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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.
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.
To apply the concept of “if you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all” to cultural criticism is to accept that art is created solely to fulfil the ego of the artist.
My estimation of my own sexual and physical worth has always dramatically fluctuated depending on location and context.
Once, when my card was declined as I tried to get the Tube, I called to let him know that I couldn’t come over any more. “What?” he said. “Just transfer some money!”
It is time our major art institutions address the mucky business of money.
