And so we meet again

Seeing as I am back in the attic yet again, doing my Cathy Dollanganger impression, I thought I should also blog, seeing as that appears to be the way of things.

However this time, I swore I would not go back 5 pounds heavier, like I do every time I visit the States. Especially when you're staying over the road from stoner munchies heaven, Wawa. You gotta have it. After all, as a wise man once said, you never go to America to get thin.

This adamant intention has therefore meant I have been getting up between 6 and 7 every morning to do Davina workout DVDs. Whether that makes an entirely sane individual, I'm not entirely sure, but it's worked.

However, it has left me rather too much time of an evening to read the utter tripe that is Love Lies by Adele Parks. (Obviously I missed something other readers didn't at Amazon) Granted, the title was written in swirly pink lettering, with a heart dotting the "i" in Lies, so I should have known what was coming, but this is seriously the Worst Book I Have Ever Read.

Basic premise is girl is living with guy. Guy not yet grown up, she nearly 30, wants marriage and babies. Gives ultimatum, "propose to me on my 30th or leave". (I really should have read the back cover while running through Smiths at Heathrow... you can tell it's not for me already.) Then, cue ridiculous storyline of her falling for some huge popstar, him proposing to her at his gig, boyf dumped, she moves to LA with pop prince, gay BFF florist boss in tow. Not only is it the most contrived storytelling I have ever read, but you therefore get to read both her idiotic, vomit-inducing simpering, and his vacuous self-indulgence. Can you wait to find out how it turns out? No, neither could I.

Adele, Adele, what happened? Having read Game Over and impressed with your catty one-liners and dry social comment, where did it all go so wrong? Are we women so two-dimensional that any level of civilised story arc is beyond us? Of course not.

Having been involved with a famous person myself, and familiar with the egos of those who court the fame dream, the story is, trust me, very short. Only they will understand each other, and we should remain in blissful ignorance.

So, having reached my trash level, perhaps, for both my emotional and intellectual education, this is a blessing. At least the only way is up. It is a new decade, and a new reading focus shall follow.

Now, where should I start and who should I try? Substance please, but be gentle. I do after all read military history in my spare time. Of which I very much recommend Tommy at Gommecourt, a self-published tome about a plucky WWI soldier who tells it exactly like it was.

(Beverage: Gin. US measures. Shoes: Nine West metallic silver heels. When it's not snowing. A lady has limits, and that's falling on her arse.)