So, I’m up to the part where Catherine and Linton start exchanging letters, and I really couldn’t be bothered reading the rest. Why is this so? I have read this book countless times before and it has never let me down (or I have never let it down). Is it wrong if I don’t finish it? And if I don’t finish it, do I still put it in the reading journal that I started this year?

Such are the preoccupations of my life.

I have been reading lots of online newspapers, and there is a beautiful piece by Joe Saxton in the Times Online about his friend, Nick Hughes, the son of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath. Amongst other things, Joe Saxton says of Nick Hughes:

“And he was also a very attractive man. I remember him telling me about his uncertainty as to whether women (or “females” as he called them – always the biologist!) in Alaska were interested in him or in sleeping with Sylvia Plath’s son – or, worse still, in having her grandchildren.”

My goodness, that’s full-on, isn’t it?

Yesterday, I read this piece in The Age about Henrie Stride, a talent scout at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival looking for talent for a new show on SBS. Amongst other things, she is quoted as saying:

“A lot of women’s comedy is angry and quite hard, bitter, man-hating, lesbiany. Not very many female comedians are commercial — but she is really pretty and her comedy is upbeat; she has potential,” Stride says.

While it doesn’t make me want to go and stick my head in the oven, it’s pretty fucking depressing all the same.