This week I am going to share two extracts from two books I love very much, for no particular reason other than wishing to spread hilarity. First up is Lynne Truss. Now I do know that Lynne is best known for her much publicised, and often maligned, work, Eats, Shoots & Leaves. Whatever you think of it, and I won't go into the details of what I think of it, for I don't care that much and it's Monday morning and I just cannot be asked right now, it isn't that book that you should read but Making The Cat Laugh, one woman's journal of single life on the margins. There's not much else to tell you; enjoy a little extract that is as much about the single life as it is about the writing one.
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Single Bananas
An old friend of mine, who five years ago migrated to the country with her husband to propagate children and rear a garden, recently sent me a card which I didn't know quite how to take. 'Wishing you all good luck', she wrote, 'on your chosen path.' I sat looking at it with my fingers in my mouth. What did she mean exactly, by this notion of the 'chosen path'? I assumed she meant it kindly, but it made me feel suddenly exposed and distant. Hey, where did everybody go? Supposing that she imagined herself on a path radically divergent from mine, I instantly pictured myself labouring alone up a narrow, steep, dusty, brambly trail with a determined look on my face, as though illustrating the modern-day parable about the grim sacrifices of feminism.
So vivid was this picture, in fact, that I could feel the stinging nettles brushing against my legs It was awful. I felt thirsty; my head swam; the sun scorched my shoulders. Looking down, I observed my friend ambling happily in the sunshine on a broad level path with a pram and a husband, while small apple-cheeked children ran off to right and left, frolicking with lambs. I would have watched for longer, but a bloke called Bunyan came along and told me to hop it.
But I was definitely confused by the notion of the chosen path, and dwelt on it for days. Did I choose this, then? And if so, why couldn't I remember doing it? Hadn't I always thought, rather naively, that there was still time to make these decisions and wife-and-motherhood in the future – that the crossroads were just over the horizon? But it turns out that the last exit was miles back, and I am a person whose chosen path speaks for itself. The hardest part was realising I can never be a teenage tennis phenomenon. How on earth did I let things drift so badly? [...]
Now I realise that what I want is a book. So much do I want to give birth to a book that I experience 'false alarms' – when I think I am 'with book', but am not really. Once a month I phone up my agent and say, 'It's happening!' And she says, 'How marvellous!' And then I have to ring again a week later and say, 'Bad news,' and she says, 'Never mind, conception is a mysterious thing.' I suddenly realise that a book would be comfort in my old age, and I try to ignore the argument that there are already too many books in the world competing for the available shelf-space. Mine, of course, will be a poor fatherless mite, but I shall love it all the more for that.
Perhaps the image of the paths and crossroads is just the wrong one.. Perhaps I did always know where I wanted to go, but just walked backwards with my eyes closed, pretending there was no act of will involved. Because I do recall from early youth that while other children pleaded with their mums for miniature bridal outfits and little dolls that went wee-wees, I was campaigning for a brick-built Wendy Hose in the garden where I could lock the door and sit at an enormous typewriter. My only imaginary friends were phantom insurance collectors, a person from Porlock and the printer's boy.
My idea of a Wendy House was a rather grandiose one, I suppose. It involved guttering and utilities and a mantelpiece where I could put the rent money, not to mention trouble with the drains. I remember when a little friend told me she had acquired a Wendy House, and I was wild with envy. But when I went to see it, it was just a canvas job with painted-on windows. Fancy telling a gullible kid that this was a Wendy House. Sometimes I wonder what happened when she eventually uncovered the deception. Probably she married somebody with a big house and had lots of kids in double-quick time, to establish a sense of security. In which case, I wish her all good luck on her chosen path.
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