Archive for June, 2012

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day



To try and shake me out of my sorrow I am reading the book the cures the blues: Winifred Watson’s Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (1938). This beautiful little novel, given to me by a dear friend (by way of saving my life) on a rainy, dark day when every thing that could go wrong had gone wrong begins with its heroine in much the same circumstances: ‘Miss Pettigrew pushed open the door of the employment agency and went in as the clock struck a quarter past nine.  She had, as usual, very little hope…’ Winifred Watson’s enchanting tale was rediscovered and republished by Persephone in 2001 and since reprinted several times with its delicious original line illustrations. The story unfolds over twenty-four hours in the life of unemployed governess and neglected spinster Guinevere Pettigrew – but this is not just any day, and Miss Pettigrew is not just any spinster.  Sent to the wrong address by her employment agency, Miss Pettigrew is mistaken for the new housekeeper by the glamorous and rather amoral night-club singer Miss La Fosse, and this slip brings Miss Pettigrew smack into a world of cocktails before noon, cocaine that must be disposed of, punch-ups between dangerously handsome suitors, and, perhaps most shocking of all to Miss Pettigrew – the wicked thrill of make-up. As first time readers, we worry for the frightened and sheltered Guinevere – will she be found out? how will she cope?  But those who are returning to re-read this joyous story (and you will, you will) know that there is more to Guinevere than meets the eye. ‘This,’ she thinks, ‘is Life.  I have not lived it before.’ Though some reviewers have seen Miss Pettigrew as a Cinderella story – Watson does something much more subtle than simply finding a “beau” for her lonely lady.  Instead, over the course of the day, in a series of deft interventions, witty misunderstandings, brilliant repartee and enough gin to sink a lesser woman, Guinevere is revealed not only to her new-found friends, but more importantly to herself, as a life-saver, in more ways than one. (And sadly it was this subtlety that was missing in the recent film version which stuck strictly to the Cinderella theme, largely missing the self-love and sisterly friendship that makes this book so damn good). A delightful, intelligent and naughty novel, which reminds us that it is never too late to have a second chance; it is never too late to live. An important reminder in dark times.




It’s a hot one, folks. With blood-boiling temperatures rippling up the East Coast, let’s take a literary stroll into a much, much hotter land — the Deep South — and have a nice cold drink. Why not a julep? It worked for Faulkner! Courtesy of our friends at the Migrant Book Club, check out this picture of Faulkner’s own mint julip recipe glimpsed at his home Rowan Oak:

whiskey + 1 tsp sugar + ice + mint.
served in a metal cup.

What’s so awesome about this is, of course, the lack of measuring instructions on the whiskey. How much? As much as you like! Go for it, friends.

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I have been away from the blog for a number of reasons, some having to do with work (busy time of year for lecturers) but also for a very personal reason: grief. 

 My lovely father passed away in February of this year at the age of 86. I wasn’t there when it happened as I live so far away. I flew back to New York for the funeral and then rushed home to London and my “real life” a few days later. And because I live an ocean away from where I grew up, it has been tempting to kind of “pretend” that he wasn’t really gone.  After all, I often went months without seeing him and in recent years it even became difficult to speak to him on the phone.  So I saved up all my hugs and I love you’s for when I would visit him. Among his many accomplishments, my father’s true talent was simply being there.  At every game, every play, every parents’ evening, at the end of every teenage party to pick up one of his six children, at the breakfast table in the morning and the dinner table at night. And at his home in New York whenever I came to visit. So while I have cried about my dad in the past few months I don’t think I really believed in the loss of him, believed in the possibility of his not being there until last week when suddenly everywhere I looked were signs and posters and television advertisements for Father’s Day.  “For the man who has always been there for me”; “To my hero”; “For the best dad ever,” etc, much of it schmaltzy and sentimentalized and all of it stabbing me directly in the heart as I began to finally realize that he was really, really not there anymore.  That there would be no more saved up hugs and I love you’s. And no more Happy Father’s Day phone calls.

