own experiences could be postive in ways beyond measure. 

But all crimes have victims and somewhere in the immediate locality are the victims of the crimes (some of them fatal, many of them violent) these boys committed. How do they, and their families’ feel watching these boys being presented with this particular opportunity?

Tonight’s programme posed the difficult question: should prison be punishment or rehabilitation? These are young offenders; boys who are typically victims of social deprivation (and the Northern Ireland paramilitarism that so often accompanied it), boys who the mainstream education system  and society as a whole has in some way failed, boys who have made horrifically bad choices; but Dan Gordon certainly believes they are boys who deserve a second chance.

I await tomorrow night’s episode…

Are our leaders born to lead? February 11, 2008

 With the world (and smoothstonesinmyhand) entirely consumed with the race for the American presidency; as a very late comer to Fergal Keane’s Letter to Daniel and as someone with a passing interest in politics: I’ve recently been faced with a pertinent question. What makes someone want to lead? What propels these men and gloriously increasingly more women to a place where they believe they can lead a nation? What separated Nelson Mandela from every other disenfranchised, apartheid challenged South African? What set apart Martin Luther King Junior from every other African American who had been told to ‘get to the back of the bus’? What makes Barak Obama and Hilary Clinton (I ignore the Republicans almost entirely) believe they can lead the most powerful nation in the world when it is in such a state of peril?

These are not easy questions.

I had wanted to write something to give credence to the death of Benazir Bhutto but struggled to find the words to give justice to a death so politically devastating that it could give rise to civil war in Pakistan; an excuse for democracy to once more be derailed. This woman was a miracle: she continued to serve the country that had executed her father, killed both her brothers and made various threats on her own life; that they recently and catastrophically fulfilled.

Her crime? The pursuit of democracy. Something I, and probably many women of the western world take for granted. She is a leading political voice in a Muslim society, a place where women are too often taught to be second class citizens. Where in the most extreme, but entirely all too often (that it happens at all is a plague on all women, all societies and on humanity itself) women can be flogged or killed as a punishment for being raped. In these same extreme societies women are taught to hide their beauty, their intelligence, their individuality: the exist only to be at the whim of their men. And we, sit back and allow it to happen: the world over, time, time and time again. Where are our Leaders when these women need them most?

Even in death Bhutto was berated for being ‘hungry for the spotlight’; she put herself at risk by standing to greet the crowds at her rally. The unproved corruption charges that seemingly haunted her life continued to follow her in the columns of her obituaries. She returned from an unwanted exile in an attempt to save a country that has been tortured throughout its short history; but for many this was not enough.

I don’t deign to understand the complexities of political Pakistan, nor the intricacies of Islam; and as a woman who has been given the opportunities of education and intellectual freedom; that I understand neither, is entirely to my great discredit.

But now her son wants to step into the spotlight, this not yet graduated young man willing to take on the mantle of his ‘family business’ willing to face his mother’s executioners in a bid for democracy. Is nation building/political leadership something we are born to do? The political dynasties of the world abound and so many of them tragic. I always felt the vocational desire to teach, wanting to inspire others with the great literature education had exposed me to; do politicians feel the same, or in fact a much greater and burning ambition to run for office?

As we  were newly embracing  the new year I hoped entirely that for the first time ever that we would find a woman in the Oval Office of the White House. I hadn’t been following the emerging Presidential campaign particularly closely (again to my discredit) but entirely believe that a matriarchal approach to governing a society has to be better than a militaristic one. A highly educated women with an insight into the inner workings of the White House (and its many pitfalls) has to be a incredible improvement upon a Daddy’s boy who seems to fail to understand the magnitude of his world presence. 

I can remember feeling that Hilary Clinton was wrong to support her husband during the ‘Monica Lewinsky’ affair; at the time, I felt she should have walked away leaving him to feed the masses hungry for more sordid scandal all by himself.Yet I realise now she would have then become ‘the woman scorned’; her (and their collective) political purpose was a much greater deal than her husband’s infidelity: that was something that belonged to their privacy of their marital relationship. She’d worked much too hard on every aspect of her political persona to give it up in a moment of avengful passion.

I think she has the potential to accomplish great things; I don’t envy the weight of the world and womankind that’s about to fall upon her shoulders; but do envy the intelligent and capable women with whom she will surround herself and hopefully inspire to greatness.

But from stage left, Enter Barak Obama. I have to admit that the idea of a multi-racial, relatively young, Muslim man in the White House is equally if not more (and oh how I feel I’m selling out the sisterhood) inspiring than the promise of Hilary. I read the newspapers, I watch the news but not for a minute do I deign to suggest I’m entirely abreast with the complexities of the American Primary system nor the subtle and not so subtle nuances of the diversity within the Democratic bid for White House power. And I fear that it may be too easy to be swayed by the great oratory: to want not only for America, but for the world it so influences: the vision of hope this highly ambitious, intelligent and seemingly compassionate man sets forth.

George Orwell proclaimed with great literary fervour that ‘Power corrupts and total power corrupts totally.’  Unfortunately we need not reach back in time to our Thirties literature to see Orwell’s words being lived out in terrifying truth. What separates the Saddam Husseins, the Adolf Hitlers, the Robert Mugabes from the men and women of vision, democracy and a compassionate humanity? Is their desire to lead simply greater than their democratic/ less fundamental counterparts? Their arrogance more mighty? Are they simply more adept at turning the handle of the political machine? And how do we protect ourselves from such tenacity? How do we rid the world of such terror without ‘Americanising’ or ‘re-colonising’ ever inch of our ailing globe?

