Good Men in a Fictional Crisis

I have returned from Polish class, where I delivered my 650 word paper on Stanisław Wyspiański. Typing the silly thing drove me around the bend, for when I change my normal British QWERTY for the Polish QWERTZ keyboard, I almost always get Z and Y mixed up. I just did it again. However, it is done and photocopied and delivered and handed out to my classmates, and now I can get on with life.

Yesterday I wrote warmly of the Suchet Poirot, and I was wondering today whom you would turn to in a crisis. We often look--foolishly, I think--for mates who remind us of our fictional romantic heroes, but what fictional men would we look to, like pretend daughters or pretend mothers, in a crisis?

For some strange reason, as I was walking up the Canongate this evening, I thought I would consult Mr Rochester on money matters. I certainly would never, ever, ever see Mr Rochester in the light of a romantic hero: what a twister! Big fat bigamous liar! Jane Eyre can have him, and I am not really sure why she wanted him in the first place.

But this is not the place to fight about the dreaminess of Mr Rochester. What I am wondering is, "Which men in fiction would you turn to in a crisis, not expecting or wanting to marry them afterwards, and why?"  If I were very sick, I think I would like to call Gilbert Blythe, MD. Gilbert rather than Dr Watson--Dr Watson is too easily distracted. Naturally I would not want to marry Gilbert (even if single), for he is a married man with seven children (including the dead).

Chapter 8 is Up

Fans of "The Bodice Ripper", I apologize heartily for the delay. Here is Chapter 8, all nicely edited and tidied up.

Sunday Serial Chapter 4

18th century Chinoiserie features!

And here is your weekly chapter, hopefully denuded of all the Inner Child's characteristic orthography.

Your Sunday Serial

Chapter 3 of the orthograph-normative edition of The Bodis Riper here.

Why Men Aren't Lord Sheringham et al

The Ninth Laird of Auchinleck. Not safe in taxis.

I took Georgette Heyer's Friday's Child off the shelf the other evening. In case you don't remember,
it's the one where Lord Sheringham, aka Sherry, marries a 17 year old girl named Hero in a fit of pique because the lovely Isabella Milborne won't have him. Also, Sherry won't get his inheritance until he is 25 unless he marries. So Sherry, whose gambling debts are oppressive, picks up little Hero--otherwise doomed to become a minor teacher/drudge at a girls' school in Bath--and carries her off to London. Hero, who knows nothing of the facts of life, has always had a crush on Sherry, so is absolutely delighted.

I forget how many pages in Sherry first slaps Hero. I can't remember if it is before or after he buys her a mountain of new garments, or even if it is before or after he marries her. However, Sherry slapped Hero when they were children, and he slaps her now.

Oh yes--it was after they were married, for silly Hero, who understands that men like Sherry have girlfriends as well as wives, even though she still doesn't know what they do with either, saw a lady on stage flutter her eyelashes at Lord Sheringham, lost her head, and asked him if that was his "opera dancer." Because Georgette Heyer's world is one of preposterous hypocrisy, wives are never supposed to admit to knowing about their husbands' mistresses, so it's all a hilarious joke that the innocent bride has just done so. Sherry has thus lost face, and so when he gets Hero home, he wallops her.

I had forgotten that there was domestic abuse in Georgette Heyer although of course we all know there are other kinds of violence, especially attempted murder, aka duelling. Duelling is fun in books, but rather horrible in real life, as I found out in my early twenties when I asked an admirer to do something about the teasing I was getting from another. All that happened on that occasion was that Admirer 1 suddenly grabbed the arm of Admirer 2, and the tension was so awful, I instantly repented. I have an amateur's interest in boxing, but any woman who enjoys the sight of men fighting over her should go and talk about that with a priest. Ick.

Of course, women have very little to do with the duelling in Georgette Heyer's novels: it is all about men's relationships with each other. Quite a lot of things women think are about them are actually about men's relationships with each other. The man in Dubai who recently stopped life guards from rescuing his drowning daughter probably didn't hate his daughter. He was just worried about losing face in front of other men--possibly even the life guards. It seems absolutely insane to me that some men keep their "honour" on the skin of their female relations, but there you go. Again this may sound very romantic in books, but in real life it is horrible.