 On Father’s Day itself, strangely, another constant in my life began to slip away: my lovely twenty year old cat Miss Audrey collapsed, and yesterday she had to be put down.  I’d had her since she was a kitten.  And while I am not about to compare these two losses, it is interesting and sad to note how differently I have reacted to these two kinds of grief: one so far away that I could pretend it didn’t happen, and one so close and so unavoidable that there is no escaping it.  We had to make the decision and say goodbye, pack up her kitty litter and cat food bowls, her cat basket and her packets of food: all useless now.  I return this morning to my “real life”, work, meetings, emails.  And when I get home tonight I will cry for the empty spaces in my house, and for the hugs and I love you’s I was too far away to give or receive and for the constants in my life that are no longer simply “there”.


Snow White and the Huntsman and why Powerful Queens are Evil (apparently)



In keeping with my Cinderella post the other day, this weekend I went with my three teens (two girls and a boy) to see the new film Snow White and the Huntsman yesterday on another rainy summer day in London.  This is a beautifully filmed, well acted and cleverly scripted reimagining of the already multiply reimagined story of Snow White and this time – Snow White can kick ass!  And she doesn’t cook and clean for dwarves any more, either.  In fact, this Snow White, despite her tenure locked up in a tower seems to have kept herself remarkably fit.  No sooner does she escape the tower than she rides bare-back on a beautiful white horse (by herself – no man has rescued her) until she reaches the dark forest where she hides from the Evil Queen, her stepmother.  The Queen is evil, we are shown, because of men’s cruelty, which suggests that she is not only evil and single but also bitter against men which Snow White (as her name tells you) is not.  And it is this part of the story that is depressingly unchanged, though the Queen and the magic she wields are carefully portrayed and visually stunning.  Charlize Theron is the Evil Queen (I guess by Hollywood terms she is middle aged) and she needs the hearts and living breath of weak young beautiful things (birds and supermodels like Lily Cole who also appears here) to sustain her power. 


Her magic mirror is a cruel thing, telling her the sad truth that being Charlize Theron just isn’t good enough once Kirsten Stewart comes along.  Despite making clever, evocative use of the feminine symbols of drops of blood predicting childbirth and also death, of luscious apples that are also, of course, poisonous, the movie, like the German fairy tale the Grimms and later Disney based their version on, shamelessly pits older women against younger, stepmother against stepdaughter.  (For full disclosure I should point out that I am a stepmother to two of the teens I mentioned, so am sensitive to such portrayals, though less sympathetic with Charlize’s sorrow when she saw her wrinkles. In fact even at the end of the movie when she was dead she still looked better than I do in the morning.) The lust with which Snow White, dressed as a solidier, assassinates this wise, magical, powerful (but childless and so somehow apparently not quite right emotionally)female figure made it seem as if she was, in reality, killing off the feminine within herself. And this was all a bit – well, sickening to me. I had hoped that Snow White and the Queen could find a new way to run the kingdom together.  That they could work out some way for both of them to be immortal without having to consume all those nice girls to do so (maybe Kirsten Stewart could ask that vampire boyfriend of hers for advice here?) It just seemed that this new, kick-ass Snow White instead of embracing and perhaps learning to use the Queen’s power (and by extension, Snow White’s own female power) for good instead of evil, turned too quickly back into traditionally patriarchal ways of settling disputes (ie, inciting your kingdom into war, dressing up in armour and riding a horse into battle, and then inserting a sharp knife into the heart of your opponent).  Surely it was short sighted not to have taken the Queen prisoner at least, found out some of her magic spells?  But it wasn’t really that kind of power that Snow White wanted, was it?  No.  She is happy to be able to tame woodland creatures and capture the hearts of dwarves and men.  In fact, just like Katniss in The Hunger Games and Kirsten herself as Bella in the Twilight Series, Snow White as modern heroine has little interest in diplomacy or good governance, but can kick ass and has at least two men in love with her. The fact that she will, more or less inevitably, break one of their hearts is okay in this context – the point is that they won’t break hers so she won’t become a single bitter woman which is inherently evil (see Queen, above).  Is that progress from Disney and Grimm’s passive princess saved by her skills with domestic chores and her obvious ability to attract true love’s kiss?  Or is it just a trade up (bows and arrows instead of laundry, two suitors instead of one)?  My own sense is that our new Snow White is just the same as the old one but with better hand-eye coordination.  And that’s why the Queen hates her so.  Just when she has Snow White in her clutches, Charlize says something like “I am doing you a favour.  Now you will never know what it feels like to get old!” The moral being I guess that there is no greater horror to be visited upon humanity than to be an old woman.  Even if you look like Charlize.

