THE GIRL WHO NEVER READS A PAPER

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 136, 30 August 1927, Page 4

THE GIRL WHO NEVER READS A PAPER

We read so frequently of the enormities of the modern girl that we have grown tired of the subject; the immodest short frock, the reckless habit of smoking innumerable cigarettes, the inexplicable lure of the Charleston; all these have, from time to time, been denounced by those of an older generation, says an English writer, but the strange thing is that the most devastating shortcoming of all is seldom mentioned. It is this. Often the modern girl does not read a newspaper from one week’s end to another; not only girls but brides, wives and grandmothers who go through life depending on the few stray scraps of conversation they happen to overhear to tell them the news; or rather not depending—for the real fact is, they do not in the least want to hear the news. The world to them is bounded by the High Street on the north and the Town Hall on the south —and is peopled by some 10 or 20 individuals who all centre round themselves. They have no interests beyond their immediate circle and, of course, no conversation. And then they wonder what is the matter with them and why, when they have a pretty frock or two in the wardrobe, and a faultless complexion the world does not bow down before their charm. It never strikes them that the universe, after five minutes chat with them, is bored to death, and almost ready to scream or ring for the fire alarm. Take a very pretty girl I met at a dance a short time ago. She made a more lasting impression than she imagined. “Where do you think the missingnovelist is?” said I.

She gazed at me. “Is there one?” Yes. She said that at a time when this problem was engrossing both public and police; when divers were diving, hounds were hunting, airplanes searching, and thousands of people scrambling over hedges and ditches in the hunt for the missing lady! And there sat this girl, lovely as a flower, and just about as intelligent as a turnip. “Don’t you read the paper? I asked. “Oh, no.” She smiled brightly. “I never have time. I have more important things to do.” Then there was the lady to whom I remarked: “Isn’t it jolly to think that, when I go to America, I shall be able to ring you up and say ‘how do!’” “Will you?” she asked, vaguely. I explained that the press was ringing With the news of the first telephonic communication between England and America, though, of course, she should have known this. “But I thought one always had,” she murmured. “I cannot say what she meant and nor, I am sure, could she. But when I showed signs of mental anguish she said, crossly: “Oh, well— I’m not a highbrow, I admit.” I could see she imagined that only plain females with protruding teeth and unshingled hair could take the slightest interest in the news of the day. For her, and for girls like her, are there not new face creams, the changing waistline, and all the fascinating arts of flirtation? Wars, earthquakes, even murder mysteries, what do these matter to her? Docs she not look sweet? She does, I freely admit it, but she also looks stupid!.