||[Mar. 12th, 2004|07:37 pm]
Does anybody else have the rather annoying habit of finding themselves taking on the persona of the narrator of whatever book it is one's reading? At least to a certain extent. This wouldn’t be too much of a problem depending on the narrator, but I’m reading Vernon God Little, and if you’ve read it, you’ll realise why this isn’t such a good thing. I need to get out more. Or at least stop living inside my head so much. At start would be to stop obsessing over the French girl who works in the same shopping centre as me. Before it was just pathetic, but now I’m just confused. We talk far more than a simple customer-server relationship demands, and about things that aren’t just idle chit-chat (sometimes). And in an annoying twist of fate, I was sent out to collect wine glasses for the launch of yet one more chick-lit* novel, only to be informed that she had come in and spent nearly an hour browsing in the art section. My co-worker claimed she was only half-heartedly looking at the books, and was more interested in the people coming out of the staff room, but me being the eternal pessimist, I’m reluctant to hope.|
*For you non-Irish readers (who are still reading this) chick-lit seems to be curiously unique to Ireland. Although there are non-Irish chick-lit writers, there seems to be a plague of them over here. The style tends toward the mediocre, and the subject matter is usually concerned with some love affair or misguided celebration of a misconception of wishy-washy feminism. Other people could describe them better.