I’ve discovered an amazing(ly impossible) anti-aging secret: Become a fictional character!

Unlike the Botox-ridden celebrities who are only trying to delay the inevitable, fictional characters really do stop aging as and when the author tells them to. Especially in children’s books, when nothing really bad ever happens to any of them, the bastards. They get to be forever young AND get rewarded at the end.
When I was younger, I was totally into reading the classics, a habit which I wish I’d taken with me as I got older. I wish I could say that that was because I was oh-so-sophisticated, but in reality, there was a bargain bookstore on the high street of the London borough I pretty much grew up in, specialising in copies of books whose copyrights had long expired, or ones that the general public had forgotten existed. I soon realised that my pitiful pocket money could get me a lot more in this store than in a sweet shop or in the Waterstone’s up the road. I continued to make weekly visits to this bargain bookstore until 2001, when my high street was hit by an IRA bomb, taking my beloved shop with it.

My reading used to revolve around two classic authors: E. Nesbit and Susan Coolidge. I’d spend hours upon hours (to the detriment of my eyesight, some would say) imagining myself in scenarios set in an old-fashioned London, or in a small village on the outskirts of an American town. It’s been over 200 years since the Five Children and It series and the Katy Did series were written, but the characters in them haven’t aged a day since I turned the last page. I’ve even outgrown the majority of them.

There’s just something extremely depressing about growing older than the characters in your books. These wretched fictional characters remain blissfully unaware of how lucky they are, frolicking in that fantasy world I wish to go back and inhabit so much.

When I finally got around to picking up books actually written in a recent century, I was in for a surprise. Gone were the bonnets and india rubber hot water bottles (sorry Katy), and in were the many Jacqueline Wilson tales of woe, diaries of reluctant princesses with pop culture references I had a hard time understanding, and lastly, wonderful stories of an angel who time-travelled into different eras of history. For some reason, something completely thrilled me about the latter, and I completely devoured what I had of the series in one go. I wanted more of these angel books immediately, but none were forthcoming.

Herein lies the problem. I’m a very impatient person. I could read series upon series of books that were completed hundreds of years ago, knowing that the sequels were sitting on the shelves waiting for me to take them home. But with books written in the present day, it will sometimes be years – even decades – before the entire story is finished. Whilst I was waiting for authors to finish writing books I loved (especially keeping an eye out for Annie Dalton and ‘my’ angel stories), I grew up, not being able to stop the aging process as a fictional character would. I began to get different interests, meet new people, and read less and less every day. It was the same for pretty much all my peers.
Former childhood fictional ‘friends,’ both classic and present day, were soon banished to that cupboard where my grandmother suspected something slightly mouldy was growing, or shipped abroad for storage and promptly forgotten about.

When I did remember the many books I never finished, it was already at the stage where it was embarrassing to be reading books aimed at children. I didn’t even bother trying to find the other books I had hoped to read when I was younger, writing them off as lost causes. There was only one exception to this. I really did love those angel books, and decided to hunt them down to see how the story had finally ended. Imagine my horror when I realised they were now out of print (and the public library had copies of every one except the last one, GRR).

So, I did the unthinkable. I found the email address of the author, Annie Dalton, and shot off an email about how much I really did love her angel books, and asked how the rest of the story ended. Imagine my surprise and delight when she told me she’d send me the rest of the books for free. A couple of weeks later, they arrived, and I was so so happy to be able to finish the series once and for all.

Reading the books, it was like a long-term relationship coming to an end. I’d held on so long, but I just wasn’t the same person any more. I was now irritated by Dalton’s repetition of words such as “burbled,” “huskily” and “OMIGOSH,” the replacement of the word “very” with “très” (I’m not kidding), and Mel’s – the main character – obsession with clothes. What would have charmed me as a kid now annoyed me. It was like Dalton was trying to hard to appeal to her target audience, the tween I once was. Ah well.
BUT (and this is a very big “but”), the adventures were still made of the same stuff I’d grown up loving, the research was very nicely done, and the characters were still the same ones I remembered from previous books – Mel Beeby hadn’t aged a day since the last time I’d read her. I was the one who had changed.

Although I may be older than Mel Beeby will ever be, I will always remember how these books developed my love of history (only faded when I had to take exams for History and actually REVISE), and how, most importantly, she, and the rest of the other books I used to read, shaped my childhood for the better.

