Summer out the window, already steaming hot. This divorcée needs to water her veggie plot and get into marmellata. But back to the book. Reviews are coming in on the youwriteon site but I am amazed when somebody who can't spell makes bland sweeping and idiotic criticism. I am unable to take it when somebody says I should give Marilyn more character, or refract Italy through some birds singing in the trees. Flabbergasted. But I want to reach the top of that chart. And will review and review until it sends me to sleep. So far none - dare I? should I say this? - of the excerpts have made me wild with envy or filled with the desire to plough on. Nothing shocking or overturning. And of course my silly bits are not going to shake anyone to the core, but I still stand by my woman. Marilyn is fit to be read, even though she has big Hungarian cheekbones and tits and no notion of where she will be drawn next. And her fellow characters - clairvoyant tattooed Pamela, the top model hunter Arnaud, the bi-sexual internet cruiser Brett who looks like a Hong Kong cop. Nothing unusual here. Just your usual meandering wimmin's ting, set to the swish of a Venetian canal.
Tell me you want more. The book is gooood.
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