My Watermelon Moments

You know that moment in ‘Dirty Dancing’ when Baby says “I carried a watermelon?”  Those moments when you want the earth to open up and swallow you and you wish you could run away from yourself?

Well today, I’m going to be a big brave girl and share a few of my bloopers with you.  I live to tell the tale, so they can’t be that bad.

Here goes … head in hand, blushing, fingers hovering reluctantly over keyboard ...

When I was about 18, I was queuing in the bank and, as I opened by bag to get my cheque book out, I dropped a large Dr. Whites (remember those?) sanitary towel on the floor.  There was a rather tasty looking guy in the queue behind me and we both stared at it lying on the floor between us.  I didn’t bend to pick it up, but simply left it there for him to step over as he made his way along the queue!

At 20 I looked after my boss’s dog for a fortnight and, on our first walk down a busy high street, the stupid mutt squatted and deposited a huge chocolate mountain.  Being young (read stupid) I had no poo bags with me so was unable to do anything about it.  I’m not proud of myself (and would never do this now) but I walked away.  A rather irate (rightfully so) gentleman began to chase me down the road, shouting “Aren’t you going to pick that up?”  What did I reply?  “It’s not my dog!”  Of course this was the absolute truth but what a ridiculous thing to say.

At drama school we received our costumes for a period drama we were performing.  Mine was a beautiful cobalt blue and gold and I was delighted with it.  A new student, who’d only recently joined us, was lamenting the fact that hers was a vile shade of olive green.  In I stepped to make her feel better, with “Yes it is an absolutely disgusting colour, but it matches your eyes perfectly.”  Of course I was met with deadly silence.  I really hadn’t meant to be unkind - a lovely colour for eyes but not so great in a dress.

At a posh wedding anniversary, I was seated with my ex-boyfriend’s parents and the mother was asking me what desserts were on the various sweet trolleys situated around the room.  I explained that there were profiteroles and fruit salad on one, Tiramisu and Crème Brûlée on another and then I gesticulated to another trolley and said “And there’s a ginger tart over there.”  Unfortunately this was just the moment that a rather over-hennaed buxom trollop approached the desserts!

Once, when my best friend and I were in our 20’s, we left some friends at a wine bar and caught a mini cab home.  For the entire journey we moaned about a particular friend of ours who had the hots for my friend and wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer.  After we’d been home for about an hour, the phone rang and it was our annoyed friend.  He’d been the returning cab driver’s next fare and had been told everything that the last colourful passengers (us) had said, along with our description.  The upside was he never troubled my best friend again!

Wearing my hooped and corseted outfit for another period play, I ran on stage for a scene where I needed to be beside myself with excitement.  As I ran and jumped with glee, the hooks which held the skirt part to the corset decided to un-catch.  I stepped completely out of the bottom part and arrived on stage in the bodice and black tights!

When working as a receptionist in the City, I questioned a gentleman who’d come to visit our MD with “If I could just ask your name?”  I was greeted with a very slow and stern “MARK KNOPFLER”.  OK, OK, I admit I should have recognised him from Dire Straits but he shouldn’t have been so far up his own bum that he expected everyone to know who he was.  Sorry, Mark!  Had you been Sting, it would have been a different matter - I’d have been too busy swooning.

At the same job, after a very late night out, I got dressed rather hurriedly one morning - thankfully in a trouser suit - and made up time by getting a cab into work.  Slightly hung over, I’d felt a little wobbly on my feet that morning and it wasn’t until lunchtime that I realised I had black court shoes on that looked very similar from the front except one had a high heel and one very low!

Still on the subject of shoes, I stepped off a Tube once and left my stiletto behind in the grating of the floor.  As the doors began to close a very kind gentleman managed to shove it through the crack to me.

And finally, to round off my shame, just recently I was looking for a new toilet seat for my mother.  My son and I found ourselves in a handy little Asian shop and I thought I’d ask if they stocked any.  Asian shop keeper thought I meant toilet paper and when it became clear that she didn’t know what I meant, I mimed sitting on the loo!  My son will never let me live this one down, saying “I’m surprised you didn’t make a straining noise!”

There we go - all off my chest - my ‘watermelon’ moments.  My face feels a little flushed and my palms a bit sweaty but I hope I’ve given you a laugh.

Fancy sharing any of yours with me?  Go on, I dare you!