"Hero" incidentally, is the name of a girl in Shakespeare who feigned death because her admirer had believed an accusation that she had had sex. I forget if Viscountess Sheringham will also suffer such an outrageous libel--so far she is still as "innocent as a newborn lamb"--but no doubt we are supposed to suspect it. Sherry has no interest in bedding a nicely brought up seventeen year old just because his society, religion and the law says he has the right to do so. He might slap the girl like a naughty child (as one did when Georgette was writing all this stuff) but unless they "fall in love," forget about the fun stuff.  I suppose there may be men like this, but I am hard pressed to imagine that they are also the ones who bed high-class prostitutes, gamble away fortunes and drive extremely dangerously--as Sherry certainly does.

Hmm.

The principal thing about Georgette Heyer's men is that we don't know any men anything like them, unless we hang out with men who are also multi-millionaries, e.g. professional footballers, and footballers usually come from the working classes. Sometimes I amuse myself by imagining which rung of the Heyer class ladder I would land on, and the closest I can come up with is that I am the daughter of a university don who has married my Lord of Historical House's secretary, a clever man of humble origin who through sheer intelligence and determination, etc., etc. I spend my days writing letters and chastizing my few female servants, giggling with snobbish joy when the spinster daughter of my Lord of Historical House deigns to drop by for a cup of tea. However, such ordinary people never feature in Heyer's landscape, which is populated only by a staggeringly rich oligarchy, a few rich middle-class people, shopkeepers, servants, prostitutes of various rank, peasants and chavs who give gin to their babies who shut them up.

Heyer was brilliant at description, but she was not particularly interested in the full reality of Georgian England, in which a very small (but very rich) group of people rode roughshod over everyone else, their massive fortunes created by the work of real or virtual slaves. And of course it would not be as much fun to read about Hero's new wardrobe if we could see the conditions in which the frothy lace was made. We do not want to imagine ourselves as the lacemaker, be she in a factory or in a hovel, dying of TB while slowly going blind. No! We want to imagine ourselves as Hero, just seventeen, as innocent as a newborn lamb, and valued for this quality by our handsome husband who gives us tons of elegant stuff--silk dresses, jewellery, carriages--and by all his snazzy friends.

Well, that's okay. That's okay unless we start expecting men to actually act like Georgian aristocrats, or expecting them to act towards us as if we were Georgian aristocrats ourselves. If I were not to move from my seat but to go back in time to Georgian days, I might very well overhear James Boswell below me downstairs, and if so I would immediately change out of my pjs into some proper clothes and lock myself in my room, lest Boswell come upstairs looking for some middle-class, middle-aged lady action. Oor Jimmie wisnae fussy, aye.

The drawback of being  lifelong bookworms is that we compare men of real life to the men of books and find the men of real life wanting. Our books teach us a code of behaviour that no longer exists, if it ever did exist. Our books can also brainwash us into adopting the point of view of people who are not on our side. Sometimes I wonder why, despite having voted SNP, I am such a terrible Tory at heart, and I suspect it has something to do with Rosemary Sutcliffe, Georgette Heyer, Agatha Christie, Evelyn Waugh and just about every author I admire who had enough leisure time to write amusing sex-free books. As a child I was naturally not permitted to read books with sex in them,  and as a devout Catholic, I generally don't want to, which meant the vast majority of books I read were published before 1960.

Goodness. What a long post. If you're still with me, sound off in the combox about your favourite heroes of literature and if you have ever met real men anything like them at all. I think at best we have met a number of hobbits, perhaps Frodo. When I first came to Edinburgh, I met a lot of people who I thought were just like people in books, but since then I have reflected this was just because they spoke like British people in British books. That said, characters from Trainspotting occasionally take the Rough Bus and I've overheard Begby in Easter Road Stadium.

