It's been a long time since I've read British chick-lit. I don't know if I've changed or if it's changed. Maybe neither, and this was a different kind of chick-lit, borderline women's erotica. I don't remember Bridget Jones's Diary talking about running a finger over a tingling anus. That's the type of scene I found in Sue Margolis's Neurotica.

I also found scenes of slapstick comedy like two women having a fight by smushing pie onto each other. Or a service for married woman to find the perfect datable man. Or a hypochondriac husband who sits on the floor in front of a mirror to inspect his ball sack in the wee morning hours. Funny stuff.

While I didn't catch onto the pop culture and sundry references to all things British, I did catch onto the story of a writer doing research by having affairs while her husband tries out some therapy that leads him to mother issues. It is a nice escape from heavy literature or, say, student papers (oh, the student papers, pages and pages of unrevised final drafts).