My Life On a Plate [Paperback]

Some would say Clara (Jabba the) Hutt has achieved "the goal": husband, house and 2.4 children. She is a "smug married." However, there's always a downside and Clara's not-so-perfect life consists of carting her boys to and from school, giving her a chance to see how the truly flawless mothers exist; trying to decipher, after eight years of marriage, whether her mysterious husband actually exercises his bodily functions or not; and, of course, her eccentric family, which consists of a thin, beautiful, insane mother and a string of ex-step-daddies, plus ex-step-siblings. Added to the Clara cocktail are her swinging single friends, the perfect mothers who turn out to be Jezebels in M & S clothing, and the strange Irish dancer who she must interview, renamed by her five year old as "bloody Dunphy."

Hailed as the Bridget Jones of the 21st century, India Knight's first novel My Life on a Plate is a good giggle. If anything, it is the inverse of Bridget Jones since Clara Hutt starts with everything and heads in completely the opposite direction. Funny, warm and full of "does my bum look big in this?" sentiment, Clara ponders the question: "everyone wants to be married--don't they?" --Neena Dutta

A wickedly funny and painfully honest comic novel. It's a triumph (Sue Townsend )

Made me laugh out loud. Does for divorcees what Bridget Jones's Diary did for singletons (Lynn Barber Daily Telegraph )

The funniest novel of the year. A brilliant take on modern matrimony (Evening Standard )

A sharp, witty novel...groundbreaking in women's fiction in that it attempts to investigate modern marriage: what it does to women, to their sex drive and their sense of self (Marie Claire )

Brilliantly funny (Vogue )

A comic tour de force (Daily Telegraph )

That rare thing: the lightweight comic novel that is well written, neatly constructed and actually funny (Guardian )

Clara is a thoroughly engaging, modern heroine who never descends into head-clutching cuteness. If India Knight doesn't produce a sequel, sharpish, she needs her head examined (The Times ) --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

Clara Hutt (known to herself as Jabba the) is a ripe size 16 with a secret liking for kitten heels and see-through organza tops. She is 33 with a husband and two small boys, but some days she wakes up with the sneaky feeling that her life isn't all it should be. Her 6-year-old thinks he has nits; all the other mothers at the school gate are perfectly groomed but Clara is in pyjama bottoms. Clara, like millions of other women, is going through the motions of responsible adulthood, and only clinging on by the skin of her teeth. And just why is her husband so perpetually mysterious?

Rave reviews for My Life on a Plate!
'My Life on a Plate...allows India Knight to lay about her with glorious elan. Clara Hutt could eat Bridget Jones for breakfast. Actually, she'd be looking around for seconds before she'd finished.' Evening Standard

'This witty writer has written a snappy account of modern marriage with an underlying seriousness.' Sunday Times

'Sunday Times columnist India Knight extends her empire to include this first sharp, witty novel...groundbreaking in current women's fiction in that it attempts to investigate modern marriage: what it does to women, to their sex drive and their sense of self.' Marie Claire

India Knight was columnist of "Navel Gazing" on page 3 of the Observer Life section. She is now a regular contributor to magazines and newspapers, in particular for The Sunday Times. MY LIFE ON A PLATE is her first novel. She lives in London (E8).

What should happen is, I should somehow catch my reflection in a mirror, or a shop window, fifty or so pages in, and describe myself to you that way. Seems a bit contrived to me, that method, besides which if I catch my reflection in shop windows, I tend to scream with horror, rather than tip my head to one side and make measured, composed observations. Also, I always want to know what people look like right at the start, don't you? You'd feel pretty peeved if you discovered, much later on, that I was a psychopathic two-ton Tessie with flat feet and a moustache, or - worse - some hateful, eating-disordery twig that wafts around in Prada smelling of sick.

So let's get things straight. I don't smell of sick. (That's my friend Amber, whom you'll meet later. Her hobbies are bulimia and self-help books. My hobby is being compassionate.) And I don't weigh two tons, although as a ripe size 16, I'm hardly what you'd call frail and reedy either. What else? Five nine, dark hair, green eyes - oh look, I'm sounding all sexy, which isn't quite right. Let's see. If you asked Kate, my mother, she would shake her head very sadly, as if I were an especially precious kitten that had died in tragic circumstances, and tell you I've 'let myself go disgustingly'. And I suppose she would be right. I mean, I've got the man, the house, the children: why not celebrate by tucking into a doughnut or two of a morning? Or an apricot Danish, or indeed a whole tube of Pringles... As a consequence, I favour elasticated waists and lose tops, although I have a sneaky liking for vulgar shoes and organza (which I try to curb, as nobody wants to look like White Trash SlutMum at the PTA meetings). The best way I can think of describing myself is: we're not talking control pants yet, but we're not going to pretend that they haven't struck us as being a pretty damned handy kind of garment either.

My name is Clara, which is quite pretty, and my surname is Hutt, which isn't, although it enables me to think of myself as Jabba the Hutt in my more self-loathing moments. This is useful. I have two children, Charlie, who is six, and Jack, who is three. I have a husband, Robert, who is a mystery (does anybody actually know what goes on in their husband's head, or is it just me?) but quite attractive. I have a part-time job as a magazine writer, a big house and nice clothes, and friends that don't smell of sick as well as some that do. I am thirty-three. And some days I wake up with the sneaky feeling that my life isn't all it should be.

In the current climate, you probably want to know how I Got My Man. I do feel quite pleased with myself, sometimes, actually. I look at my friend Tamsin, thirty-four, single and desperate, and feel a worm glow of intense smuggery. Sometimes, though, I am so overwhelmed with jealousy - I can't remember the last time I was out all night, drinking martinis and flirting with strangers - that I feel compelled to initiate lectures, masquerading as conversations, about all the things that might go wrong if one were - perfectly hypothetically, of course - trying to have a child past the age of thirty-five. This is because, despite external appearances, I am a) on the childish side and b) not very nice.

Getting my man: why, the trick is to be young and attractive. No, not really. The trick is not to look. Robert and I were twenty-five when we got married, which is comparatively young these days, and I weighed three stone less and was a bit of a minx, which helped. I can say it, now that I am an Old Married Lady, with my minxdom very much behind me - rather like my cellulite. I don't know quite what happened. We met, we fell in love, we got married. It helps not to be desperate, as I'm so fond of telling Tamsin in my meaner moments.

Anyway, eight years! Isn't that amazing? And I haven't strayed. Well, I haven't got naked. I kissed someone I used to go out with, at a party, two years ago, but I don't think that counts. Does it? It was only a peck, though it was pecking with intent. I try not to think about it too often. Married women pecking exes with intent is like opening a tiny window and letting in a shaft of light. People in my position rally oughtn't to do it. Or think about why they might have wanted to.