My Not So Perfect Life
A NovelLarge Print - 2017
Family-owned business enterprises -- Fiction.
Resorts -- Fiction.
Women -- Fiction.
Man-woman relationships -- Fiction.
From the critics
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‘ “Oh. Yes, it’s fine . . . it’s. . . argh! Oh God! Aaaargh!”
‘With no warning, the world has turned black. For a terrifying instant I think I’m being attacked. Something’s hitting me, banging me, surrounding me. . . . I flail with my arms, panting, panicking . . . then suddenly realize what’s happened. My bloody hammock’s collapsed.
‘I fight my way out of a black jersey skirt which has enveloped my head and survey my bed in dismay. That hammock is hanging dismally from one corner. All my crap is everywhere - clothes, hair products, books, magazines. It’ll take forever to sort all this out again. The only plus is that my bowl of stew was in the floor and didn’t get knocked over.
‘Actually, that’s not a plus.’...
"I've called it @mynotsoperfectlife and I've already got 267 followers! I post utterly unvarnished, unposed, un-Instagrammy photos with captions, and it's turned into one of the most fun hobbies I've ever had. / A photo of bad-tempered crowds on a tube platform: My not-so-perfect commute. A picture of the revolting blister on my heel: My not-so-perfect new shoes. A photo of my hair, drenched: The not-so-perfect London weather. / The amazing thing is how many other people have joined in. Mark from work posted a picture of himself eating a doughnut, captioned My not-so-perfect eat-clean regime. Biddy posted a picture of some ripped trousers, which she'd obviously caught on some barbed wire, entitled My not-so-perfect rural existence, which made me laugh."
"I'd forgotten the smell of London, the busyness, the crowds. I'd forgotten about coming up out of the tube steps into the hot, concentrated city sunshine, surrounded by people of all descriptions, and thinking, I could do anything, go anywhere, be anyone. / Ansters Farm is like a circle. It is what it is. And you basically go round and round in a peaceful way, never digressing. But London's like a spiderweb. There's a million possibilities, a million directions, a million endgames. I'd forgotten that feeling of ... of what? Being on the brink of something." (p. 377)
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