Entry for March 27, 2006

I've been given kind permission by the author of this very inaccurate biography to post it anonymously!



Once upon a time there was a left footed girl who could sleep at night, who

never had to worry about dirty nappies, who ate what she wanted when she

wanted, and watched movies for grown-ups.

She never ever tripped over plastic toys,

and she never, ever referred to herself as mum in adult company.

She never had teeth marks in her books, unless they were her own.

One bright and sunny day she woke up from her sleep and said "Brilliant! I

think that I will write a review of Hamlet under my maiden name"

Why under her maiden name, she thought.

"I know," "That way I can make all sorts of scholarly mistakes and nobody

will know that I am responsible for them".

So she sat in her short skirt with her footless woolly tights in front of

the fire on a crisp, clear winter day and began to type upon her laptop.

Slowly at first, then furiously.

Horatio and Hamlet were hanging out on the ramparts one gloomy day when the

ghost of hidden desires showed up. Hamlet's father was so uncomfortable

with his feelings that he exists in a shadow world, neither here not there.

So, she wrote at great length about the symbology of the king, followed by

a long discourse of Ophelia as anorexic.

Oh, the pleasure of writing without small children!

No matter that her review was terrible.

After a wonderful long day of writing she began to IM her transatlantic

friends, and accidentally copied her review to her 19 year old

correspondent in London named Chloe,

who was really a 55 year old man who happened to be an editor of the London

Review of Books

who, caught between a strict press deadline and an offer to meet in a pub

made the logical choice.

The next week she was surprised to see her review in print.

"Hilarious" said the editorial.

The literary word was abuzz with the very amusing and farcical review of

W. Shakespeare's work.

Editorial board members were agast that such a review had been published.

A lonelty deconstructionist literature professor in a lesser known redbrick

university incorporated the review into a dreadful course.

Kerry watched the controversy ebb and flow with great satisfaction, happily

basking in the protection of her maiden name

until disaster struck.

While drinking tea with her neighbor (unfortunately, with milk), who made

the best scones and clotted cream,

our heroine made a brief trip to the loo.

Despite her great agility, about which her audience could only speculate,

she had some complex tasks to perform.

Her neighbor, spying the laptop on the floor, took a peek at the contents

and discovered to her surprise that our protagonist was the infamous author

of the literary review of the decade.

When Kerry returned at some length (one's imagination runs a little wild),

she saw the open laptop, shrieked, and fled to the countryside.

"Incident in Birmingham" stated the Times.

"Neighbour Tells All" trumpeted The Guardian.

They had a nice photo on our Kerry on page three.

"Kerry Plot" screamed The Sun.

Fleeingby train to Wiltshire, which she could do because she did not yet

have children,

she eventually found herself in Uffington. Ascending the hill, she

encountered a large white horse incised into the ground.

Cleverly inserting herself into a large French tour group,

she explained the history of the white horses,

making the acquaintance of a young blade named Guillaume

who was transfixed by her beauty but would not explain why.

She continued with the tour and returned with them to France. Settling in

Beaune with her companion, she made a name for herself as a wine reviewer,

under her real name.

Word reached her distraught husband who brought ber back to Birmingham

where the lived happily ever after.

Soon she became pregnant, and mourned the days when she could write wildly

misguided reviews in front of the fire on cold winter days.