2005-04-23

Happy St George’s Day! This is my first. How exactly do you celebrate the arbitrary anniversary of someone who didn’t exist killing something that didn’t exist on an unspecified date in the distant past? Well, this is England, so I imagine that getting very drunk is the order of the day. Go Georgie go! You slay that dragon, old boy! Here’s to you.

Without a television, I’m reduced to shameful methods of getting mindless entertainment. I’ve been paying bums to throw rocks at each other. No, not really. It’s much worse. I’m reading an ‘Oprah’s Book Club’ pick. Oh god, the humiliation! White Oleander, by Janet Fitch. On the bus I keep the cover down so nobody can see my shame. It’s fucking awful – over-the-top characterisation dripping with obvious symbolism; dialogue that no human being would ever utter. It’s so heavy-handed that I wonder how Ms Fitch was physically able to type. Here’s a little taste to rot your teeth:

Then came a time I can hardly describe, a season underground. A bird trapped in a sewer, wings beating against the ceiling in that dark wet place, while the city rumbled overhead. Her name was Lost. Her name was Nobody’s Daughter.

Oh, the pathos! That poor overworked metaphorical bird! Cosmopolitan calls White Oleander ‘Hard-hitting, compelling and brilliantly written’. Nice work, Cosmo. Now why don’t you go back to pretending you’re feminists and writing lists of the best ways to perform fellatio?

I am loving this book. It's so juicy. I think I need a certain amount of junk in my media diet. Woman does not live by literary criticism alone. Dangerously, however, this book is making me feel like I could write a book myself. I’ll call it Purple Gladiola, and the flower will be a metaphor for the central character! Pure genius! Cosmo will love it!