It's me Cathy I've come home ...

Mrs Murphy was my English high-school teacher. she was this fantastic woman who always wore silk scarves and used the word 'feeble'. She used to fine me 20c every time I used the word 'got' (there is no such word as got - I can still hear her and I still use the word received up until this very day) and 50c every time I used 'like' in the incorrect, like, sentence, how like - way harsh?

One of the other invaluable lessons she tried to teach me, besides how a silk scarf can make a woman look classy even next to a bunch of private school prima donnas, is that of the love shared between Cathy and Heathcliff. I don't know why I didn't get it when I was seventeen, seeing as usually one's feelings have much more power in your teens before you've been hit once or twice in the face by reality in your early twenties. Yes, they're insane, Cathy is a petulant brat who strings Heathcliff along, who later turns into a scorned monster more keen on revenge than of working things out with good ole Cath, but who can blame them? When in passionate love, parts of the brain resembles those with a mental illness. Let's face it, who doesn't love an emotionally unavailable man?

If anything, we can be grateful to Ms Bronte for creating her mater piece and allowing Kate Bush to interpretive dance her way through her own interpretation of the original creepy (yet strangely enthralling) love story. Chick lit today just don't have that kinda urgency. When was the last time our hero dug up the bones of their dead beloved? Not often enough is the answer.

cactus.

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