Poem for the Weekend: Happily Ever After


Happily Ever After

 When Cinderella met her prince it was all so


Family troubles? The text is not


how king and queen felt

when golden boy brought home

a cleaner.

Perhaps the mice resented

Being put in her service,

the dog disgruntled playing



Her tiara—paste

Her footwear—unreliable.


Still, against

the fairy godmother,

fat sisters, incantations and court champagne,

pumpkin coach, white dress so

becoming, the allure 

of her disappearance:

He never stood a chance.


Last night I came home, past midnight.

Unclear what spell

I’d broken:

my magic has never been strong. 


I awoke in dusty rags

arms stretched

across my pillow, shoeless

without you.






It takes us back to the Deep South, reminds us that Flannery is THE American master of the short story. She is our Chekhov. And thx to Open Culture we can listen to Flannery reading her own infamous, legendary nightmare of a story “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” It’s strange and surprising to hear the audience react to the story, laughing at the jokes, completely engaged with Flannery as she reads. If you’ve never read this story, well, you’re in a for a treat. This is one of her best. Here’s the link. Thanks to the Big Red Rooster for the recommendation.

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Women, Writing and Silence: Virginia Woolf, Daphne DuMaurier and Me


I haven’t written much on the blog this week as I have been working on a new novel whose themes of women, storytelling and silence are fed by my reading and research into these ideas in the writing of other women. So, with the noise and distractions of the Bank Holiday weekend I thought this was a good time to stop fictionalising and return to thinking about women’s voices and women’s silence.  As I suggested in my last post, Virginia Woolf’s Orlando is perhaps best described as what it is not: not a traditional biography of an aristocratic man. Such self-definition through negation is an interesting tool many women writers have used to question the value and authority of traditional definitions. But this approach can also work negatively to erase or at least blue the sound of women’s voices.  Perhaps one of the greatest examples in fiction of the woman who is identified by what she is not appears in Daphne Du Maurier’s 1938 novel Rebecca.

There, the heroine of the tale is literally defined, by herself and by those around her by what she is not: this first person narrator has no name – all the reader knows is that she is not Rebecca, not the first Mrs DeWinter. When, near the climax of the novel this nameless figure hears her husband confess to killing his first wife – she tells him “Rebecca hasn’t won, Rebecca is dead, Rebecca cannot speak!” And in this moment calls to mind not only the central theme of DuMaurier’s novel but of many texts written by women writers whose works remind us to be suspicious of the stories of those who claim to speak for women – even if the speakers themselves are women.

Novels, histories, paintings in which women are represented by the voice or vision of another provide suspect evidence of real women’s experiences: We never get to hear Rebecca’s side of the story. Maybe Rebecca was a perfectly ordinary bored wife and Maxim was a jealous madman.  We can’t know because she can’t speak.

 But what if she could? What would Rebecca say? That Maxim killed her out of jealousy and paid off some retired doctor to spin a tale about Rebecca’s illness? The point is, we can never know – and so like the story that Woolf tells in A Room of One’s Own about Shakespeare’s sister Judith, we can only ever guess at what we might have discovered if women had been allowed to speak publicly for themselves. And what of the nameless narrator of Rebecca who colludes in the disappearance of the tale of Rebecca’s murder only to win for herself a grumpy distant broken down husband who must live in exile from the beautiful home now burnt to the ground?  Is this meant to be a happy ending or DuMaurier’s punishment for the narrator’s insistence upon the benevolence of her patriarchal husband, her refusal to acknowledge the violence he meted out to the wife who challenged him? DuMaurier’s disturbing vision offers both possibilities, and demands that we, as readers are left questioning our safe, romantic reading of the plot. Which is, I suspect, just how DuMaurier wanted it.