I was part of a group of “Young Leaders” that got to experience life as Political Interns in DC in the summer of 2000 (the Washington Ireland programme takes a group of approximately 30 students to America each summer: the programme grows from strength to strength): but as much as I was enthralled by the amazing opportunities that experience gave to me; and in the shaping of my political consciousness, I knew then that political power was not something I would ever or should pursue. But within the group there were people who did and will and do pursue political leadership within the professional political arena. They have intelligence, vision, wit, humanity and a belief that they have the potential power to make their corner of society a better place.

In Northern Ireland it is easy to minimise politics to ‘pseudo-intellectual’ sectarianism. It is easier to sit back and let someone else clear up a century’s worth of mess. But I entirely believe that “decisions are made by those who show up”. I berate my family, friends, work colleagues, Year 14 pupils if they do not register to and then cast their vote. I can name you various Assembly ministers, the constituency MP and MLAs but not my local Councillors. So how involved am I really?

I am always struck by the episode in The West Wing in which President Bartlett reflects upon his presidency and can only see the things he failed to achieve. Why in a world ravaged by war, dying from AIDS and in too many places a devestating lack of clean water; at the mercy of religious terrorists and in massive environmental terror, would anyone step up to the plate? Especially when a media crazed audience awaits the first of your downfalls, the first sliver of the skeleton to be exposed in your closet, for your flawed and all too human nature to scandalously shine through.

I don’t know the answers to these too many questions. I do know that the men and women who step up to the plate need to be those people of vision, need to understand the people they serve,and need to want to make the world a better place. However I  worry that  only in hindsight can we truly judge our leaders and by then the damage is done. A movie The American President that was the forerunner of The West Wing: suggested that it was not only our duty to question our leaders but our obligation. So I’ll do my part and ask the questions.

Auld Lyne SIGH: Part Two or The faux pas of the socially inept. January 2, 2008

The great thing about hating New Year’s Eve means that I’ll never be disappointed: at the very worst the evening can only reach my lowest of expectations; everything else is a bonus.

My new year’s eve in Dunfanaghy, in the beautiful wilderness that is Donegal almost defies description; but during each startling moment I was trying to capture how I would describe it when I put ‘finger to keyboard’.

As a little background, the Dunfanaghy party, is something of a legend of its own making; and is an invitation, my friend Linda makes on an annual basis. I always refuse: I’m not great with large groups of people I don’t know very well; especially when they’re all well-known to each other. I’ve met many of Linda’s friends on different social occasions in the myriad of possibilities that is her wide and varied social circle (it was decided that Linda is in fact the societal glue for many groups in Northern Ireland: lots of people meet and get to know each other because they know her; Lily Todd performs a very similar function- maybe I should get them together once more and then my fear of the unknown party people can disappear entirely.) But I’m not part of the ‘we grew up together group’, nor the ‘we went to school together group’ nor the ‘we play hockey together group’: and this means I’m a blow-in; often someone others vaguely remember but can’t quite place.

Social Faux Pas#1: So the first possible disaster presented itself on the Sunday night; it seemed my driving abilities, such as they are were being called upon. The problem being, I need directions to find my way out of a paper bag; and that the car I’m driving does not belong to me, nor have I been driving it long enough to take a full-load of passengers so long a distance. But Linda (entirely au fait with my catalogue of driving disasters)intervened and through her extensive network enabled a situation that allowed me to drive to the Four Winds, then Hillsborough and then to get a lift: glory be…

Except this meant three hours of in-car conversation without Linda there to grease my wheels. I struggle in car conversations; the driver has to quite obviously focus her attention on the road, making lip-reading impossible, the noise of the engine, the heaters and often the car radio mean that conversation gets drowned out almost entirely. I sometimes think that I should wear a badge saying ‘I’m not rude- I just can’t hear’, or simply tell people. My car companions on this particular journey thought I may have been stoned as I often neglected to fully participate in the conversation even when directly asked a question.

Social Faux pas #2: One of the difficulties of beng single is that drunken occasions and friends of friend often coincide. This means that there are a random collection of sometimes dark haired, often very cute and always very charming men who I have kissed or had dalliances with in each of my friendship groups. My last dalliance was with a friend of Linda’s; this guy is charm personified: Armagh’s answer to Cassanova. We were what could be classed as ‘last chance’ kissing partners some time ago: that Saturday night thing where neither of you have pulled, you’re now back at the ‘after-pub’ party and the night is about to over; so you kiss one of the other single people in the room. I think I enjoyed the situation much more than he did; although he’s much too practised to make this a clarified point.

In this particular example the night was so far over that I was in my pjs, had taken off my makeup and came back from brushing my teeth to find Cassanova in my sleeping bag yet I digress.

While making a pit-stop in Letterkenny we encountered Linda, Cassanova and his very witty sidekick. Cassanova was standing behind me, with his case of Budweiser; cue the flirty hello, the ‘thanks for the memories’ banter and the beginning,  if not,  of encounter two at least the possibility of natural conversation. Instead I blushed, mumbled hello and looked at the floor. In fact, this particular Cassanova had made his smooth moves on many of the girls in this particular company but they seemed to have graduated to the witty banter stage without mishap. My missed moment meant that we spent the night avoiding each other. We did endure a painfully stilted ‘How are you?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘How was your Christmas?’ ‘Quiet’ conversation that we both longed to escape.

