The Woman Who Stole My Life


[Written several weeks ago but only just got round to publishing…]

My baby is sleeping.  It won’t last.  She’s due a feed in ten minutes.  I’ll be brief.

I decry “chick lit” and snobbishly refuse to read it.  I make one exception: the wonderful, marvellous Marian Keyes.  Like all of the best light entertainment, Keyes’s frothily easy-to-read, humorous, friendly, wry books each centres around a serious issue: the breakup of a marriage, bereavement, addiction, depression, domestic violence.  Typically the structure flips between the present and the past, gradually letting out the tale of the past so you only get the full picture quite late into the book.  It’s a tried-and-tested formula, and it’s marvellous.

The latest isn’t the best of Keyes’s books – I actually read Rachel’s Holiday again after this, as it’s one of my favourites.  But it has her genius Irish tone that never fails to make me laugh, with dialogue you can practically hear as you read it.  A pleasure, even when read at 2am, 3.30am, 4.15am, 6am…


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