Last month I did a thing. Imagine that! My flatmate and I sauntered over to Wales for a bit of clean air, cold cider and folk music. Oh and rain. There was rain there.
You may have heard about the heatwave that hit the UK last week. I know, it sounds like a joke. And really, the Australians are well within their rights to poke fun at the POMs for complaining about the 34°C weather. Still, let the following cautionary tale be a warning to you that heatwaves are no joking matter… or you can just laugh along at my devastating embarrassment. That works too.
Remember that time where I said I wouldn’t over-burden myself by trying to read too many books this month. Yea, I definitely didn’t do that thing I said I wouldn’t do…
Ok fine. I did. I read ten books in April (what is wrong with me??). Seven of the ten were part of April’s non-fiction reading theme, and below is a mini wrap-up of each of them. Let’s see if I can even still remember …
Alright, I’m just going to come right out and say it. Living in a big city can get lonely. Yes, there are literally millions of people around me all the time, but tricking them into a conversation, that’s the challenging part. In the words of almost all my pals “But how do you meeeet people??”
And the answer seems to quite often be “…Tinder?” followed by a very hasty cringe.
So yea. I did it. I downloaded Tinder. And the results were — how do you say? — frightening. So here’s a very visual trip down my dating journey:
March. March March March. You’re a funny one. March is always a bitter-sweet month, as it’s the month I left my home and my job and my friends and ran (or flew) as fast as I could to the other side of the planet. Even after three years (!!!) it does tend to leave me a little melancholy… though I definitely wouldn’t have it any other way!
So in celebration of 21 year old me going off on her own, and also to commemorate International Woman’s Day which was earlier in the month, I decided to dedicate March to reading feminist fiction. What could go wrong?!
Walking through the halls of a big publishing firm, the first thing that will strike you is the books. Books everywhere: stacked on shelves, counter-tops, desks, spilling out of drawers and jammed into untold boxes leaning precariously against the walls. Once you’ve realised that no, you haven’t walked into an alternate universe where the streets are paved with countless copies of last years’ The Girl on the Train clone, you’ll notice the people. The sea of white, middle class people who have the power to decide which voices get heard and which will molder away in obscurity.
Let me tell you the harrowing tale of how I got my real life, grown-up job in London. It went like this:
I set a goal for myself that during the month of February I’d read books written by diverse authors. Being a white, anglophone reader means it’s very easy for my reading habits to become so “me centred” that I end up reading in a little bubble, a bubble that only reflects my own experiences and problems and joys. This month I wasn’t having any of it.