DISASTER PARTIES AND OTHER DIVERSIONS

Many years ago, when we lived at a school in Zimbabwe, I used to throw parties for female staff and friends - soirées, to which no men were invited. The idea was to give a group of women from many different countries and backgrounds a chance to let their hair down away from domestic obligations and get to know each other better. We ate, drank, laughed, danced and generally had a much better time than our male colleagues and partners - the nearest most of them got to parties was post-match beer drinking in the school pub. And yes, there was a school pub, probably because we were 12k from the nearest town so it was safer to have staff drinking on campus than disappearing into the night and possibly not getting back at all. (In another rural setting, three Irish friends stumbling back through the night heard a car screech to a halt, a door was flung open, and a voice yelled, 'Get in you fools - lions around!')

Back in Belfast, in a small terraced house off the Ormeau Rd, I revived the soirée habit, except that now we called them Disaster Parties, the reason being that all the women I knew led lives that were full of small disasters: work and money problems, relationships, no relationships - as well as the bigger ones: serious illness, divorce, widowhood...marriage. So we cheered ourselves up with food, wine and conversation. There wasn't room to dance in that house, but our evenings always included a bit of fortune-telling with The Ladies Oracle. 

If you've never encountered this Victorian gem, it's full of questions like 'How many lovers shall I have?' 'What must I do to please him?' and 'Should I confess all?' The answers were usually unsympathetic: 'Shall I soon be courted?' once got the response 'What fool would thus waste his time?' We always fell about laughing. The only man who ever turned up at one of these events (uninvited) was a peculiar astronomer, who was allowed to stay because of my fondness for his partner. My own Oracle forecasts were rarely favourable, but in the end I married this man, and my life took a surprising turn for the better. So much better, in fact, that I now look back on those disaster party years and marvel.

These days I have parties for writers, because God knows all writers need cheering up. We pretend we're there for serious literary discussion, but the truth is that we just eat, drink and let our hair down. And in view of the current hideous state of the world - and the approach of the so-called festive season - you might like to think about throwing a disaster party too. You don't have to do a Virginia Woolf's Mrs Ramsay, a Gatsby or a Bilbo Baggins shindig - no slow-cooked boeuf en daube, no orchestras or fireworks - you just need a few kindred spirits, and if you let everyone bring something to eat or drink, it won't even be expensive. It'll be cheaper than therapy anyway.

And, it goes without saying, stock up on books that are guaranteed to cheer, even if everyone else thinks they're rubbish.  Crime (nothing like a good murder to warm the heart) romance, biographies, whatever. Kate Atkinson's Death at the Sign of the Rook is a good bet. It descends into slightly farcical mayhem at the end, but is still immensely enjoyable - I've always liked ex-detective Jackson Brodie, and Lady Milton made me laugh out loud. (And while I'm at it, I'm re-reading Atkinson's Shrines of Gaiety: it didn't appeal first time round but, as so often happens, second time round is better.) 

I also enjoyed Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt - a surprise this, because everything about the look of this novel screamed 'You will hate me!' but the moment I began to read, I was trapped - much like the giant Pacific octopus at the heart of the story. Tova, the widowed aquarium cleaner, is a memorable character, but it was Marcellus the octopus whose voice really stole my heart. 

Amor Towles' Table for Two is next in line, then Begin Again by Ursula Orange, and several others: Danielle Dutton's Margaret the First (a novel about the first Englishwoman to write specifically for publication and described by the Guardian as 'luminous') and Nina Stibbe's Man at the Helm. 

And if you're looking for presents, there's a wonderful treat called At Home in a Book by Lauren O'Hara in which she illustrates the homes of various classic literary characters: Anne of Green Gables, A Little Princess, Sherlock Holmes, Captain Hook's ship, etc...guaranteed to appeal to any reader still eleven years old at heart. 

Lastly, let me recommend the genius of Edward Gorey. The Haunted Teacosy (A Dispirited and Distasteful Diversion for Christmas) is one of my favourites. I'm pleased to see that Gorey gets an article by Flora Neville in the winter edition of Slightly Foxed. As she writes, adults tend to underestimate children when it comes to books, and Gorey's 'speak to children as they are, not as we might wish them to be'. (PS If you really love someone who loves well-written, interesting, quirky and often forgotten books, buy them a subscription to Slightly Foxed.)

I also recommend avoiding any novels with blurbs featuring the words 'gut-wrenching' 'apocalyptic' 'toxic masculinity' 'brutality' and 'historic trauma'. But each to their own: the important thing is that when you switch off the television, put down the paper or close the latest deeply-meaningful (and infinitely depressing) novel, you have something comforting to turn to.

Of course you could just stick to drink and drugs, but by and large, books are cheaper and less harmful. So good health and happy reading to you all, and let's hope that next year is a little bit less grim. And if it isn't, try throwing a disaster party or two.