My debut novel ‘Diary of a Mummy Misfit’ is on Amazon for Kindle or PC.  A tale of not belonging.  Now also available in paperback at Lulu.

Feisty at Fifty

As I approach my 50th birthday (OK I know I’m only forty-seven but it feels like I’m hurtling towards old age) I’ve started thinking about what this means in terms of looks, attitude and my life in general.

Inside I still feel like an 18 year-old but the mirror tells a different story.

So what does this stage in my life mean to me?

MY LIFE AS IT IS RIGHT NOW

At last I’ve taken it in to my own hands to do what I really want to do - write.  All the bad luck that led to the ultimate publication of my book has been put aside and I’m following the path I believe to be the right one for now.  I’ve got great support from other like-minded women - we call ourselves ‘The Fabulous Feisty Indies.’  Soon, I’ll be a ‘Fabulous Feisty Fifty Indie’ and that feels good!

On the downside, there are the wrinkles!  I’m quite fortunate to have a slightly chubby face so they don’t show too much - but they can’t hide from me!   And you can keep your Botox and your rip off creams - Nivea has always been kind to me and I’m quite happy to continue allowing it to sooth my wrinkles to the grave.

My face takes much longer to wake up in the morning than it used to.  My body might be up and rearing to go but the face takes more time to snap back.  Catch me at about 7pm and that’s probably as good as it gets!

Hairs and whiskers grow in the most ridiculous places.  It’s a constant battle seeking them out and plucking them in their prime.  And they’re usually black!  I’m fair so where’s the logic, Mother Nature?

Hopefully the end of the monthly do-da’s will soon be in sight.  I have no intention of having more children so why do I need to continue with the inconvenience?  Sorry marketeers, but no I don’t ‘Have a Happy Period’ - do you really know anyone who does?  HRT?  No thanks, ageing (although not nice) is a fact of life - if you’re lucky enough to be alive, accept it.

I now need to wear reading glasses.  I can see for miles and read bus numbers or street signs like the Bionic Woman but, if you catch me in Sainsbury’s trying to read the small print on a jar, I’m like Mr Magoo.  I guess it’s not too bad to have got this far in life without deterioration so I’m not moaning.  Oh, and I like to think they make me look more like a writer!  Must be the actress in me.

I don’t suffer fools gladly anymore.  I’ve spent much of my life either putting up and shutting up or having one massive blow-up.  Now I consider things more carefully and follow my heart.  I have to be true to myself or I’m of no use to anyone else.

I need to start considering that yoga may not be enough to keep all these body changes in order.  I’ll never be seen with Joggers’ Nipple as I set off on a five mile sprint or ‘going for the burn’ in an aerobics class (been there, done that and boy does that show my age) but I need to start thinking about my options.

I’m waiting for my Goddaughter to get slightly older so that she can come shopping with me.  Middle-aged women need the guidance of daughters and she’s the nearest I’ve got - there’s only so much input hubbie and son can give me.  And shopping with friends the same age doesn’t help - how do we know we’re not all doing it wrong?  I don’t want to end up in a posse of fogies wearing Crimplene stretch-pants and pretty little blouses, topped off with blue-rinse perms.

I have to be more of a ‘grown-up’ when discussing my son’s education with his teachers.  How did I get to have a fifteen year old son?  Talk of ‘A’levels and Uni are terrifying.  Wasn’t it only yesterday that that was me?

The best news about a milestone birthday is a PARTY!  So, I’m already planning who, what, where and when.  Hubbie and I will also have been married for twenty years the year I hit 50 so I think it should be quite a biggie.  Of course by then, I’ll have at least three best sellers under my belt, the body of Kylie and the smooth skin of Jane Fonda (Nivea will have added a miraculous ingredient). 

Yeah … 50… bring it on!

Have you checked out my debut novel yet?  ‘Diary of a Mummy Misfit’ is available on Amazon for Kindle or PC.  Look at my reviews and decide for yourself.  Now also in paperback at Lulu.

The Slags' Almanac

During the 1980’s at drama school, my Scottish best friend and I invented an imaginary book called ‘The Slags’ Almanac’ - a guide to shortcuts for the lazy or cash-strapped girl about town.  I’m aware that there’s now a book published with the same name but I’ve been unable to find much information about it.

