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Everything is superficially perfect, except for one thing, the lack of sex. "I have no-one to sin with" wails Stella, and decides to do something about it. There follows a gruesomely confessional account of over-age drinking and drugs. And one-night-stands with a perma-tanned plastic surgeon--(sleeping with him is like "contorting an Action Man into unlikely positions") or an equally unappealing DJ, a thirtysomething man who thinks hes 17. And although Stella can be very witty on the dating game and middle-class laissez-faire parenting, less amusing is her scatological humour, or bad taste jokes about the handicapped. By the end of the novel Stella has decided that casual sex is not for her, a relationship is what she really, really wants. And her lucky partner? Well lets just say that ginger Frank isnt a red herring.--Eithne Farry
True its obvious whats going to happen, but arent all these books? Seriously funny though,this is not my genre at all so I was very suprised when I couldnt put it down.
Read it!!
Stella's unorthodox search for someone to scratch her increasing libidinous itch (which in itself include a strange but open account of recreational drug use and the consumption of vast quantities of alcohol) leads to an ill-advised forray between the black satin sheets of an elderly plastic surgeon, so permatanned is he, that he may very well have been Tangoed (not only but also, he is the perpetrator of some seriously buttock-clenching chat up lines that will make you roll about with glee) and later to a liaison with a "World's-Oldest-Teenager" DJ, closer to forty than she is, but more firmly in denial.
The meanderings of the plot are a distraction from the basic humour - surely it should be the other way around? Nevertheless, I bought this book because I loved My Life On A Plate (which had basically no plot at all, but was hurtingly funny and made me cry with laughter, once more on a packed commuter train) and I hoped that Don't You Want Me would be as funny. I was not disappointed.
Stella's rant through gritted teeth as she listens through the walls, once more, to her Lothario lodger (Frank, the ginger-haired artist) getting it on with what surely must be a howler monkey, had me bent double with mirth.
I enjoyed the "story", more so the characters (Stella's father is Great, with a capital "G") and even more so the humour. The chapters that include the Politically Correct nursery "Happy Bunnies" may, whilst reading, require the use of an oxygen tent.
Does our heroine find the Studly Dudley of her dreams? Well if I tell you that, there's really no point in buying it.
Once more and in the same vein as My Life On A Plate, India Knight manages to extract the Michael in a way that we can all relate to; even if the majority of single-mothers who might read this book aren't independently wealthy, swathed in cashmere, living in an airy house in Primrose Hill and able to afford the luxury of lying in bed with a killer hangover whilst the "staff" look after the baby.
If you ask me to sum it up, I would have to say that I love nothing more than an overdose of clever wit, and India Knight provides it in spades.
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