I Think Writers Are Very Anxious.

Tentatively I Stood A Great Lump Of Wood On The Chopping Block And Bought The Axe Down On It. It Flew Into Two Perfect Halves. Such Was My Elation That I Ran Inside, Put On Our Ancient Cracked Record Of Aretha Franklin Singing Respect And Danced All By Myself For Half An Hour In Our Living Room, Without Inhibition, Almost Crying With Jubilation – Not Just About The Wood, But Because I Could Live Competently Some Of The Time, And Because That Day I Liked Myself.

It's A Terrific Privilege To Be Able To See Into Somebody Else's Life.

We Were In A Great, Seething Moment In The 1970s. There Was A New Labour Government And Everything Seemed Full Of Hope... But, As We Got Older And We Saw How Much Women's Behaviour Contributed To What Was Wrong, We Stopped Being Able To See Ourselves Purely As.

Writers Seem To Me To Be People Who Need To Retire From Social Life And Do A Lot Of Thinking About What's Happened - Almost To Calm Themselves.

But I Can't Bear It When Somebody Who Some Man Made A Pass At - To Call That Violence Seems To Me Absurd And Insulting To Women Who've Really Met Violence, Who've Been Raped Or Bashed.