Anyway, we were doing it first (ner-nicky-ner-ner) so here are a few of the entries we had for ours.  Some we were guilty of (I’m not saying which!), some we were aware of others doing and some are entirely fictitious.

OUR SLAGS’ ALMANAC

If you’ve not taken your make up of for a few days (yuck) simply pick the clumpy bits of mascara off and add a new coat.

Not had time for a bath and you’ve only got yesterday’s tights to wear?  Put the tights on and wash your feet in a bowl.  Simple!  Feet and tights now clean! Really?

If you’re wearing a longish dress, only shave the bits of leg that show!  Or wear pop-socks.  Remember not to dance too wildly though or all will be revealed.  Attractive!

Only iron the bits of clothes that can be seen.  And remember, if you’re too lazy to get the ironing board out and you perform this on the floor, you will end up with sticky bits of carpet ironed to your clothes.  And iron-shaped marks on your shagpile!

If on the Tube you suddenly realise that the knickers you forget to remove from your jeans the night before are slowly working their way down your inside leg, simply wriggle, bend, subtly remove and place in handbag.

If your hair’s really greasy, pull it back into a pony tail or bun then shampoo and dry the fringe only.

A half-eaten sticky cereal bar in the bottom of your handbag is great for gathering all the rubbish and muck that you’ve forgotten to take out.  Within a month it will be covered in tissues, tampons, fug, cotton buds, false eye-lashes and bus tickets.

Not had your ball gown dry cleaned and been invited to a last minute function?  Scrub the arm holes with soap and blast with a hair-dryer and deodorant.

No time to clean the house before guests arrive?  Open the windows, blow the majority of the dust, clean the loo and spray perfume.  Offer very strong drinks.

If you realise your court shoes haven’t seen a tin of polish for a while, head to the nearest escalator and run them under the bristles on the sides as you travel up and down a few times.  Also, if they need re-heeling, touch up the scuffed bits with a felt tip pen.

If cooking trays become too filthy to clean, stick them in the back garden.  The rain will either pelt the filth away or someone else will get sick of seeing them there and set to work.  Alternatively they will rust and you’ll have to buy nice new ones to mess up.

When cooking for a dinner party, use every utensil, bowl, dish and gadget to create your culinary delights.  Cover all work services and cupboards in the debris of your artistic flair - no work surface should be free of flour, vegetable peelings or egg yoke.  Once finished, dash upstairs to make yourself glam for the night and return to find that hubbie has the kitchen spick and span.

Any stain known to man can be removed with a baby wipe.  God only knows what they must do to babies’ bums but they strip fake tan from legs, beetroot from a white T-shirt and ink from linen trousers.  Don’t dry clean, wet wipe!

Are you guilty of any of these?  Come on, ladies, ‘fess up!  Or would you like to add your own?

Ever felt like you don’t belong?  Follow the link to check out my debut novel ‘Diary of a Mummy Misfit’ on Amazon.  Read my reviews and decide for yourself.  Now also available in paperback at Lulu.

Where Are Your Kids At Night?

My son gets his GCSE results in a couple of weeks’ time and then we’ll know if he can stay on at his school to do the ‘A’ levels he’s chosen.

He took his exams a year early, having been moved up academically at the age of five.  Choosing his subjects was tough - as he’s relatively younger than his peers, he still doesn’t really know what he wants to do with his life and even some of his older peers are struggling.

One thing I know he won’t do though is loot and pillage like a demented caveman, as we’ve seen in the last few days.  People are calling these thugs ‘animals’ but I find that insulting - animals DO NOT behave like that, unless it’s for food or survival.

And why won’t he choose this as a career path?  Well, obviously because he’s been taught that it’s wrong.  From a very early age a child is (or should) be taught that they can’t have everything they want.  If they like another toddler’s toy, do we allow them to take it home?  If they see something in a shop that we can’t afford to buy them, do we let them take it from the shop without paying?  It’s called being a parent and the job we perform is parenting i.e. teaching and guiding our children to become decent responsible human beings.  Not too difficult is it?