I watched him later that night (we carefully avoided even the ‘peck on the cheek’ at midnight) stalk and capture his prey: I should get in contact with David Attenborough- it made truly fascinating material.

Social faux pas #3: When we arrived at the house I realised immediately that I was, socially speaking, about to drown. This was a breathtaking house; the sort of place you paid 100k for the view alone. There was a fully-stocked bar (and I mean actual bar with optics, mixers, wine, beer and cider or every possible persuasion) and fridge from which you were entirely expected to help yourself. My little apartment and salary were becoming more insignificant by the minute; I was mixing with the great and the good and doing it badly.

We decided at 4pm to hit the pub: cue panic once more. LONG gone are the whole days I can spend drinking; at least not without the following one being spent dashing from bed to bathroom: demanding both a religious conversion and the last rites. While the others drank perhaps seven rounds I sipped my seemingly endless two pints of cider and made stilted conversation. I had secretly pledged to myself that I wouldn’t be the drunk girl who no knew, who fell on the floor at the party; but instead I was ‘Linda’s quiet friend who needed to let her hair down’. Not convinced I made the right decision.

Social faux pas #4: And so back to the beach-side ‘mansion’ and to getting ready. Linda helpfully got me a g&t, but one of the others was entirely appalled that I was ‘beneath’ helping myself…

A group of girls in one bedroom getting ready is always fun. These are girls that play hockey together and so not only look fabulous but are used to being in various states of undress in front of each other. Having not yet been a convert to ‘How to look good naked’; I struggled to get dressed under my towel; regretting bringing my ‘little red pinafore dress’; as the others slipped into their oh-so-skinny. skinny jeans and very sexy tops; but did manage to take place in the sharing of sparkling make-up which made us look and feel very festive.

But the sparkling eyeshadow wasn’t enough to rally my spirits when one of the ‘wonderfully eccentric’ guests asked me what the other elves where doing tonight and wasn’t new year a little too late for my ‘Santa’s little helper’ outfit? If there was a witty and equally cutting response it evades me still.

Social faux pas # 5: After more social introductions (a little aside: somebody somewhere has taken this particular group of boys and taught them how to kiss women on the cheek; they did with charm and grace and affection: somehow able to both give and receive: perhaps this is something David Attenborough could include in his ‘Mating Rites’ documentary that only I would watch: an additional note for Mr. A. the same group were also taught how to fetch g&ts for shy girls at parties- this may be a useful insert) a barbecue, lots of Bollinger champagne and an incredibly strange but somehow entertaining rendition of Shayne Ward’s ‘That’s My Goal’; we once again hit Molly’s Bar.

Its a great place: there was an outdoor fire, a live band and it was both Irish/ quaint enough for well-pulled Guinness, and a turf fire but civilised enough to have lemon for my g&t: a little luxury in itself. So this was the moment that I was glad I’d made the effort; no grossly over priced ticket, no unmanageable queue at the bar, no need for a taxi: a new year’s eve without complications…or so it seemed.

I somehow in a bid to rescue a new-found friend from unwanted advances spent an torturing amount of time with a guy who also criticised my sense of style; and then filled in all available conversation space by indulging in descriptions of Jimmy Choo footwear for women: I love shoes as much as the next girl but discussing what seemed to be a fetish with a man I hardly know was taking the ’shoe love’ a little too far.. Throwing myself on the furnace was looking more and more tempting.

Social faux pas # 6: And so back to ‘where the real party’ is. The real party seemed to be ALL who were in the pub and more; we (my new found friend and myself: she once again on the escape from an unwanted suitor) beat a hasty retreat: only to be greeted by a beligerent group demanding our host. I was told ‘I don’t fancy you but I’d shag you if you wanted me too’, by a boy young enough to be in my form class. How can any girl refuse such an offer? I smiled sweetly, resisted the attempt to give him extra homework and poured (myself this time) another drink. Again a wittier response was needed- or at the very least, a firm talking to.

My role for the evening rapidly emerged: I was the girl who entertained/ amused/ kept other girl’s ‘potential clinches’ company while they mingled or made bar trips. This was good practice for me: I got to see how the experts did it; and got to have often entertaining conversations with boys/men who were already accounted for and therefore their was no need for the deciphering of signals or such like.  The evening was punctuated  by platters of wild salmon and wheaten bread,  by wheels of brie and Stilton and by bowls of homemade chicken and vegetable soup prepared that very afternoon by a food processor bought for that very purpose. These people knew how to party in massive style.

This was like a party I’d never been too, that nobody knew each other (in some cases not even the hosts) seemed to matter little; well to everyone but me.

Social faux pas # 7: My task complete and the couples coupled up; I made idle conversation with a charming boy whose lady had already vacated the thinning crowd: we made hasty judgements on the many now ‘coupled up’ pairs that surrounded us: perplexed by the work that dark lights and alcohol could manage By now it was after 5am and my energy and conversational skills were lagging very much behind; Linda appeared with the promise of a bed. My new partner in badinage was appalled that I was ‘leaving so early’.  He got into the bed I vacated many hours later: clearly his ability to party long outlasted mine.

Social faux pas # 8: Linda is one of those miracles of science who can drink ten times her own body weight yet look and feel like Miss World in the morning; she suggested the walk. That I was in my DKNY skirt and cute but terribly impractical boots dissuaded me not; I preferred heart failure to making morning after conversation with those who’d ’stayed over.’

