Gawd, this book was criminally hilarious. I sat in the doctor's office waiting room literally snorting into my Nine West handbag (there's something really metal about being a minimum wage worker who chooses to buy labels instead of food) as I cradled my Kobo in my lap, with Bridget Jones and her life of ridiculous shenanigans all over the black and white screen. Needless to say, the people I waited with were unimpressed. They are probably not the first to wonder why someone like me would carry anything as elegant as Nine West. 
 Sometimes I wonder that, too. 
 Honestly? I took off a star because I was highly disappointed with the rushed and nonsensical ending. But the rest of this book? Pure gold. A little warning, though: this is not a shiny, polished tale of the stereotypical (and in real life, extremely rare) uptown and sophisticated south-English thirtysomething. It's an incredibly and often shamefully honest portrayal of a woman who likes sex and cigarettes and drinking and her foul-mouthed friends. It's not The Young Victoria. It's modern Britain, like nobody wants to see it. 
 Sure, it's a little ham-fisted in places. I won't say it doesn't idealize relationships, and get a little bizarre here and there. But who cares? I picked this book up expecting to be entertained. It exceeded those expectations. 
 Good job, Helen Fielding.