The freedom that women were supposed to have found in the Sixties largely boiled down to easy contraception and abortion; things to make life easier for men, in fact.
It must be said that Brighton, unlike London, makes driving seem very appealing. Instead of glowering faces and angry horns on all sides, we have the coast road in front of us and the Sussex Downs just 10 minutes behind us.
In Barcelona, things seem so different. For example, I know that it’s traditionally the least Spanish city, but you’d never know they had a monarchy, coming here as a tourist – as opposed to the U.K., where the Queen is probably the best-known animal, vegetable and/or mineral going when it comes to overseas visitors.
It may be a cliche, but it’s true – the build-up to Christmas is so much more pleasurable than the actual day itself.
These women whose antics we smirk at good-naturedly in the pap-traps put themselves out there at least partly on their beauty; they are in showbiz, and showing what they’ve got is part of their business as much as it is for male show-ponies from the Chippendales to George Clooney.
The latest twist on the pampering concept is spa parties, where a group of friends take over an entire spa.
We are used to female writers who use their private lives as unmitigated material being somewhat hormonal; this somehow ‘excuses’ what might be seen as a highly unfeminine ability to turn their personal upsets into money.
No matter how old and glorious the models, sad indeed is the woman who sees fashion as a means of self-expression rather than an agent of social control.
Some say that Cusk has no sense of humour, but expecting giggles from this writer would be akin to expecting sonnets from Benny Hill.
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.
It has been said that a pretty face is a passport. But it’s not, it’s a visa, and it runs out fast.
As a militant troublemaker, I once wrote that it was the duty of every woman worthy of the description to upset men at least three times a day, on principle.
I believe, literally, in the God of the Old Testament, whom I understand as the Lord of the Jews and the Protestants. I’m a Christian Zionist, as well as a Christian feminist and a Christian socialist.
No one knows ‘men’ as such, any more than anyone knows ‘women,’ and if they do generalise they’re probably trying to hide their own ignorance. You might know one ‘man,’ yes, or even lots of individual ‘men’.
When I started at the ‘Guardian,’ though, I couldn’t think of anything we saw eye to eye on, except feminism, and even this would soon be arguable as ‘Guardian’ writers queued up to drool over Eminem.
I almost choke on my popcorn when I hear film stars, who walk on red carpets as much as the rest of us do on zebra crossings, criticising youngsters who crave fame.
People often yearn back to more innocent times, but more and more, as I get older, I find myself hankering after more jaded days.
I’ve always thought of beauty therapy, ‘alternative’ treatments and the like as the female equivalent of brothels – for essentially self-deceiving people who feel a bit hollow and have to pay to be touched.
Lots of women love to accuse men of being immature when the fellow in question displays a reluctance to ‘commit.’
I wouldn’t know how to fool a man any more. My deceiving days seem so long ago.
Rachel Cusk’s books are like pop-up volumes for grown-ups, the prose springing out of the page to bop you neatly between the eyes with its insights.
Whenever I am sent a new book on the lively arts, the first thing I do is look for myself in the index.
My dad didn’t drive – the only dad I knew who didn’t.
I didn’t cry when I left free-booting, smash-and-grab papers that would have appeared to be far more natural homes for me and, at the risk of being vulgar, paid far better for my services.
I’ve never been nostalgic, personally or politically – if the past was so great, how come it’s history?
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