 We took off at marathon pace. The mild weather and spectacular view were impaired only by my near-heart attack status: Linda embarrassingly stayed behind, walking at my snail’s pace, while the other two sprinted up the hillside, no doubt apalled by my entire lack of physical finese. It was like the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award all over again: admittedly without the crippling rucksack but also without the very sexy boy because of whom I signed up in the first place. We were rescued by ‘our driver’ who was anxious to hit the road.

And there ends the perhaps bewildering tale. And even after the afternoon spent writing this diatribe; the unparalleled generosity of our magnanimous hosts; the friendship Linda and so many represented, its still not clear in my own mind as to whether I enjoyed it or not. Maybe if my second encounter with Casanova had been less excruciating…maybe if I’d spent less time worrying about being drunk and more time getting that way…maybe if I’d spent less time ‘baby sitting’ other girl’s conquests and more pursuing my own… and maybe, just maybe if I hadn’t been over-analysing absolutely everything and taken the time to enjoy each moment it would have made for a better new year’s eve and a more engaging story…

…in fact one of the many people I encountered suggested that the only new year’s resolution worth making was ‘Carpe Diem’: the pursuit of living for the moment or simply deciding to do the things to make us happy was a gurantee to a year of personal success. He may just have had a point.

Fleeing the nest… December 16, 2007

Two years ago today I did something truly terrible: I left home.

I had done it once before; as a very naive just turned 18 year old; taking off to the big city, well as big ad Belfast and the academic and social adventure that would be my three years at Queens. But I’d come home every weekend to my supermarket job and political debates with my Dad; to home-cooked meals and a washing machine that worked. This was different; this was not renting a room with friends and drinking partners; this was my own apartment, my own mortgage, this was it.

I had moved back home on a ‘through-the-week’ and at the weekend basis when my second teaching practice was assigned to a relatively local high school. But just before that teaching practice ended, my world collapsed; things fell apart and the centre really could not hold.

My Daddy committed suicide and my Mum found him. It has never been something I could properly articulate. I never wanted to create a language of acceptance that somehow validated the choice that my darling Daddy made.

In the terrible months that followed my little brother returned to Belfast complete his university degree; and my older sister moved back in. She had been on the verge of a round the world trip; ticket booked and paid for; plans made; but it clearly wasn’t the time. Part of her grief was the restlessness of not fulfilling those carefully laid plans; within a year she would be off to London pursuing career glory and forcing herself to ‘make-it’ in the big city.

My little bro pursued academic glory. His prospects moved him from Belfast to Dublin and beyond: while we waited at home for his infrequent visits and e-mails. They dealt with their grief by moving on; by putting space between themselves and the torment of memories home now represented; whereas I, for a long time, needed to be there: I needed Mum; needed to sit in Daddy’s chair and needed to hold on to anything I could consider a constant and a world turned entirely upside down.

With the other two gone; it was only Mum and me; and we got the routine down pretty well. A catch-up and moan about our days coffee when we first got in, she would make dinner; I would start my marking and we’d eat together; ‘meeting’ later in the evening for supper and TV. And yet after time I became restless; somehow stilted by my domestic bliss and horribly resentful that my siblings’ choices had meant that if I left Mum would be on her own again. What should have been a simple move seemed like total abandonment.

But she never stood in my way; she as always encouraged me to do ‘what would make me happy’; to live my life for me and to make my way, in a world of my choosing. So I did; feeling incredibly guilty with each step of the way.

As these things tend to be, the move wasn’t simple; when I first went to the bank, the snotty assistant manager snickered at my ‘wearing my interview suit’ and incredibly dismissive of my affording a mortgage given my ‘aptitude for frivolous spending’. It took some months before I approached a financial adviser who was much more forthcoming.

Having spent the summer on property websites and trolling the North Down area looking at flats that should have advertised themselves as ‘possible drug den locations for low budget television’; I found a place. Not quite my dream mansion; but the right size, a great location and more incredibly: within my limited price range. I visibly shook while on the phone to the estate agent; but it would be four months of legal manoeuvring before the keys would be mine.

As the time for the move finally approached I grew increasingly less assured. There had been not so subtle hints from my Mum’s side of the family that I ‘could have waited for the right man with his solitaire and half a deposit’- what was my rush? There had been fraught conversations with my brother and sister as to whether Mum would be ‘alright on her own?’ And there were nightmares in which I saw myself ‘Angela’s Ashes’ style, pregnant and destitute on the rainswept streets unable to pay my bills.

But the moment came; Mum and I had spent a week painting and me many months purchasing various cushions; candles; plates and wine glasses; feeling very much like the child who’d played ‘house’ with her large family of dolls. The day of the move was filled with the moments of slapstick comedy these occasions are made for: my friend’s “moving van” wouldn’t fit under the archway to the car park, making for numerous very wet journeys from van to flat.  The physical struggle with my furniture meant my friend, usually chivalrous if witty gentlemen in the presence of my mother, were now using language she was actually more accustomed to hearing; and there was of course the joy of the flat pack assembly when even the most Oxford of graduates would feel dismayed by her lack of structural intelligence.

After a Chinese takeaway ‘last supper’ dinner; the moment had arrived. I was going to have to say goodbye to Mum, to climb into the van for the last time and drive away. There were tears of Niagara proportions; I felt like I was breaking her heart and selfishly walking away. It was less than an hour before I phoned for a chat..

