Lover of ideas who feels no guilt at all about her pleasures.
This books does it's best to revive the victorian, first person, bawdy-underclass-coming of age romp and it achieves a fairly faithful addition to the genre.
Unfortunately - this isn't the Victorian age, and there's a reason we no longer pay by the word. The pace of this book is deadly to begin with and the funereal reading by the narrator just makes things unbearable.
The heroine of the story is supposed to be lusty, bold and clever - the reader sounds depressive and dull. This kills any hope of pleasure I might have had in the tail/tale, which annoys me. I keep going back to it, hoping it was just a bad day that spoiled the last bit for me, and instantly I'm re-frustrated that everyone seemes to have been sedated but me.
At the moment, I've made it to the end of the first half, and I'd like to see what happens with the groomsman, and find out if she rejoins her true love at last - but I'd rather flip through the pages in a bookstore than subject myself to the aggravation of listening to that sad sorrowful voice drone on.
The wrong kind of Dickin's, I'm sorry to say.