Classic Review: Middlemarch, George Eliot (or venturing into provincial life…)

One of my New Year’s resolutions was to read (or re-read) classic novels. You know, those books literati refer to with arched eyebrows and smug smirks, to which I nod knowingly about and bluff my way through, whilst never having ACTUALLY really read. (Advanced English & Cliff’s Notes for the win).

See Me, Nicholas Sparks (Or a dud by any other name…)

The world can never be free of Nicholas Sparks.
I have realised this. I may not have embraced it, but I have definitely acknowledged the fact that in the world of bizarre, strange, intriguing, generic, and down right bland interests, Nicholas Sparks fills a void.
He is the reason why prematurely grey actors still can find work; why action heroes can still make movies in the off-season, why women (and society in general), have completely unrealistic ideas about

House By Mouse (a Statement on 80s Feminism, or an Occupational Nightmare of Mammoth Proportions?)

I have book hoarding tendencies. It’s true (and you probably don’t find that all that shocking) but I just can not get rid of any book.
It is unfortunately, a family trait. My father had to build an extra room onto our house when we were young, specifically to house all the accumulated masses collected over the years.
He built this before our bedrooms.

Sisterhood of the Travelling Film Festival

Shall I tell you what I have just survived????

It’s not near-death by jungle python, or near-miss by a bison; although, with the relief I feel at it being finished, it could be totally reclassified as such…) No, It was a solid 72 hours of film festival. To the uninitiated, that’s 9 films, 30 shorts and very little space in between…