I’ve watched the footage, along with the rest of the nation, and words quite simply fail me.  Eleven year old kids were seen helping themselves to goods.  What’s going on here?  Why were those children on the streets at that time of night in the first place?  And how many of the parents will do the right thing and shop them to the police when they realise they’ve got new designer trainers?  At the risk of being shot down in flames, I reckon that figure will be a big fat zero.  They’ve clearly not been parenting in the first place, so why start now?  And, hey, new trainers?  Great, more money in the coffers for mum or dad’s next booze or drugs fix.  These rioters were not coming home with arms full of food because they were starving and desperate to feed their families - it was greed and anarchy through and through.  If my son ever arrived home from school with so much as a new ruler in his pencil-case, I’d always question where he’d got it from.  If it’s not yours, it shouldn’t be there.

He knows that the world doesn’t owe him a living.  He’s already looking at a part-time business idea (bless!) because he wants to buy a new computer.  He realises that there are certain things we can’t afford to fund for him and that’s just the way life is.  When he considers career options he always asks what the salary might be because there are particular things he’d like to do in life and, for those, he’ll need a well-paid vocation.  He’s still in two minds about whether on not he wants to go on to Uni, as he doesn’t like the idea of starting out life in debt if a degree isn’t going to further his chances in life anyway.

He’s a young man who knows what he wants (materialistically) but he realises it will take hard work.  It is quite simply not a case of ‘I want it, I get it’.  So where do these looters get that idea from?  Try this for a thought.  It was reported that a group of young women were seen heading off to a riot in Clapham, shouting to one another about the items they were looking for, almost like a shopping list.  Sounds frightening enough, doesn’t it?  But it gets worse.  They had their young children in tow with them - the future generation.  Is there any hope?

And, as my very wise fifteen year old pointed out, the implications of all this go much further than we think.  If he should be fortunate enough to save up enough money to buy his new computer and he heads off to eBay with his hard-earned cash, how does he know he’s not lining the pockets of one the criminals who took it into their own hands to get stock?

I’m sure you all feel as sick to the stomach about these events as I do.  As decent human beings, what sort of a world are we bringing our children up in?  I think my eighty-three year old mother summed it up when she said, “There was more kindness in this country when we were at war.”

How sad is that?

And I’m well aware of all the goodness and community spirit which has shone through the disorder of the last few days, but I’d just like that to be the case all of the time, without it coming out of negativity.

Diary of Mummy Misfit is available at Amazon for Kindle.  Now also in paperback at Lulu.

No Deal

I’d love to have a million pounds.  Wouldn’t you?

I know some people who have more than just one million and their lives certainly seem to be more interesting than mine - not always happier, but certainly more exciting.

Money can take you places, buy you things and present you with new and wonderful experiences. It also gives you security - no more worrying about bills.  Bliss!

But as much as I want a ‘cool mill’ there are a few things I would most definitely not do for it.

TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF FOR A PHOTO SHOOT

I’m sorry, even if I’d been ‘Gokked,’ spray tanned and airbrushed to within an inch of my life, I still wouldn’t do it.  My body’s not horrific, and I’m lucky enough to have no stretch marks or cellulite but no, no, no.  I just couldn’t ever imagine myself dropping my drawers and posing in the nuddie - however tasteful if might be.

GO IN TO THE ‘BIG BROTHER’ HOUSE

What did the playwright, Sartre say?  “Hell is other people”.  And that’s how I’d feel if I was in the house.  I don’t want to share my space with a three legged transsexual ogre from Enfield or a Michael Jackson look-alike with a penchant for howling at the moon.  I don’t want cameras on me 24/7.  I’m not the happiest bunny when I get out of bed in the morning and the thought of being transmitted to the nation while emerging into the day would drive me nuts.  I also couldn’t bear being told how much we have (or haven’t) got to spend on food - if I’m hungry, I can be vile and if I’m denied chocolate, beware!  Probably the only part I would enjoy would be the tasks because I’m always up for a laugh (as long as I don’t have to take my clothes off!)

GO ON A ROLLER-COASTER

It’s perverse!  Why do people want to have the c**p frightened out of them?  I just don’t get it.  They pay good money to be terrified.  I know I’ve mentioned this before but I’m sorry, I prefer to get my kicks in other ways.  Hubbie often says that he’d bet I’d change my mind if someone was actually standing there with the million but I know for sure that I wouldn’t.  I’d just get my sister to do it for me - she’s one of those oddballs that like having their guts churned for the ‘thrill of it’ (even though she tore her ear lobe when one of her earrings went flying, never to be found, while riding the Crazy Mouse on Brighton Pier).

