An awful Woolf Night?

Becky Binz-Comely was having an awful night. Every 25th January was the same: celebrating that terrible oik Burns, who was appalling to his women and whose father was a mere tenant. Haggis!  

She would write an article for the Guardian culture section. They would take anything written by and celebrating talentless posh.

'Virginia Woolf, whose contribution to and influence on literature has been immense, was born on the same day as Ayrshire’s favourite son – yet year after year, no one shows up to her party.' That this could be because Woolf was an over-privileged loony who wrote excruciating banal never wormed in Becky's 'mind'. 

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. Oh, the profundity! Becky was in raptures. Boeuf en daube! Becky was sure they never ate that in Ayrshire.

'Emily Brontë’s bicentenary is due in July.' Quite by chance, mid-rant, Becky tripped over a great writer, but perhaps realised her error and sped swiftly on. 

'But women’s writing is valued differently – that is, less'. If there are too few women writers worth valuing then women who care should ask themselves why. Honestly. Hint: they won't solve the problem by puffing Kensington mediocre.








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