When this first came out it seemed to be marketed as some kind of lightweight comedy, and although it does have its funny (not to say farcical) moments, it's a lot bleaker than I was expecting. Nicole Miller lives in a trendy Docklands loft conversion. Though she is married her husband, a handsome photographer, is hardly ever there, usually he's on the other side of the world with a bevy of beauties. When Nicole hears that her parents are planning to put her Gran into a home, she dashes down to Bristol and rescues her. What follows next could so easily have just been a lazy culture-clash, with working-class Gran a slapstick misfit in shallow London wine-bar society. Thankfully (as that kind of thing has been done to death far too many times) it's not.
It becomes rather bleak, and I have to say, depressing, when Nicole re-evaluates her life, and finds that she is starved of love. She craves affection from her Gran, but Gran is too busy being bewildered and resentful about her new environment. Nicole's marriage is based solely on sex. Nicole freely admits she simply can't stand anything else about hubby (it makes you wonder why they actually bothered getting married, but perhaps I missed something there). Like another reviewer said I hope this isn't based too closely on Burchill's real life, 'cos otherwise I'd feel really sorry for her! (And I'm sure she would hate that!).
Burchill the columnist has often made me laugh out loud, and this book is no exception. Some of the funny bits are far too filthy to be repeated in a respectable place like this, but one of the clean ones has Nicole explaining that her job often involves long business lunches. To which a bratty adolescent replies "is that why you're so fat? Because you eat lunch for four hours?" The ending is intended to be upbeat, and it is in a way, but it's also a bit sad. The only reason I've knocked off a star is because Burchill is a far better journalist than she is a novelist. A novelist has to retreat back into the shadows and allow their characters to take centre stage and act out the story. A novelist is a puppet-master if you like. But Burchill is unable to do this, which makes some of the conversations (particularly early in the book) feel a bit heavy-going, as she won't just write dialogue, she has to keep bustling in with endless acerbic comments. But in spite of all that, I can heartily recommend this book, particularly as a refreshing antidote to all the endless Bridget Jones stuff out there. And it was intriguing to get some insight into what makes the real Burchill tick.