Every woman of a certain age wants to read about a ‘red room of pain’ it seems. Every supermarket bookshelf is filled with copies of the—originally–self-published and—apparently, I of course haven’t read it—turgidly written mommy-porn.
Just who’d have thought that some women would like reading about s-e-x? I don’t know, what’s the world coming to? I mean, isn’t a quick look at Eric Bristow showering in I’m A Celebrity… enough to keep them buzzing along? With or without batteries.
But it’s really just a romance novel, not particularly sexily sexed up. And the progenitor of romance novels that really hit the spot?
Dame Mary Barbara Hamilton Cartland, of course.
Of Edgbaston, of Birmingham.
You may stand now.
(from original idea by Frilly)