So there I was, flat out on my back yet again, doing the bed-rest thingie and bored witless. Re-read two Wodehouses in a row - not a very good idea because my back hurt everytime I laughed out loud. And then I wondered about Stephanie Myers - my physiotherapist had been whining and moaning about her 12-year-old's ghastly reading habits. "She's addicted to some rubbish about vampires," she muttered darkly. I was curious - all the little girls I know have been lapping these books up.
Since I was at a loose end, I asked BH to get me one of the books, and he dutifully handed me the very first in the series (Twilight) with a visible sneer.
Hell, I loved it for many reasons:
1. Well-written, not trashy like most best-sellers are
2. Sparkling wit
3. Exciting sexual tension
4. Dead sexy hero - hot, dangerous, witty and noble- sigh. I want! I want! I want!
5. Clumsy heroine with self-deprecating sense of humour
6. And, of course, the thriller bits starring other evil vampires
I'm DEFINITELY going to buy the rest!
P.S. Wish a vampire had sunk his fangs into me when I was in my early twenties - no need for anti-ageing unguents and freedom from frail, creaky bones and all that crap.