And now two years later  sometimes I think I made the right choice. Given the perilous and frankly ridiculous nature of the housing market; my now or never moment would have been just that.  I can have nights where I have people round; days I can spend in my pj’s; eat, drink and sleep when I want to without Mum’s unobtrusive but seemingly ever watchful eye. But I get lonely; I resent the financial responsibility and the lack of scope having bought an apartment six miles from home and five miles from work creates.  Opportunities still abound but it is more difficult to reach for them…

As for Mum, Big Sis is now back home (if only for a while) and she enjoys the opportunity of having someone to look after again. She is stronger than the world gives her credit for; and I realise now that I took much longer to accept our change in circumstance than she did.

It is perhaps time for me to make my peace with my decision; to give in to my decorating desires and to begin an IKEA induced de-clutter. Time to turn my moments of loneliness into windows of opportunity; time to embrace the independence I so craved; and time to turn this little house into my home.

Auld Lyne SIGH December 8, 2007

So it happened by text today: the inevitable question: What are you doing for New Year’s Eve? I ignored the question…the friend in question text back telling me that: ignoring it doesn’t make it go away …and to get back to her when I got over myself.

I hate New Year’s Eve with a passion and with plenty of merit for doing so. It is the night you must spend a fortune to go somewhere you’d usually avoid; you must spend a  similar fortune on an outfit befitting the pressure of the occasion and as a single girl you, must, must, must find someone, anyone to kiss at the stroke of midnight otherwise you are destined for yet another romantically barren year.

Who ever decided that just a week after you’ve stuffed yourself silly on mulled wine and tins of Quality Street is the best time to go a-hunting? And despite the huge array of perfumed body products; potions and lotions we all got from well-meaning friends and relatives there are really only two scents on display: the scent of smugness (from those people already coupled-up) and that of sheer desperation.

My tales of New Years past read as the following horror story:

I admit they used to be nights of conquest: as an underage drinker this was the night you were “allowed” to snog as many boys as possible without being thought of as ’slutty’; the problem was, at 15 your social circle is ever so small and you had to face the people you (and let’s be frank every other girl in the place) had exchanged cider-fuelled saliva with, on that excruiating first day back at school.

There was  also the night, I was perhaps 17 when me and my drinking buddy Lisa, after six too many Goldschlagger fell over in the mud, in our formal dresses just as my Mum pulled up to take us home.

Unfortunately age and university failed to bring wisdom. I had bought a French Connection dress in the sales and decided to give it a virgin visit, that night, ‘New Year’s Eve at the Manhattan’ (this is not another- I love NYC moment but instead a ‘club’ in Belfast that defies explanation unless you’ve been there): first one strap of my dress broke and then the other; spending the stroke of midnight trying to cover your assets is not the happiest of hogmanies.

And even in more recent times; having missed the moment of midnight as I was dancing manically to Mr Brightside (having got bored of counting all the Bratz dolls lookalikes in this particular Belfast night spot) I decided to go to the bar to get a round of shots to recreate the moment (this is another New Year issue; its not acceptable to drink civilised wine over conversation, instead we have to drink cocktails and tequilia and other liver rupturing substances: its all about greasing the social skills and clouding the beer goggles enough to make capturing your kiss in anyway enjoyable); the bar was of course crowded  to the point of potential riot(another new year’s eve ritual), I somehow managed to escape the cascade of Guinness the guy beside me tried to drown me with. I struck up conversation with the seemingly cute blonde guy on my otherside (he may have been neither cute nor even blonde); Tony- my long suffering friend came to find me (and his drink) only to find me exchanging salvia with Mr Blonde: he gathered the group of ‘friends’ I’d come with and they applauded as my little floor show continued…

I tried last year to avoid it all, by going to a party at my friends’ house. No pressure, a little wine, a lot of champagne and absolutely no pressure, there would be no single men there that I would either have to endure being coupled up with, or snog relentlessly/ throw myself at, then have to avoid at breakfast. In my stupidity I hadn’t realised that this also meant that every other party guest were a couple. This meant at the moment of midnight I lwas left  holding the champagne glass and singing Auld Lyne Sang by myself.

So what’s a girl to do? How do I avoid the disasters of yesteryear and not have a new year’s eve I spend the rest of ‘08 trying to rectify? Staying in, in my pjs with a dvd looks more and more tempting…

My New York love affair… November 16, 2007

There have been no blogs of significance in a while, I wanted to wait for the stardust to settle. I wanted to wait for the blues to past which took much longer than anticipated. I also wasn’t completely convinced that ‘My trip to New York’ would work as a blog: I mean how interested are you really in someone else’s holiday photographs;and this particular city is nothing if not experiential (but then I realised who is interested in my drivel anyway- I might as well indulge myself).

My love affair with the astonishing city that is New York quite possibly happened years before I ever quite made it to island of Manhattan. It’s a city you can’t escape: backdrop and set to so many sitcoms, films, commercials and image rich novels: a city that should have drowned some decades ago in the sheer weight of the expectation of first time visitors; but NYC is that extremely rare thing: it entirely lives up to its own hype.

Date#1

My feet finally did touch the shores of the Hudson in 1998: a one day trip, flanked on either side by the overnight bus back to Boston; my first Broadway show and first scary encounter with Port Authority bus station. Just there long enough to whet my appetite for a much bigger bite of the Big Apple.

