Caitlin Moran

I don’t know why it took me so long to get into Virginia Woolf, but now I love her with the same passion as my best friends. Everything she wrote is amazing – Orlando is the Sgt Pepper of novels; a sexy psychedelic concept album bursting with unforgettable riffs – but A Room of One’s Own has a particular clean, precise, joyous anger to it that still reads as in advance of it’s time, nearly a hundred years later. I walk around Fitzroy Square and think of her; if I had a third girl, I would call her “Virginia.” Or “Woolf.”