... then I have no doubt that Martine McCutcheon would be put against a wall and shot. This book has all the depth, meaning and value of Martine's yoghurt adverts, but sadly this book has killed trees too. The first paragraph by itself is a litany of crimes against writing. Mandy "spins" around in the hall to check she has everything, speaks to a taxi driver from the door of her basement flat without, apparently, even going outside and then does a thousand things we don't need to know about "she pulled the door shut using the knocker"... FFS. She writes like a child. She writes like someone who cannot step outside herself for 2 seconds and see that other people cannot imagine what she imagines, so half the time we have to imagine what's happening while other things (fiddling with umbrellas, applying lippy, picking up ANOTHER designer bag) flow like diarrhoea from her keyboard. To say nothing of the needless, idiotic, lazy lazy lazy adjectives. "She picked her keys up from an antique table". Please stop, for the sake of our coniferous forests.