Date #2

 A weekend in the summer of magic that was 2000: that was my DC summer: days spent as a Congressional Intern; nights spent at Embassy parties, or with pitchers of beer in Irish bars. My friend Emer and I spent a crazy weekend in Manhattan. We arrived late, again at that the place of sheer fear: Port Authority; armed only with our wits, our rucksacks and a list of hostels; only the weak hearted book accommodation before arrival. (I was 21- and stoopid). This weekend, in the theme that we’d embraced warmly all summer was fuelled by too much beer. Emer and I met an NYC, ER doctor  (looking back and given the pulsing popularity of George Clooney/ Dr Doug Ross  at the time- this may have been a line; in fact he actually told us his name was Doug) who decided to show us ‘real New York’. Real New York turned out to be Arthur’s Tavern: a bar deep in Greenwich Village; with its Christmas decorations up in July (they were ‘Trying to maintain the festive buzz) and a waitress who was either Chrissy Hynes or her identical twin.

The late night and many beer pitchers left us both feeling quite green on the Staten Island ferry and left Emer standing at the World Trade Centre subway station while I was on the leaving train….my lost in Manhattan story includes tears, the help of many strangers and sheer panic…still felt like I was only nibbling at the apple’s edges.

Date #3

The ‘O’Hara’ family trip to NYC: began as a running family joke and became the means that allowed Mum, Big Sis and myself to ‘wish little bro and his lovely lady luck as we waved them goodbye’ on their trip around the world. The idea of a family holiday was ambitious: as children of a Vegetable/Cereal/ Sheep farmer we knew that finance and agricultural responsibilities made holidays something other people did. Our one family trip away had been to wilds of Enniskillen in an overheating car; while we three were still young enough to truly appreciate the wealth of the ice-cream menu and the arrival of our tasty delights with sparklers.

So four days in NYC with Mummy O’Hara, Big Sis and Carrie all in the same room was ambitious from the outset. And we were trying to balance the needs and desires not only of these three very different women but also of Little Bro and his gorgeous girlfriend as well. (This girl has the heart of a lion: not only does she date/live with my wonderful but infuriating little bro but she braved the O’Haras en masse for almost a week!)We had a blast- far surpassing even the most ambitious of possible scenarios. We spent a day enchanted by the MOMA;  an afternoon discovering Strawberry Fields and the other hidden treasures of Central Park and we only thought we had known retail therapy until the bright lights of Bloomingdales: soothed our souls and melted our credit cards.

I know that many decades from now when we are each who knows where; I will remember the sound of our collective laughter and awe at the top of the Empire State, the moment of true family intimacy as we huddled round our baked delicacies and amazing cappucino in Cafe Angelique in Greenwich Village and Little Bro’s goodbye; after a performance of ‘The Lion King’ and a final drink in a Times Square Irish bar.  (I didn’t even mention our ‘Sex and the City’ tour which deserves a blog, dissertation and epic novel all of its own…)

Which brings me finally to my most recent date with NYC: Date #4

This trip began in what has now become something of a urban legend… It was a friend of mine’s first day back at school, the same fate was to befall me in the very immediate future, so we met for coffee to lament the passing of the summer and the beginning of the new school term. My hallowe’en itinerary was supposed to include the Sistine Chapel, St Peter’s  and too much great red wine: but ‘Mum and Carrie do Rome’ has been postponed; Mum couldn’t get the time of work. My friend Hazel asked what my half-term plans were and asked if I’d go back to NYC (this was to be her virgin visit to my now old flame); I nearly knocked the carrot cake out of her hand in the dash to my laptop and the booking of flights.

I was now an old-Pro. We stayed at the same downtown hotel (from the previous year lauded family vacation)off 5th  Avenue; gaining the same immediate views of the Empire State and the Flat Iron building; we breakfasted at the same Gourmet Deli every morning and I fell in love all over again.

The Circle Line guide (encountered during Trip#3) had said that one of the questions he gets asked most was this one: How long does it take to see all of New York? His witty response: a whole year and one million dollars. We had four days and no where near that much money. Hazel was determined that I see more of the city rather than simply re-discovering places of past dalliances. Even now I’m amazed that we managed to discover so much: a trip to Tiffany’s, Grand Central Station, The Color Purple on Broadway (which deserves and will get a reverential blog all of its own), a trip around Brooklyn, the Rockefeller Centre (go early in the morning, it measures up to the Empire State in that you then get to see it too in your panoramic view of the world’s most famous skyline), lunches in scarves and designer sunglasses (purchased last year on 5th Avenue baby!) bathed in the sunlight of the park and then the Hudson, a rickshaw ride from the Park to the Plaza, an encounter with the film set for Sex and the City… I could go on and on and then on some more…

‘The Greenwich Village hallowe’en parade’: features on quite a few ‘Things to do before you die’ lists. Hazel has listed this as a “must-see” for our trip. Our day had started, as they all did upon the Gray Line Red Bus; we didn’t brave the subway and used taxis Carrie Bradshaw style when high heels made it necessary. These tours are phenomenal: for $50 we had three days of NYC transport and more entertainment than I’ve had in a year. This particular morning our tour guide was a real NYC boy; think of getting on a bus with someone who has Joey Tribbiani’s voice, Chandler Bing’s wit and Cassanova’s ability to flirt with any woman in a ten-block radius. The congested journey through Greenwich Village and towards South Street Seaport was one we didn’t want to end: he combined his charm with history cultural and political, a poignant confession that his high school had acted as a triage centre on 9/11 and that his father had worked in the south tower; along with an amusing anecdote about his roomate’s girlfriend and her frivolous waste of his quality olive oil and his desire to have one of his many screen plays ‘picked-up’ by HBO.