Update: My mum says deconstructing Georgette Heyer is harsh. I found this message after I had gobbled the rest of Friday's Child and downed a stiff G&T, so I feel a tad guilty. However, too many women think Austen's and Heyer's fantasies are somehow Really True, so here am I to say they are not. If you want to live in Georgian England, with servants, luscious silk garments, etc., may I suggest Bangladesh? But  I'm afraid the class disparities are rather more obvious there than they are in the works of our glorious J & G.

Sunday Serial, Chapter 2

Off you go to Chapter 2, which is sadly short, I fear.  Now I must get ready for church, the Inner Child nipping at my heels while shrieking "Doubleday? If we fix the spelling can we send it to Doubleday?"

Sunday Appearance of the Inner Child

I was typing away this morning when the Inner Child came skulking around the library door.

"Whatcha doin'?" asked the Inner Child.

"I am typing up the second draft of The Bodice Ripper," I said.

Her little face beamed.

"No!"

"Yes."

"Let me see," she demanded and perched on the arm of my chair before the window. She looked eagerly at the screen before emitting a squeal like that made by subway train taking the corner after Eglinton station.  "THAT'S not how you spell it!"

I looked uneasily at the monitor. As you all know, I am the typo queen.

"How I spell what?"

"Bodice Ripper! Look! You have spelled it 'Bo Dice Rip Per.' Nobody will be able to read it!"

"Listen," I said. "I know you won't believe this, but not everyone is able to understand your semi-literate keyboard tango dancing. Not everyone was good at phonics in school, and to such readers, unless a word appears according to its conventional spelling, they cannot recognize it."

"What do you mean, 'conventional'?" demanded the Inner Child, and her blue eyes loomed largely in her face. "Are we going conventional? Have you sold out to Grammar?"

"It's not a question of selling out, it's---."

"Sell OUT! Sell OUT! My Outer Adult is a Sell OUT! She is a slave to the forces of the MAR-ket! I knew this would happen if you went back to school. They broke you. Next you'll be singing Kumbiya and demanding women priests while dancing topless on the cathedral lawn."

"I only ever sang Kumbiya at Girl Guides. Nobody wants me to hear me sing Kumbiya, to say nothing of seeing me topless on the cathedral lawn. The cathedral doesn't even have a lawn. Besides, I am not back at school. I am between terms of Polish classes."

"Say something in Polish," said the Inner Child, displaying the attention span of a libidinous fruit fly. "Say something clever."

"Studiuję codziennie źeby móc biegle mówić po polsku."

The Inner Child laughed until she fell off the arm of my chair.

"Thanks so much," I said. "I hope I get a better reaction in Kraków."

"But seriously," said the Inner Child, mopping away her tears with my unfinished new vintage dress, "if you spell my work the way you spell, you will ruin the joke."

"My dear girl. Try to have more confidence in your abilities as a storyteller. Believe me, as amusing as your...unique...style was for the first few chapters, there is no way it could alone hold the attention of a reader to the end of the book. Meanwhile, as I say, many people--including Hilary and Aelianus --just cannot read your writing, and thus we must remove the barricades."

"Okay," said the Inner Child. "As you are the Outer Adult, I suppose you must have your way when it come to boring things like RULES. However, I have one request, since I take it you need me to finish the glorious tale."

"Anything within reason," I promised.

The Inner Child looked suddenly pathetic, like Notburga's great brown eyes when she asked me, in our shared guest room on the Isle of Wight, whether Hewbert would live or die.

"Just don't change the spelling of Hewbert," she whispered.

"It's a deal," I said. "This is Scotland, after all."

You may find the first Sunday installment of The Bodice Ripper here.

A Success

Since March 18, I have completely filled an edition of this book (the one on the bottom) with fiction. I have 7.75 completed first drafts of stories and some nice ideas to which I may return later.

I mention this because fiction, though absorbing, is very hard work. As you may have guessed, blogging is easy for me. But writing fiction is very hard, and the hardest part is sitting in a chair long enough and often enough to finish it.

