Maeve's Times: In Her Own Words

Maeve's Times: In Her Own Words

Maeve Binchy

Language: English

Pages: 383

ISBN: 0804172765

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Before she was a bestselling novelist, Maeve Binchy started out as a columnist for The Irish Times. Her articles—focused on the famous and the obscure alike—were filled with the warmth, wit, and keen human interest that readers would come to love in her fiction.
        From royal weddings to boring airplane companions, from Samuel Beckett to Margaret Thatcher, from life as a waitress to “senior moments,” Maeve’s Times gives us five decades of Binchy’s insight into a changing world—revealing her characteristic directness, laugh-out-loud humor, and unswerving gaze into the true heart of a matter.

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way through the jungle to get there, as if the place was some kind of forest clearing in Borneo instead of a suburban house in Ealing, and in turn you had to listen to everyone else’s story. I decided it was a ritual, like the way a dog often turns round a lot before settling down; London people had to tell you where they left the M4 and how they had skirted round the back of Paddington. Then, when it had all been said, you could talk about real things. It was very boring and I used to thank

begin “When I was at the doctor …”?’ What did we do with our time when we weren’t at the doctor? It does take up a disproportionate amount of your time, just the business of maintenance and keeping yourself together. There are lots of things I wish I had done more of – studied harder, read more and been nicer and all those things – but I don’t have any regrets about any roads I didn’t take. Everything went well and I think that’s been a help because I can look back, and I do get great pleasure

thought, and in the grey light of morning the dress didn’t look too bad on the back of a chair. And there wasn’t time to get a skirt and blouse and look normal like everyone else, and I checked around and not everybody had been invited to his formal party; in fact only three of us had. So I rang the mother of the cousin again, and she was embarrassingly gratified this time, and I decided to allow my ears to cure and not wear any earrings, and to let the perm grow out, and to avoid dyed shoes.

little work here, don’t we? Did you say you only booked for the mini facial? Ah, well, we’ll see what we can do.’ I spent an hour and �2.80 fighting off offers to tear off my eyebrows, refusing to pay another 60p to have my face hoovered with some electric vacuum cleaner that had come in that week from America, and denying utterly that I wanted my ears pierced, even though there had been some mistake and a piercing girl came into the cubicle with what she called sleepers saying that cubicle

had no explanation. ‘It’s just the way they do it. These men find that people are seldom grateful for their surgery and care, and that often they don’t pay afterwards. So they insist on keeping everything businesslike, that’s all.’ Next day at two-thirty, Anna went to Mr Brown’s consulting rooms in Wimpole Street. His secretary looked like Jane Fonda and spoke like a deb, on a bad day. ‘Let’s be practical,’ she said nauseatingly. ‘Here’s the damage, would you like to pay me now?’ It was

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