As it’s the holiday season, the BBC iPlayer is really spoiling us with various films. One of these films is Confessions of a Shopaholic, which I remember going to see with Emma a couple of years ago and absolutely hating. I skimmed through the first couple of books by Sophie Kinsella/Madeleine Wickham and thought that compared to the movie, it wasn’t so bad. The movie changed a lot of things, such as not making the heroine British, changing the setting from London to New York, and making sure that all the interesting parts (at risk of containing profanity) were cut out because the screen rights were owned by Disney. Ugh. I vaguely remembered the latest book in the series coming out fairly recently, so decided to sit myself down and get myself reacquainted with Becky Bloomwood.

Big mistake.

This is the worst series of books I have ever read.

I know, I bash the Twilight series a lot, but even that, dare I say it, is better than this.

The heroine of these books is Becky Bloomwood, a shallow, vapid excuse of a woman who is obsessed with shopping, and is aghast at the idea that she should wear her clothes more than once. She’s a supposedly successful financial journalist at the beginning, who, despite being an airhead, supposedly knows everything, but still remains oh-so-modest.

That’s the other really weird thing. God knows how – but I know the answers to all the questions. I know about mortgages, and I know about life assurance, and I know about pensions. I know this stuff! A few minutes ago, Kenneth from St Austell asked what the annual contribution limit for an ISA is – and I answered £5,000 without even thinking about it. It’s almost as if some part of my mind has carefully been storing every single bit of information I’ve ever written in Successful Saving, and now, when I need it, it’s all there. Ask me anything! Ask me… The rules on capital gains tax for home owners. Go on, ask me.

I want to ask her to go away. For added emphasis, Becky appears to be entirely based on Kinsella herself (ex-financial journalist), so she can live her unfulfilled dreams through her characters. The books are peppered with a stream of ‘hilarious’ replies to the timewasting letters Becky’s sent out to people such as asking for overdraft extensions and applying for a title, most of which only serve to make me think how someone could possibly be that stupid. Her character also goes off into these weird little fantasies about how if she does something, people will call her “the Girl With the Denny and George Scarf/the Girl with the Angel Bag/the Girl in the Vespa Helmet/the Girl Who Teaches Her Child in Harvey Nicks… ” People should call her The Girl Who Has Too Many First World Problems.

Her best friend is Suze, who, at the beginning of the series is living in a swanky flat with Becky bought for her by her parents, just so happens to have a title (as you do), and any new business venture she tries is instantly successful because of her connections. And the guy she ends up getting hitched to gives her even more money and connections.

How can they have heard about her? I’m thinking. I mean, she only started making frames four days ago!
“No, silly!” she says, and laughs. “I phoned up Lally. Have you met Lally?” I shake my head. “Well, she’s fashion editor of Vogue now, and she spoke to Perdy, who’s the interiors editor, and Perdy phoned me back – and when I told her what my frames were like, she just went wild.”

For added measure, here’s some choice quotes from the books about Suze.

The amazing thing is, Suze only started making frames a few months ago – but already, she’s supplying four shops in London, and they’re doing really well! She’s been in loads of magazines, and everything. Which isn’t surprising, because her frames are so cool.

“And my father once bought a whole island without telling my mother… And then he forgot about it, too. And he only remembered when he got this letter out of the blue inviting him to roll the pig in the barrel.”

Suze’s room is light and airy and overlooks the garden. I say ‘garden’. It’s about 12,000 acres, with lawns running down from the back of the house to a clump of cedar trees and a lake, which Suze nearly drowned in once when she was three. There’s also a walled rose garden to the left, all flower beds and gravel paths and hedges…

Doesn’t it make you want to be sick? I’m sure people like this do exist in real life, but it’s like Kinsella was reading up on “Fictional Rich Perfect Best Friends for Dummies,” and this was the result.