In case you are still worried about  "the bodis riper", which I rather unfairly stopped while Hewbert was lingering in bed between life and death, I have not destroyed it or anything like that. But it was at 100,000 words (ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND)--most of them deliberately misspelled--and just ponder, for the moment, what it feels like to an author have written a funny, popular story of 100,000 words (so far) that she knows nobody will never, ever, publish, let alone pay a dime for.

Nevertheless I feel badly for its fans (especially Notburga, whose brilliant (and edifying) Sheep Horror Comic can be found here), so maybe I will finish "the bodis riper" by rewriting a chapter every Sunday and thus gaining the momentum to finish it. I do actually know how it ends. And although it is rubbish, it is our rubbish, so I supposed I should treat it with more respect. (Sigh.)  And when it is done, we can have a virtual party.

Our Literary Roots

Today is Artistic Wednesday, and yesterday I had a play date with the Inner Child. As our play date last week at the Museum of Childhood and Blackwell's was so successful, I thought this week we would go to Edinburgh Central Library and have a look for the book I suddenly remembered during our last play date. This book is called Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfeild.

I didn't realize how famous Ballet Shoes is when I began looking for it, but then I didn't remember what it was called or who it was by. I just remembered that it had three adopted sisters, one of whom became an actress and one of whom became a dancer. One was called Pauline and one was called, I thought, Petra. Happily, just remembering "Pauline" and "Petr--" and "ballet" was enough to find out the title on the internet.

The crucial thing I remembered was how very much I once loved this book. So after a long morning of housework and writing, I got on the bus to find it.

Julia Cameron of  The Artist's Way  says that one should write down items of clothing one wants and see if they magically appear,.Amusingly enough, one of my last thoughts leaving the house was that I really need a new pair of comfortable shoes, ideally navy blue loafers, and the moment I got off the bus, what did I see? A Scots shop selling shoes for ridiculously low prices, including navy blue loafers at £10.

I bought the loafers and walked to Edinburgh Central Library on the George IV Bridge. This library is almost beside The Elephant House, where J.K. Rowling wrote part of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. It is across from the National Library of Scotland, where B.A. and I go to do grown-up research. When I went into the wonderful Georgian building, I saw no  children's books, but I did see a sign saying "Language Learning."

"Oh no, you don't," said a little voice at my elbow. "This time is for ME!"

"But I can't see the children's section."

"Well, ask someone. Ask the man at the desk."

So in a hushed voice I asked the man at the desk, and he gave me directions to the new children's wing. It had just opened, he said, which I thought was another fortuitous moment of Cameronian synchronicity. So the Inner Child and I went out into the grand foyer, and turned left and then made a right, and turned left  again and found ourselves in the children's wing. Happy screams pierced the air.

"They're louder than even me," observed the Inner Child.  "Oooh! Look a big circle cut into the wall big enough to sit in! It's padded! You're supposed to sit in it! I'd like to read there, for sure."

"Unfortunately, it's too small for your Outer Adult," I said, looking about. I was bewildered by the almost empty space. It was long on architectural cleverness, but short on books. I had to ask to find out where the "Ts" were, and then, when I made more detailed inquiries, was reminded that the author's name began with "S." Meanwhile, they didn't have Ballet Shoes at that location. The man offered to order in the copy from the one branch that had it in, but as one of the three toddlers in the joint screamed and toddled, I said I would have a look across the street at the National Library.

"Bor-ing," said the Inner Child, sulking along. "The National Library is for grown-ups. It's dull and grey and has no comfy chairs. It takes them half an hour to find something, and you're not allowed to look yourself. I don't want to go to the National Library. I want to go to Blackwell's and eat chocolate."

"That certainly did not work out as planned," I admitted, pausing in the enormous hall of the National Library. I wondered what we would do while we waited for the book to be fetched. Having a coffee while reading the papers wouldn't cut any ice with the Inner Child. "When we were the same age, was our children's section back home that noisy?"

