When I was standing in front of the "A" shelf at work, this book fairly jumped into my hand of its own accord. It might have been the not-so-subtle green text of the author's name on the spine that caught my eye, but the blurb made me think it would be a good bit of light-hearted froth to ease my way into this thing. I wasn't wrong.
I must admit that I was not impressed at first. Rosie Meadows seemed to be a sort of married-with-a-kid Bridget Jones; her hubby, Harry, seemed to have no redeeming features; and the mother was a modern Mrs Bennett. I thought someone had taken every bit of chick-lit ever written, tossed it into a blender, and then watered it down. It was like seeing a gorgeously shiny apple in a friend's kitchen, biting into it, and realising it's made of wax.
There was a sentence early in the book which I could not make head or tail of, and still can't figure out now. Whether it is the sentence that is badly written or my brain that is badly wired I can't say, but I suspect (and rather hope for my own sanity) it is the former. But writers, editors, and printers are all human. Humans, as we all know, make mistakes.
Still, encouraged by what I chose to assume was a Doctor Who reference and determined not to quit the challenge on the very first book, I pressed on. I was rewarded with a surprisingly entertaining sort of whodunit sitcom vaguely reminiscent of the Jeeves books, with the perfect amount of drama to prevent it being completely silly. The "big reveals" (of which there are several scattered throughout the book), while wholly predictable, are well-written enough to still extract a little gasp - if only of the "you mean I was right?" variety.
Will this book find a permanent spot on my bookshelf? Probably not. But if you're feeling down and need something easily digestible with all the right feelings in all the right places, it's well worth the couple of hours it takes to read.