I am reading Eat, Pray, Love. It has been very successful - so the cover tells me - with 8 million copies sold worldwide. I bought it to get over the £5 mark so I could use my debit card to pay for Christmas cards in a charity shop, and to that end I am pleased I donated £2.50. Other than that, I am not getting on with it. It seems a lot of self-indulgent navel-gazing, which as someone prone to self-indulgent navel-gazing every now and again, is a bit rich. Imagine - if you will - that sort of Carrie Bradshawesque introspection, but without a pun at the end to look forward to. You get to the end of this scene, and there will be no distraction of Samantha Jones brandishing a vibrator, there will just be more hand-wringing about searching for spiritual fulfillment.
I'd have more time for it if it was funny.
It is not funny.
Or, at least, the first half isn't. What is funny, however, was the Guardian review of the film of Eat, Pray, Love, which was written in fittingly tripartite sentences: go - read it here now and save yourself the pain of mistakingly picking up the book or DVD.