This was also the day of our beside the river lunch and tour of Brooklyn. We returned to Manhattan and I was determined to find the Magnolia Bakery on Bleeker Street: a key stop in the SATC tour which boasts the best cupcakes in all the world. And find it we did… just in time to encounter the children of Greenwich Village begin their ‘Trick or Treat’ tour of the designer stores who give out candy.

In preparation for the night ahead, Hazel and I decided that an afternoon cocktail was in order. We were served our deliciously lethal Cava Juleps by the Dalai Lama. One of New York’s Finest (an NYC cop) stopped to enquire if we were Irish, the afternoon drinking had alerted him to our heritage… The parade itself was something of a let-down, as novices we hadn’t realised that a parade that starts at 700pm (and here was the first glitch in the American efficiency we’d come to depend on: as by 745pm the first weird creature with a political purpose had yet to make its appearance) meant you needed to be, in your ‘only place you can actually see what’s happening- right there at the barrier position by 5pm.

Our wait and lack of view left us impatient: but on our walk back to 5th Avenue we encountered a dog dressed as a hot-dog: with ‘bread rolls’ attached to his side and ‘mustard’ dashed along his back, was asked by one Wonderwoman if we’d seen her invisble jet and missed a key photo opportunity of another Wonder Woman hailing a taxi. They DO Hallowe’en in New York: there is no, put on a bin liner and pretend its a costume: this is a cultural event; an excuse to go a little crazy and indulge your inner child or inner demon for all of your fellow New Yorkers to see.

Our night ended by my literal stumbling upon the fabulous restaurant we’d all eaten dinner at the Hallowe’en before. Houston’s on Park Avenue. The barman looked like a younger and less cynical Humprey Bogart; he had that New York knack of managing to refill your wine glass, melt your heart with his smile while taking someone else’s drink order. Hazel had to stop me from writing my phone number on the bar in red-lipstick…while we ate dinner and drank yet another bottle of gorgeous wine; Darth Maul and Queen Arimathea (Vox:if I spelt these names wrongly, it is because while I was still in recovery from the bar tender, we encountered a waiter who’s ancestor was probably the Greek God Adonis: so Star Wars vocabulary was the last thing on my mind).

Having been home a couple of weeks my time is consumed with plans of how to return: here is a list of my possible scenarios:

1. Finally let the world know, I was born to be on Broadway; they are calling me to be the leading light in a show of my choosing.

2. Find my own Mr Big(maybe the barman who will have made his fortune before I get there) who will let me share his Upper West side Penthouse apartment- with view of the park (I’m not too proud to be a New York lady who lunches.)

3. Rent a Brooklyn brownstone, teach English in City High School and let Manhattan be my weekend playground ( I would of course be taking Broadway acting classes and my talent would be on the cusp of discovery).

4. Go back to 1985, get Ms Sherwood’s job teaching English in the School of Performing Arts and be in ‘The Kids from Fame.’/ or I could marry Theo Huxtable from The Cosby Show.

5. Be a struggling writer/ would be actress/ take the Christmas job I was offered in Macy’s: Grayline tour guide entertaining the tourists with her own guide of the city she loves.

Not even one of these scenarios is plagued by realism: its New York, somehow they don’t have to be.

I love this city; there’s a big world out there 99% I have never seen and yet I’d go back to Manhattan in a New York minute: its a city of infinite possibility, a city that celebrates being alive; a city that has the arrogance to believe its best place on earth and then take you out on the town to prove it.

Good night New York I love ya- and I’ll see you very soon.

And yes is the answer…well maybe November 13, 2007

Carrie (Queen of the Random Comment) is now also to be found at carrieohara365: a daily rant of both the miraculous moments and moments of madness in the life of North Down singleton…

Counting Carrie’s Blessings: to 365 or not 365 that is the question… November 7, 2007

I came home from an amazing trip to New York, last Friday. In my jet lagged haze I discovered that Lily Todd had entered another echelon of the world of blog: the 365. From what I can gather the idea here is that you find inspiration, a blessing or grace in every day and share it with the world: an inspirational idea in itself. I did think of doing a retrospective 365- a this was what I was doing this time last week but how would real life ever live up to such an introduction? So instead I  decided to leave Lily, where she quite rightly belongs; on her own poetic pedestal.

I seem to have spent my post-NYC days feeling many shades of blue. I rejected the idea of a Carrie O’Hara 365 as my mountain of marking demanded attention; and there didn’t seem enough wide-awake hours to manage a daily blog and reach the paper summit.

My post New York life seemed to lack scope(my younger brother is making his millions in Melbourne, my older sister has just finished a visit with him and is in the sky over New Zeland even as I type: my four days in the greatest city in the world just didn’t cut it): turning the corner each morning I was no longer faced with the pinnacle of the Empire State but with the old people’s home across the road: how provincial, how mundane, how uninspiring.

I haven’t even put my suitcase away…it sits by my bedroom door- a vivid metaphor for my longing to take off again with absolutely anyone who is willing to travel.

