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The money I pay for my cultural experiences came willingly from my own pocket – they were not the result of bread being removed from the mouths of the poor so that Miss Thing here could mince off to the circus smelling of roses.
As a child, I wanted only two things – to be left alone to read my library books, and to get away from my provincial hometown and go to London to be a writer. And I always knew that when I got there, I wanted to make loads of money.
A good part – and definitely the most fun part – of being a feminist is about frightening men.
Mind you, I’ve always been a very off-message type of fat broad one who gladly admits she reached the size she is now solely through lack of discipline and love of pleasure, and who rather despises people (except those with proven medical conditions) who pretend that it is generally otherwise.
I’ve never been nostalgic, personally or politically – if the past was so great, how come it’s history?
My second husband believed I had such a fickle attitude to friendship that each Friday he would update the list of my ‘Top Ten’ friends in the manner of a Top Of The Pops chart countdown.
The Feminist Me says that a woman’s right to her own body should be inviolate at all times, free from fear of peeping paps.
Fact is, famous people say fame stinks because they love it so – like a secret restaurant or holiday island they don’t want the hoi polloi to get their grubby paws on.
Monarchists frequently declare that without the royal family, Britain would be ‘nothing.’ What a woeful lack of love for one’s country such statements express.
My dad didn’t drive – the only dad I knew who didn’t.