Am I... ginger?

The cat nipped into to HMV on Oxford Street yesterday to pick up a little something for the still off-sick Dr. I've spent the evening working tonight (a bit of writing of my own, a bit of reading the veritable glories of Mr E Robson of the North), and every now and then I'm called through to enjoy a choice moment from Anne of Green Gables.

I'm informed that it's the epic tale of little ginger orphan who reads and talks too much, and gets into trouble with her gossipy neighbours. The opening five minutes reminded me of Labyrinthe, but it's been making the Dr squeal all evening. Apparently it spoke to her a lot when she was little. Didn't the cat do well?

One bit I was called for was the dying of the hair, and much discussion followed about the joys of being ginger. And then I found this gem while glancing through old notebooks for something (which I think I've lost), diliginantly copied out from whatever the Dr was reading one Christmas.

"The belief that red hair is unlucky dates back to the Egyptians, who burned red-haired women alive in an attempt to wipe them all out."

Lucinda Hawksley, Lizzie Siddal, the targedy of a pre-Raphaelite supermodel, p. 2.