Then there’s Mr. Perfect, Luke Brandon. He’s supposedly a multimillionaire (in fact, the only two people to try and date Becky in the series just so happen to have tons of money in the bank), is the son of a wealthy socialite, but chooses to nobly ignore his parents’ money and stand on his own two feet by running a successful PR company – excuse me while I gag. Chick-lit and fictional successful PR companies go together like bread and butter. He also has mother issues, which of course involve him relying on Becky to get him through. His company is also saved by Becky at some point, and is forced to grovel and apologise for not listening to her afterwards. Becky is amazing! >.>

Throughout this series, Becky changes careers, moves to New York, gets married, finds a sister, and has a baby. All whilst spending unlimited amounts of money (yes, sure, there are mentions of an overdraft, but isn’t her husband a millionaire?), and pulling off the organisation of many, many parties. Kinsella’s prose during these events is just a series of “And then this happened. Then this. THEN this.” Becky has the worst case of special snowflake syndrome I’ve seen in a while.

“I know, I suppose. But… I thought I was making a difference. I really thought I’d achieved something.” I heave a morose sigh. “And it was all for nothing.”
“For nothing?” says Luke, incredulous. “Becky… Just take a look at what you’ve done.” He gestures at the throng. “Look at all these people. I’ve heard how you transformed the campaign. Not to mention the village… and this party you’re throwing… You should be proud of yourself. Hurricane Becky, they’re calling you.”

It’s the most incredible, blow-your-mind party. It just is. I mean, I know I helped organize it and everything, so I shouldn’t boast. I should be all modest and self-deprecating and say, ‘Oh, it was OK, I suppose,’ or ‘As parties go, it wasn’t bad,’ and shrug and change the subject and talk about the weather. But too bad, I’m not going to, I’m going to tell you the truth. Which is that it’s the most out-of-this-world party and everyone’s said so, even people who go to loads of parties like the Right Reverend St John Gardner-Stone, who turns out to be a total sweetie with a good line in knock-knock jokes.

I guess the main problem about this series for me is how much classism it reeks of. The characters don’t read anything other than the Telegraph, Times or Daily World (a nice moniker for the Daily Fail), some of them have titles and/or know the royal family, they complain about the NHS and always go private (there’s something about that in one of the books but I’m raging so much I don’t want to look it up), and they consider anything that isn’t Waitrose or M&S for food a sin.

I’ll leave you with this supposedly ‘hilarious’ scene about visiting a pound shop.

I’ve never actually been to a pound shop, but they’ve got to be good. I mean, everything only costs a quid, for a start.

Fuck.

There’s a pound shop to our right and a 99p shop opposite. For a moment we survey both in doubtful silence.
“Which one shall we go to?” ventures Janice at last. “The 99p shop is slightly cheaper, obviously…” She peters out.

My.

“I have certain standards, Janice,’ she says with quiet dignity, like a general saying he’ll dress for dinner even though bombs are dropping all around him. ‘I don’t think we need to sink to the 99p shop quite yet.”
“OK,” whispers Janice nervously.
“I’m not ashamed to be seen here,” adds Mum. “Why should I be ashamed? This is our new way of life, and we’re all just going to have to get used to it. If your father says we have to exist on turnip jam, then so be it.”

Life.

“Your father will just have to adjust his taste buds to suit his wallet!’ she says, clattering another one in. ‘Maybe nutrition is something we can’t afford any more! Maybe vitamins are only for the super-rich!”

There is NOTHING shameful about going to the pound shop. It’s just another shop on the high street, where they are able to produce things more cheaply, buy them from other retailers or import them in from foreign markets (good old Wikipedia). And it’s not just poorly-paid people who shop there, as the book seems to claim. So suck on that, Kinsella.

“Excuse me,” she says politely. “How much is this item?”
The sales girl shoots her a look of ineffable contempt. “Pahnd.”
“And this?” She gestures at a garden hose.
“Pahnd. Everyfink’s a pahnd. Pahnd shop, innit?”

The upper-class woman speaking politely to the lowly sales assistant, who obviously has no manners because she’s in the POUND SHOP? Give me a break.

The sad thing is, I’ve actually heard good stuff about Kinsella/Wickham’s other work, as far as chick-lit goes. I’ll appreciate that she doesn’t try to write sex scenes (because me analysing them would be awkward), although in Becky Bloomwood’s world, they’d obviously be perfect. I can’t bear to touch any of her other books after being put through this tripe.

I am angry. I am angry that some people reading these books will think they are a good representation of British culture, I am angry that these pieces of crap have sold so well, and, most of all, I’m angry at myself for buying the books and watching the movie. I could rant more about how it glamorises debts, credit cards and excessive spending, but at this rate, I could write an entire novel on how much this series sucks.