"No," said the Inner Child positively. "There was a lady at the desk in front with glasses on a chain and she said Shhh a lot and parents were meaner and more embarrassed back then anyway. It was even bigger than that Children's Wing, and it had a LOT of books. And a fish tank in the wall. And in the second room there was a space down in the floor that you could sit in while a lady sat in front and read stories. It had millions and millions of books. It had Henry and the Purple Crayon and Harry the Dirty Dog and Choose Your Own Adventure novels. It was a totally awesome library. It sucks that they knocked it down. It was all 1960s-1970ish, but in a nice Canadian Owl magazine kind of way, with lots of windows and trees around and a windowed corridor, and it smelled good. Not good like food but good like library books. It had wall to wall orange carpets, and turnstyles that went KA-CHUNK. The new library back home sucks. Its children's section looks like Chernobyl."

"You haven't the slightest idea what Chernobyl looks like," I said, feeling very bored with the mature, practical character of the National Library. "Okay, let's go to Blackwell's."

"REALLY, OUTER ADULT?! REALLY?! WE CAN GO TO BLACKWELL'S!"

"Yes, yes, pipe down."

"Are you actually going to BUY the book? Ooooooh! What will B.A. say?"

"If I buy the book, I will buy it from the Canadian account."

"But B.A. says it's ultimately all the same money, and the Canadian account is not like this extra magic money you can pretend is just yours."

"Do you want the book or not?"

"Oh, I do I do I do! Can we take it back to George IV bridge and eat something yummy at Café Valerie? It's so romantic and fluffy."

"No, my feet hurt too much from these stupid high heeled boots. We can go to the hipster café."

"No way," yodeled the Inner Child. "Too many beards. And beside that's where you do Poh-lish."

She ran ahead and did a weird wiggling walk that I presume was an imitation of my own noble tread.

"Ooooh look at ME, I am so hip, I write in Poh-lish. I am an in-tell-ECK-choo-al! I may be over forty but I am totally down with the hipster kids. I can swing dance, and I even have the glasses on today,  Na-PRRRRRRR-AHV-da?"

"Stop that. Okay, we won't go to the hipster café. We can get something at Blackwell's."

So we went to Blackwell's, and the Inner Child made a bee-line for the children's section which, although much smaller than the Central Library's new children's wing, was much better stocked. The Inner Child bounced around so much looking at things that in the end I had to ask a sales clerk for help. She found Ballet Shoes right away.

"YAY," shouted the Inner Child, only this time in a way this other adult could hear. She smiled and went back to her counter

And in the end I had a café au lait and the Inner Child had a gingerbread man, and we sat together in a red leather armchair in a corner of the bookstore café and read all about Paulina, Petrova, Posy, Garnian, Nana and Gum.

Which children's books did you like best? 

The Weasleys

Ginny Weasley, long awaited girl.

It's big family week on Edinburgh Housewife, not because I want to rabbit-punch our sovereign pontiff (I don't), but because I am laid low by a nasty cold and wish my own big family were around to bring me tea and snacks.

For the record, I have read Francis's entire statement (as one does) and I find only two objectionable things: his use of the crude anti-Catholic smear "like rabbits" and his holding up of a mother of eight for ridicule. I think he would have got his point across much better if he had mentioned a penniless man who refused to learn NFP and badgered his wife for sex-on-demand despite A) her ill health or B) really not being able to feed the children they already had. This is probably a reality for millions of women across the developing world, and if the Holy Father had mentioned him instead, the Catholic blogosphere would not now be covered with bunny pictures.

Mind you, I rather like the bunny pictures. I also like all the witty remarks about bunnies B.A. and I have been exchanging. My guess is that married Catholics across the world are making flirtatious bunny remarks to each other this week. Perhaps there will be a baby boom in October as a result. Outraged relatives and neighbours will hiss, "I thought Pope Francis said you weren't supposed to be like rabbits", and the married couple, sleepless and exhausted, will giggle foolishly.