SLEEP ALONE IN A HAUNTED HOUSE

My dad always used to tell me, it’s the living you need to be afraid of, not the dead.  I can see the logic but I’m a big cowardy-custard and, although I have no problems with ghosts per se, I wouldn’t even get my head on my pillow in a building with a reputation for hauntings.  I long for the spirit of my dad or Godmother to visit me but I don’t want an unknown or troubled soul to come calling.  One of my best friends grew up in a haunted house and the memories of things that happened live on with her to this day.  Happy, rested spirits are one thing but it’s the others that worry me.

PARACHUTE FROM A PLANE

I’m a control freak.  I’m the first to admit it and I hold my hands up in acceptance.  So to be strapped to someone else’s back and leave an aeroplane when they decide it’s safe is just a no-go for me.  I can see the appeal of floating through the sky in limbo but I think I’d die of shock before I hit the ground so I’d never get to enjoy my million anyway.

I’m sure if I wracked my brains I could come up with a heap more, but for now I’ll hand over to you.

What would you refuse to do for a million smackers?

My novel “Diary of a Mummy Misfit” is available on Amazon.  A tale of not belonging.  Now also in paperback at Lulu.

Hair-Raising Tales

How many times do you think you’ve changed your hairstyle over the years?  The statistics seem to say that women are constantly updating their look but, if I’m anything to go by, I’d disagree.  I can count my experiments with different styles on a little over one hand, and the women I tend to mix with would say the same.  I think you’re either the type of person who is constantly going for a new look or you go with what you finally decide works for the hair you’ve been given and stick with it

So let’s talk about the history of my hair.

I was born bald.  I also had severe cradle cap which prompted my Godmother’s son to ask why I was ginger.  I wasn’t - it was my affliction.  I remained like a billiard ball (and looking like a boy) until I was about eighteen months when I developed a very attractive duck down - think a softer looking Mitchell Brother of Eastenders fame.

Once my head decided to grow proper girls’ hair, it was the most indistinct colour of mouse you could imagine.  I was given a fringe at a very early age and this has remained with me to this day - more of that later.

As a young girl I had hair down my back - none on my head, just on my back, ha ha!  I didn’t have the thickest of locks so at about twelve I went for the long bob.  I can still remember coming home from the salon feeling like the girl from the Harmony advert!  Suddenly I had a proper style and I felt the imminent possibility of turning into a woman was just around the corner.

The long bob provided many opportunities for diversity - it could be sleek, crimped, braided à la Bo Derek and adorned with beads or flowers.  My mum could also cover it in sugar-water and curl it up in pipe cleaners to set overnight and produce the most ridiculous springy curls.

Sadly that’s what gave me the taste for perms!  Oh boy, from the age of fourteen to sixteen I had the best and the dodgiest perms known to man.  Some would leave me flicking my softly curled locks like a beauty queen and others would have me wailing into my pillow with a bandage wrapped round my head to flatten the fringe.

So eventually the perms were ditched and I discovered the joy of peroxide.  With the new ‘Farrah Fawcett’ style, I had to have the colour to go with it.  When I look back at pictures of myself during that era, all I can say is my parents were a lot more lenient than I remember!  I looked like a tart.

When I finally went back to my natural colour, I didn’t appear to be quite as mousey so I decided to remain au naturel.  As I headed off to drama school, I’d often wear my hair scragged back into a loose bun or pony tail - easier for dance classes or rehearsals.  The fringe always remained in place and my forehead never saw the light of day.  So imagine the dress rehearsal for “The Merchant of Venice”, when I was playing the part of Portia, and I appeared on stage in my male guise of Doctor of Law.  None of my drama school friends had ever seen me sans fringe and the response was not one I expected.  The entire stage collapsed into fits of uncontrollable giggles - it was ‘corpsing’ of the highest order.  Every time someone tried to deliver their next line, they’d take one look at me and splutter.  The director started with his own little chuckle about how odd I looked but after the rehearsal had been in shambles for about ten minutes, he began to lose his temper and at one point we thought my coiffure was about to be responsible for his cardiac arrest.  It was an interesting night at the pub after that!

In my latter drama school years, I opted for the classic short bob.  It was versatile enough for most productions and made my hair look thicker.  The trouble is, as the years have gone by, it’s stuck.