But tonight, at home, having fish and chips with Mum I unwittingly gained perspective; I told her the New York story of the Tour Guide who’s Dad had been in the second tower of the World Trade Centre (mercifully he escaped harm). I told a story of a friend of a friend of a friend who was diagnosed with agressive cancer and had to have an emergency hysterectomy, apendectomy and part of her stomach and bowel removed. As I sat in my childhood kitchen bemoaning my lot, my Mum in that quiet, all knowing way of hers reminded me of the year I’d had: two hen weekends, an all-expenses paid Easter trip to Madrid, two dear friends’ wonderful wedding, a theatre break in London and four days in a city that makes me feel entirely alive….

Maybe Carrie does need a daily reminder of the blessings she has in her life…or maybe she just needs a daily kick in the ass.

Literary Adventures of a North Down Prude October 24, 2007

Lily Todd is my source of much knowledge and she recently recommended the Booker nominated On Chesil Beach by Ian Mc Ewan. As I already commented on Lily’s blog, I tried, in vain to purchase said volume from a local bookshop; settling instead  for Belle du Jour- ‘The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl’ . I can justify my purchase by various means: quite recently, every magazine you idly flick through (or subscribe to and wait with baited breath to arrive each month) featured Billie Piper, in an ‘in depth and intimate interview about her sexual adventures’: given that she recently portrayed ‘Belle’ in an ITV television production of the novel, also as a sexually active member of the ‘Sex in the City ‘ generation of women I consider it my duty to women (and even soon to be encountered men) to stay abreast (unfortunate term) with the ever changing sexual revolution, Pretty Woman’ remains, one of my favourite movies, Belle’s confessions began life as a blog and I therefore thought I could gain a subject for my own ponderous outpourings; and at Lily’s suggestion I was looking for a book about sexual discovery…

This confession list is an insight to my psyche when it comes to this novel: I feel I have to justify- to you- all four members of my reading public: why I, a QUB English graduate, shaper of young minds, bought and within a matter of days read, a book with a lingerie clad ‘hooker’ on the cover: whose entire reason for putting pen to paper/ or perfectly manicured red talon to keyboard, was to discuss her illegal, highly gripping  (again unfortunate term: this blog may soon  be a study in innuendo) and absolutely adventurous sexual activities. It was one of those books that made me glad I’d moved out of home and wouldn’t have to explain it to my Mother. For anyone who as a  curious teenage ever encountered ‘Ralph’ in Judy Blume’s Forever :  can hopefully share my very guilty pleasure.

I again confess, even as a box-set owning, been on the tour in NYC: Sex in the City graduate, there were certain actions, activities and what could perhaps be described as acrobatics in this novel that I found truly shocking: both in their physical dexterity and sado-masochistic endurance; but also in the honest and frankly glib way that the writer had committed her ‘adventures’ to paper.

Where was Belle’s shame at her chosen profession? Where was her realisation that every single relationship she had (both male and female); the only exception being that with her parents, was both tainted and charged with sex? Belle doesn’t seem to regard herself as the commodity but instead she creates a product for which there is much demand on the market. She only half-heartedly pursues other ‘mainstream’ means of gaining employment.

It is too easy when reading the novel to judge the ‘characters’ that lie within: the men that pay for Belle’s services (naive as I am and enjoy being; I realise that escorts/hookers/people of the night for both genders and for every facet of sexual orientation and experimentation are a feature of every society across the globe: always have been and always will be), the men she has relationships with who are willing to share their intimacy with paying strangers, the friends and family who allow her to continue to ply her trade and perhaps most pointedly  Belle herself, for not taking her degree/ her talents/ her aptitude for image and sales into the nearest, highest paying advertising agency and demanding they pay her for intellectual dexterity.

But who am I to judge? This girl is not a drain on society; she is not at the mercy of a violent pimp, she now gains money not only from her chosen career but also from writing published novels about it. She makes the decisions: ’she says who, she says when, she says how much.’

If the sexual revolution and quest for equality teaches us anything then surely it is that women should be in charge of their own physical destinies. I support a woman’s right to chose, in the broadest sense possible: to pursue a career in ANY given field including those of battle, to not only vote for but run for public office, including the American Presidency, to be a stay at home Mum, to be a Mum who juggles her family and her career, and to abort an unwanted pregnancy. How then, can I judge a financially independent career girl who happens to sell herself to make a living?

Yet I do. On a drunken night long ago I gave up the ideal of no sex before marriage; and that of sex only occurring inside a relationship in which both partners love and respect each other. Sex can entirely be a consenual physical transaction between two adults, uncompromised by emotional attachments. This liberal definition can be readily applied to all of Belle’s adventures: but yet I stand in prudish dismay. I feel that even if she is the highest paid call-girl in London, her ‘industry’  cheapens not only herself, but sexually active people everywhere and even the act of sex itself.

I applaud women who are in control of their own sex lives: inside and outside marriage, in fact inside and outside any sexual relationship totally regardless of orientation; single women with a string of emotionally uncomplicated but physically fulfilling sexual encounters and the woman who patiently wait for that right man to come along. Learning sexual respect for your self is one the most important lessons a society can teach its children (but one we don’t teach particularly well).

As I stand on my hypocritical pedestal  I remain troubled by my condemnation of Belle and my enjoyment of her ‘tale’; so much so, that I travelled to the next town over and bought On Chesil Beach this very afternoon…maybe a little sexual conservativism will help me regain my sexually liberal equilibrium.