My nasty cold rather discourages bunny behaviour, but it does not prevent me from working on my Polish. And so I have been reading and listening to Harry Potter i Komnata Tajemnic, which is the Polish version of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I have got to the chapter called "Nora" which turns out to be Polish for "The Burrow", the name of the Weasley home and also, er, what rabbits live in. Oh dear. I cannot get away from rabbits today.

Harry Potter has long been a focus of Catholic controversy, and this has always mystified me, since no-one has seizures over the magic-filled Oz books. I find the early HP books wonderfully inventive and well-written. J.K. Rowling has a clver sense of contrast, inviting us to compare Harry's nasty uncle and aunt and their one spoiled child with the generous, sprawling, cash-strapped Weasley clan.

The Weasleys are a traditional family with a father in a civil service post, a mother at home, and seven children, two of them grown up and employed by the time the baby is 10. The youngest Weasley is the only girl, which I suppose is an explanation to those who need one. ("WHY did the Weasleys have so many children, Mummy?") A much more amusing explanation is that the Weasleys, so red-haired and all, were not only wizards but Roman Catholics. Their religious faith being at odds with their wizard world, they made a bargain with their consciences, and lo.  On the other hand, maybe they just like children. They certainly embrace Harry and also Hermione, whose mother possibly prefers drilling teeth to raising children.*

If J.K. Rowling were a Catholic--she isn't, she's Church of Scotland--her critics might have taken her to task for the happy fecundity of the Weasleys and accused her of Catholic propaganda. Nasty little Draco Malfoy is an only child, and we are invited to condemn his sneers at the Weasleys for having "more children they can afford", not to applaud them.

The Weasleys also embody traditional male and female characteristics. Mr Weasley is the sole breadwinner (unless Charlie and Bill send money home) whereas Mrs Weasley cooks, cleans, launders and shouts. Bill prospects for gold. Charlie wrassels dragons. Prefect Percy plots to become Minister of Magic. Fred and George are famous for their pranks and go into business. Ron is sports-mad and wizard (ha ha) at chess. Ginny begins her school career as a damsel in distress and ends it as female romantic lead. (Yes, J.K., we know Hermione ought to have married Harry, just as Louisa M's Jo ought to have married Laurie. Too late now. )

I note, however, the more classically Protestant/Anglican Christian names of the father (Arthur) and children. "Molly", of course, is a diminutive of Mary. Maybe Molly is the only Catholic parent. Maybe my Catholic theory is a bit of a stretch.

The good, impecunious Weasleys are a contrast with the wicked, rich Malfoys. (Weirdly, by the Malfoy's own standards they are the same "class", being Grade A pure-blood wizards.) Their poverty is also a contrast to Harry's inherited wealth. This is quite a good thing from a literary point of view, as it mean Ron has a struggle between envy and loyalty, and Harry has something else beyond his control to feel badly about.

Reading the Harry Potter stories with strict attention, in two languages, reveals how dark they really are. Six year old children may find it funny that Harry is forced to live in a cupboard under the stairs--and my parents do have a cupboard under their stairs  big enough to house a child--but Child Protective Services would not find that funny at all. It is also not funny to adults that eleven-year-old Dudley is obese, thanks to his greed and his parents overfeeding. Of course, this provides another useful contrast, for Harry is thin. In fact, by the Chamber of Secrets, he is actually starving. And this is again helpful for underscoring the superiority of the Weasley family, for shortly after Harry is rescued from his abusive uncle and aunt, Mrs Weasley dishes up "eight or nine" sausages, three fried eggs and bread and butter.

I won't launch into the one-child Malfoys who, given their obsession with blood purity, family prestige and intermarriage, probably had infertility issues. (Oh, say! That's why they sneered at the Weasleys. Envious as hell!) No, the one-child family that epitomizes money-clutching lack of generosity is the dastardly Dursleys.