And now it seems to have stuck forever as hubbie says it’s ‘me’ and no other style epitomises who I am.  Expert that he is, he tells me it’s a timeless classic (like me?) and that it best suits my bone structure and facial lines.  I’m not sure which look I’d go for if I did go out of my comfort zone, but for now the bob seems to be here to stay.

I can just see myself as a little old grey-haired lady walking around with my 20’s bob, saying “Yes I wear it like this because it pleases my old man.”

What are your hair story nightmares and have you found the look for you or are you still searching?

Diary of a Mummy Misfit is available on Amazon for Kindle.  Now also in paperback at Lulu.

Food Fights at Fifteen

What’s the second moan you’re most likely to hear from mums of toddlers, after “Why do they never sleep?”

Go on, have a think about it and I bet it will be … drum roll …”They’re such fussy eaters.”

I was blessed with a toddler who unfortunately never slept but, thankfully, would eat anything I put in front of him.  I would dutifully make ice cube trays ready to freeze of every conceivable vegetable, bean or pulse and he would consume quite happily.  He was never a big eater but he couldn’t have been described as ‘fussy’.

At fourteen months, when his independence (read stubbornness) kicked in, he refused to be fed and preferred to sit in his high-chair with finger foods to which he could help himself.  Still no problem.  I’d give him cubes of quiche, slices of chicken, chopped veg, anything he could manage with his hands.  Fresh home-made soup became a bit of a logistical nightmare though!

No, my problems kicked in when he hit eight.  Suddenly foods began to drop off his list of ‘likes’.  A roast dinner would consist of meat and veg, but no potatoes - had he suddenly decided to follow the Atkins Diet?  A beef-burger was considered fast food (even if home-made) and therefore unhealthy. Avocados were suddenly slimy and lamb and pork tasted like wet dogs.

Then we lost the pizza - standard food for most kids and a much loved treat in many households.  Sadly, son’s last pizza was consumed the night before he went down with a bug that his whole class contracted.  He blamed the pizza and ever since it’s been the ‘Food of the Devil’.

Spaghetti bolognaise was the next one to go.  A dodgy batch at a well known pizza establishment presented us with his second (and only other ever) up-chuck.  Ironic given that he’d opted for the pasta due to his new pizza aversion.  We tried to explain that it was a case of food poisoning but to no avail.  Not only has the pizza restaurant been struck off his list but also spag bol and beef of any other description.

What can you possibly be left with, I hear you cry.  Well, at fifteen, if it wasn’t for chicken and the occasional sausage, he’d be a vegetarian.

In fact, I sometimes wonder if I took the wrong baby home from the hospital.  He could quite happily live on rice, the hottest curries (home-made) poppadoms and mango juice.  Where have his Asian roots come from?

Add to that tuna, cod, sweetcorn, carrots, peas, beans, noodles, crackers, pretzels and chocolate and he would think he was in heaven.

I regularly make soup, packed with all sorts of veg and he’ll quite happily slurp his way through a couple of bowls without knowing what’s in them.  Who’d have thought I’d still need to be disguising food for a fifteen year old?  But if it means he gets his five a day, hey-ho.

Of course the real downside of all this is having to cook two separate meals each day.  Not only does he eat different foods to us, he’s also starving by six o’clock and we tend to eat at eight.  Mealtimes can see me working like a commis chef with a tuna and sweetcorn pasta for one and a steak and Caesar salad for two.  “Yes, Chef!”

I can’t say I mind that he’s opted for the less meat route, though.  Our bodies don’t really need it and I think as a nation we tend to eat far too much.

I just wish he’d be a little more adventurous and try new things every now and again.  We tell him there are so many delicious foods out there to try and experiment with but he sticks religiously to his favourites.  Even then he always eats them separately, never allowing them to touch and totally averse to the idea of marrying a chip with a bean to make interesting new flavour sensations.

I guess I should have known I had a problem when, at three, I presented him with a Linda McCartney veggie sausage with mash and veg and he looked at me and quite seriously asked, “Why did you put a poo on my plate?”

So never fear, struggling mummies - the feeding thing will only get better.  Or worse!

You can read about Libby and her son Max in “Diary of a Mummy Misfit”.  Available on Amazon for Kindle or PC.  Check out my reviews.  Now also in paperback at Lulu.