LITERARY SHENANIGANS...

A year ago I was persuaded, against my better judgement, to take part in the first Women Aloud NI event at No Alibis bookshop. A whole clatter (a quire?) of women writers were going to celebrate International Women's Day by reading short extracts from their work (well at least they'd be short) but then we were all going to have to read together. That's bits of fiction, poetry, travel, biography, you-name-it, read ALOUD, at the same time, in a confined space.

It was obvious to me that the organiser, Jane Talbot, was a lunatic, but she was a persuasive lunatic, and I'd already agreed, so I turned up. I took the other two members of the Literary Ladies Get Slightly Drunk Society along with me for moral support, but in the end we all enjoyed ourselves hugely and I had to take back everything I'd said.

I didn't take part in this year's events, mainly because I was reading in three branch libraries on three successive evenings last week, and that seemed like enough excitement. Also, this year's shenanigans took place in public places - in Belfast and in Dublin - and I don't think I'm that brave. Not without dark glasses and a false moustache, which might have looked slightly out of place... But I take off my hat to all who took part (and to the indefatigable Jane) for their enthusiasm, and their dedication to making women's voices heard.

The library events were a pleasure. Lesley Allen, Angeline King and I read from our novels and answered questions at Newtownbreda, Banbridge and Larne libraries, and at all three we were made enormously welcome. The number of people who turned out to hear us was surprising - to me, anyway. I don't usually expect much of an audience - Professor Gloom, the Literary Ladies (suitably bribed), two drunks and a passing dog would be average. Mind you, the Literary Ladies provide a certain arty glamour, and Professor Gloom's furrowed brow and downcast eyes are generally taken for evidence of deep literary thought, when he is, in fact, playing Solitaire on his phone.

The other great pleasure of public readings is that you get to know your fellow-writers, discover the

things you have in common, and the books you've recently enjoyed.
Lesley, Angeline and I all loved Sarah Winman's When God was a Rabbit, and if you liked it too, then you might try The Land of Decoration by Grace McCleen: both books are whimsical, funny and touching. And we all three of us read, at least once, from the start of our own novels - which is hardly surprising: if your first few sentences don't grab the reader's attention, you're probably in trouble.

I'm a fan of clever, quirky novels myself, and three of my favourites (all by women, as it happens) have some of the most memorable opening lines in fiction.,

Dodie Smith's beguiling I Capture the Castle  - one of my all-time favourite books - begins 'I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.' 

Kate Atkinson kicks off Behind the Scenes at the Museum with 'I exist! I am conceived to the chimes of midnight...'

And then there is The Towers of Trebizond by the wonderful, witty Rose Macaulay, with her deathless opening lines:

'"Take me camel, dear," said my aunt Dot, as she climbed down from this animal on her return from High Mass.' 

I defy anyone to do better.

And the week ended with Jan Carson's short story Egg being read aloud on Radio 4. All in all, a good week here for women's voices.

GREAT VARIATIONS

Northern Ireland went to the polls on Thursday, and I went to cast my vote for Alliance. I believe passionately in the non-sectarian, shared-future aims of Alliance. I've also got a soft spot for the Greens, and I applaud anyone who tries to put their views across in an unaggressive, dignified manner. (Why can't more people be like Stephen Farry?) Unfortunately confrontation is still the order of the day, and there have been times in the last week when I felt I would vote for anyone who didn't try to shout the opposition down. Couldn't we start a movement to  have politicians lined up for discussion with their mouths taped shut, the tape to be removed for an agreed time - one minute? two? - before the next question is asked?

The opposite of listening to our politicians badmouthing each other is to listen to the @UlsterOrchestra. They have two wonderful conductors at present: the glorious Rafael Payare (think Johnny Depp meets Groucho Marx meets Fred Astaire) whose rapport with the orchestra is tangible and whose movements are so mesmerising I'd watch him conduct an empty stage; and there is Jac van Steen. I have a natural affinity with Jac - I've got Dutch blood in my veins - and there is a warmth and honesty about him that allows you to settle back, secure in the knowledge that what you are going to hear will be worth hearing. (Unlike most of our politicians.)

