I’m very late to the One Day party. But am so glad I came.

Going off-genre is always a risky business for me. My default setting screams “NO!” whenever someone tries to get me to read something that doesn’t have a sparkly pink cover and doesn’t fall neatly into a chick lit theme. But some very persuasive colleagues and chums, who’s opinions I trust immensely, told me One Day would leave me breathless, and quite frankly, they weren’t far wrong.

Obviously it’s a beautiful love story. Em and Dex were bought completely to life, and the impending sense of doom cranked up with just enough sensitivity that even though I know I was being played, I loved every minute of it. I’m delighted that Dex remained a selfish twat even in grief and even though I take issue with a few flaws in Em, I could completely see why she loved him to the bitterest of ends.

However, and here’s my thing. One Day is actually completely on-genre. Just cause it’s written by a man, and just cause it doesn’t have a pink cover, it completely centres around a couple, in love, and the obstacles stopping them being together. It's brilliantly written and all that, but I wonder, in a cynical raised eyebrow way, whether if it had had a pink cover, and been written by a women, the great and the good of the book critic world would have heaped just as much praise on it.

The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

It's been an interesting year. When I say interesting…

I turned 40. I had The Shoulder. The circle became a square. I had to adjust to the loss of Group Sales Director, UK Sales Director, and Special Sales Manager. And I've had to adjust to the new Big Cheese, the new Medium Cheese and the new Mini Cheddar. We had the Car Accident. I fell off the non-smoking wagon. I’ve now got The Eye.

Sometimes, it does feel like a very steep uphill struggle…