Almost everyone in the Harry Potter books is obsessed with name brands (e.g. the Nimbus 2000), but the Dursleys are the very soul of grasping consumerism. They are also deeply wedded to the notion of the nuclear family, having cast off Petunia's (also Muggle) parents entirely and socializing only with Vernon's rich sister Marge, who prefers dogs to children. Although they are not hurting for money, and Petunia stays at home, the Dursleys have elected to have just one child, upon whom they lavish ridiculous amounts of presents. They begrudge every penny they spend on their nephew, to the point of feeding him as little as possible.  Why they were not afraid of Social Services checking up on them, never mind Dumbledore, is a mystery to me.

Quite obviously Dudley Dursley would have been better off had he had to fight various brothers and sisters for his parents' attention and learned to accept living with limited resources. But I am afraid this was always going to be unlikely, for as we know from their treatment of Harry, the Dursleys are incredibly stingy. Interesting that they would give Dudley everything except a brother or sister to love.

So I continue to be mystified that some Catholics think the Harry Potter books are a portal to hell when they underscore that generous poverty is better than impoverished riches, big families can be happier  than small families, and self-sacrificial love for others is the answer to just about everything.

*Of course, she may have married late.

Barista Barry

While I was digging through boxes, I came up with an old comic monologue I wrote years ago. It is on a subject of interest to Cardinal Burke. Sadly, it is based on real conversations.

                                                                 "Barista Barry"

You won't believe how glad I am you came in today. Just a sec. I have to tell Jerome I'm taking my break. Would you like a latte? Chocolate or cinnamon? I'll be right back.

You know what? My problem is that I love women too much. They're just so cute. Well, some of them. I don't mean fat ones or the ones over thirty, of course.

I am such a feminist now. Before I dropped out of university I was a big conservative, but then I went to the Boston Museum of Art and was SAVED. I love art. It changed my life.

I was in the Catholic seminary then. I really wanted to become a priest. I loved the seminary. They had maids. The maids cleaned my room and did my laundry and did all the cooking and never complained. They worshipped us as gods.

But my girlfriend wanted me to leave. Her name was Dahlia. Isn't that a beautiful name? It's like a flower. I still can't believe she ditched me. I gave her a big art book or Christmas. It cost me a hundred dollars. I took her to the Symphony Orchestra and to dinner so many times. I read her Keats in the moonlight. Wasn't that romantic? I love Keats so much.

One night I took Dahlia to Canoe. It cost me two hundred dollars. Afterwards I gave her a rose and said I was in love with her. And do you know what she said? She said, "Barry, if you really love me, you should leave the seminary."

That's when I learned that the best part of a relationship is the thrill of the chase. It's such a letdown once you've told a girl you love her. Talk about a denouement. Anyway, I did leave the seminary, but by then I hadn't spoken to Dahlia for three months and she got engaged to a teacher named Pierre. I mean, Pierre. I am so bitter. I don't want to talk about her.

I like high school girls better than university girls. You don't think I'm too old to go out with high school girls, do you? I'm only twenty-eight. It's not like I'm some pervert. I am very sensitive to the way women think and feel. I mean, "Ally McBeal" is my favourite show. Mmm, Ally. She's so sweet. Besides, women my age are so cynical. And they're desperate, too. You know: tick-tock, tick-tock. All women know that once they hit thirty and they're not married they've had it. High school girls are so naive and sweet. They totally believe in romance.

I met a high school girl on Saturday. Her name is Lily. Isn't that a beautiful name? It's like a flower. I think I'm in love with her. She's a vegetarian, and she thinks all religions are crap. I am so over Catholicism. I told her I've based my own spirituality on Keats and Deepak Chopra. She thought that was amazing. She's sixteen. Do you think that's too young? For me, I mean.

I'm asking you because it's so important that I get this one right. I used to ask Violet for advice. She was my only woman friend. It's very hard to be friends with women. If I meet a girl, I can't help falling in love with her. That said, I would never fall in love with Violet. She's so cynical and bitter since she left her psycho husband. She's twenty-eight, too. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I phoned her all the time when I was in love with Daisy.