Friday's performance was definitely worth hearing. A young Spanish oboist, Ramon Ortega Quero, was deservedly cheered, but it was Elgar's Enigma Variations that raised the roof. Nimrod is the best-known - it was my father's favourite, we played it at his memorial service, and I can never hear it without thinking of him - but this performance was especially memorable. As Jac van Steen urged them on, the separate voices of the orchestra - strings, woodwind, brass, percussion - combined and soared together to produce a wonderful, powerful and soul-restoring end result.

I just wish our politicians were more like the Ulster Orchestra.

GOODBYE TO SELF-IMPROVEMENT

I

I'm a big fan of people who reclaim, recycle and generally put old things to new use. (Pity someone can't do the same for me...) Top favourite this week is ON THE SQUARE, Unit A3, 17 Heron Road, Sydenham Business Park. It's tucked away and there aren't any signs up yet, but it's worth hunting for, believe me.

Where do I start? If you need a row of lovely old wooden bum-friendly chairs, a stuffed weasel or a boar's head (and who doesn't?) a pin-ball machine, a Persian carpet, a mirror, a painting, a billboard - or just a funky light fitting and some fabulous reclaimed furniture, then On The Square is the place to go.

I'm also a fan of a Danish psychologist called Svend Brinkmann. I heard him on Radio 4 talking about his new book 'Stand Firm: Resisting the Self-Improvement Craze' and if I understood him correctly, he thinks the modern obsession with navel-gazing, right-to-happiness, find-your-inner-self stuff is a load of self-indulgent rubbish. Hooray for Svend! As far as I'm concerned, he's up there with Marcus Aurelius, another hero of mine, whose philosophy can be briefly summarised as 'Get a grip.'

Prof Brinkmann and Marcus Aurelius think you'll be happier if you look life firmly in the eye, accept that both you and it will never be perfect, and then do the best you can with what you've got. Knocking yourself out to achieve some perfect state of existence is a waste of time.

He's not in favour of too much empathy either, at least not when it clouds your judgement. My own youthful experience with my mother tells me he's right: all I had to do was look sad and wan (not every child can do pallor on demand - I was one of the lucky ones) and whisper, in a droopy little voice, 'I don't feel very well' and my poor mother would instantly begin to cluck. 'Oh dear! Why don't you jump back into bed and I'll ring the school.' Whereupon I would snuggle back down with the ten books I was hoping to read that week. I calculate I managed to miss at least 6 weeks out of every term for my entire school career.

There are some fabulous hypochondriacs and malingerers in fiction, incidentally. Jane Austen probably wins (Mr Woodhouse, Mary Musgrove - whose sore-throats are always so much worse than anybody's - and Lady Catherine de Bourgh's dismal daughter) but my personal best of the rest is the sublimely languid and health-obsessed Uncle Davey in The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate.

I can't say malingering did a lot for me academically: I ended up well-read and totally unfitted for any proper job. So I was tougher with my own children: hot honey and lemon, with a Disprin in dire emergency, but unless you had an actual broken leg, off to school you went. I admit I got it wrong once or twice (the child who was rushed to sick-bay with malaria is still inclined to bring it up) but by and large it worked.

So read Marcus Aurelius (Meditations - 167AD) and Svend Brinkmann, because real life is tough and getting tougher, and anyone who preaches common sense is worth reading. But if you take my advice, you'll give up self-help books and buy more novels instead; then when reality finally overwhelms you, at least you'll be able to lose yourself in someone else's world.

And if you were reading this last week, no, the ceiling didn't hold. There are builders overhead, grit underfoot, piled-up furniture looms through clouds of dust... and it's beginning to sleet. I think I'll go back to bed with a book.