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Megan Nolan is a writer of essays, criticism and fiction born in Ireland and based in London. She writes a fortnightly column for the New Statesman.
Life feels so savagely hollow to me right now that to look closely at an hour seems terrifying.
Two surveys of sex and seduction show that not much has changed.
Online, people began to make jokes about prison rape. It always shocks me, that ugliness.
Suddenly seeing an outdated version of ourselves makes remembrance uncanny, and often painful
It would be difficult not to capture someone homeless if you took a picture more or less anywhere in Dublin city centre.
What you leave out is as important as what you choose to include.
I was almost always sexualised, which was no hardship because I fancied everyone like mad.
The pharmacist looked confused and told me, “It’s free.”
Had I really wandered around weeping to “How Can I Tell You” by Cat Stevens over a man I’d met perhaps three times?
More free time and less financial hardship would mean that holidays would cease to be the only source of pleasure.
