An Englishwoman in New York: or life only begins at 40…


Yes, I’ve been bad, very bad and have totally neglected my blog. However since I now have Lovereading :, being kind enough to send me the occasional book to review I really should return the favour and start spreading the word about the books they send me. Although I submit a more concise review to their site, which my few loyal followers (if indeed any remain) should naturally go and visit; but on this site I will stick to my normal routine of looking what the book gave to me on a more personal level, if indeed anything at all.

An Englishwoman in New York is not a heart-breaking work of literary genius, but it’s a novel that’s highly entertaining, very funny in parts and also made me consider exactly where I was heading. As much as I picked up the novel as if I was going to read about a species of animal to which I wasn’t related I soon noticed the women that populate the novel, yes those approaching “middle-age” or at least their 40s, were in some cases only a few years older than me! A real shiver ran down my spine, a proper tangible shiver. I had a friend that had looked into freezing her eggs, plenty of friends under-going fertility treatment and I’d not even begun on that journey yet (in most part for lacking the man to join me on that particular journey), so heaven only knows which destiny awaited me. Would I end up like Christy marrying a man old than her own father? Or would I marry a new-age man that would be off having affairs with my friends while in between teaching yoga? Or I would end up single in my early 40s and searching for answers through therapy with horses? I guess I’d have to wait to find out, and rather than feel fear I should feel excitement because there was one thing that the book very clearly brought home: life, or at least the life we always envisioned for ourselves, only began in our 40s! So there’s hope yet!

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