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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.
I fear the return will not be a simple reunion with my old joys, but a reckoning with all the joys we have missed out on over the past year.
I had visions of book burnings and scarlet letters, but then I remembered: parents are adults, too...
When men learn to separate the idea of personhood from the idea of sex, it enables the darkest of violence to occur.
We can’t change how the pandemic makes us feel – but we can be honest with ourselves about those feelings.
The woefully inadequate food parcels sent out to needy children undermined the dignity and the basic well-being of those who received them.
Women’s magazines and Bridget Jones’s Diary taught me to believe constant self-criticism and a desire to change wasn’t a system flaw, but an innate part of being a woman.
In the year of the pandemic, I decided a not-quite-right Christmas seems sadder than its entire absence.
After a regrettable attempt at a handshake in the corridor in June, I fear they consider me a dangerous idiot.
We are drawn to the idea that we can turn our mistakes into milestones – but there are no great lessons to be learned from losing.
Actually, I’ve never committed to anything I couldn’t extricate myself from pretty quickly if I wished to.