Oh my gosh--DAISY! Isn't that a beautiful name? It actually is a flower.  Daisy was a  grad student at York. Art history. She was beautiful, and she was actually smarter than me. I was in awe of her. We used to talk for hours when she came in, and even though she was a graduate student, she believed in romance. I gave her a red rose every day for a week. That cost me twenty dollars. I took her to the opera three times in one month. I always got the best seats: one hundred and thirty dollars each. And of course I took her to dinner, too.

After the third opera, Daisy and I made out on the boardwalk near the harbour. I called Violet the next morning. Incidentally, isn't that the weirdest name? Violet. It's like "violent" without the N.

"Barry, I'm not in a good mood," Violet said. "My ex threw our wedding album through my window last night."

"But listen," I said.  "Daisy went with me to the opera again last night. She really liked her corsage, and we made out afterwards."

"Congratulations," said Violet. "Finally something for all that cash."

"Absolutely," I said. "Do you think that makes me her boyfriend?"

"I think you should ask Daisy that question," said Violet.

An hour later, I called Violet back. I was crushed.

"She says she wants to take ME out next time," I said.

"But that's great," said Violet. "Why are you upset?"

"She says I spend too much money on her," I said. "I thought she LIKED me!"

"Of course she likes you, you moron," snarled Violet. "She REALLY likes you. She's trying to say she likes you for more than your stupid money."

"You think she wants me for a boyfriend?"

"Mostly, Barry, I think you should get a grip and move out of your parents' basement."

"But if I move out, I won't be able to afford the opera or flowers!"

Then she said she had to go because the police had arrived. You know--the photo album, the ex and the broken window. Yadda yadda.

I really wanted to believe Violet, but I had to be sure. You know how girls are. They say one thing and mean another. So I went to Godiva and bought a big gift basket. It was full of chocolate and cookies and coffee with mugs and a CD. It cost me one hundred and eighty dollars. I put it on Daisy's doorstep that night, rang the doorbell and went away.

When I called Daisy the next day, I couldn't BELIEVE how cold she sounded.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Didn't you like the basket?"

"It was nice, but kind of weird, Barry."

"I thought it was romantic," I said.

And then I really worried.  I thought she liked chocolate, but I guessed I was wrong. That evening I bought a big basket of roses. Red roses. Wasn't that romantic? I left my house at eleven. Oh wait, back up. Just before that Violet called. She was freaking out.

"Barry, I need you to come over. I'm really scared. My ex sent me a big box of flowers today with the heads cut off. I don't want to be alone. What if he comes by?"

"What a psycho," I said. "You should never have married him."

"I know, I know. Are you coming over?"

"Okay, sure, but not until I do something."

I felt sorry for her, but I thought she'd understand that Daisy had to come first. I put the big basket on Daisy's doorstep and rang the doorbell. Then I ran across the street to watch.

Nobody came out. I couldn't believe it. I guessed Daisy was out. I sat on the curb to wait for her to come back.  I waited until three A.M. No Daisy. I was crushed. I went home. I was SO upset.

The next morning I called her. But instead of her or her roommate, I got an electronic voice telling me she couldn't be reached. I tried again and got the same answer.

Then I understood. She was BLOCKING MY CALLS!!!! Like I was some psycho pervert! That was so cold. I mean, blocking a guy's calls!  Don't you think that is the coldest thing EVER?

So then I called Violet, but she was all "Barry, where were you?"

"Oh, I totally forgot. I had to go to Daisy's. I had to save our relationship, but now she's screening her calls! What does that mean?"

"You---what?"

"I left her a big basket of roses. They cost me eighty dollars. And now she's blocking my calls!"

"BARRY" she screamed and said the rudest things I've ever heard a woman say. She wasn't like a woman at all. I couldn't believe it.

This morning Bob, this lawyer guy, came in for his skinny latte, and he said, "Barry"--in exactly that voice. "Barry, to hell with women."

And you know what? He's right. To hell with women. Except Lily, of course. The high school girl I was telling you about. She's so sweet. I think I love her.

*****

Update: Just typing that out has put me in a very bad mood. I think I must have been in a very bad mood when I wrote it. I will now think very hard about good men I know.