This book has such a wrong and misleading title that I’m all for pretending that it’s not its real name. I read it on my Kindle and every time I went back to it for another delicious dose I’d look exasperatedly at that stupid title on the home page and think ‘but where has the great book I’m actually reading gone?’
The title is the only thing wrong with the book, though.
The story is mainly about Cecilia, a psychotherapist in her late sixties who is forced into early retirement by cancer (anal cancer, and talked about frankly and often humorously). At the colostomy clinic she meets a new friend, Helen, a big loud writer with a fondness for a smoke and a drink and a great line in colostomy jokes.
Cecilia has a son, Ian, from her first marriage. Ian’s a spoilt but basically sound forty-year-old journalist with a loving and competent journalist girlfriend called Marina (who Cecilia likes but admits to being slightly jealous of). Ian turns up one day on Cecilia’s doorstep with a baby called Cephas. Cephas was the result of a brief and totally misguided fling Ian had had with a barking mad beauty called Leda. Leda has disappeared somewhere and Ian has been left holding the baby. Would Cecilia look after it? Continue reading