I sucked at math. I mean, I barely new what way up I was during class let alone what the fuck an integer is. I spent the majority of the year doodling bubble letters in my blueberry scented gel pen (c'mon guys, it was the early noughties) and skipping class as often as I dared, preferring to spend time in the library where the marks on the page actually made sense to me. Like, what is algebra? Some kind of animal? A disease? I don't even fucking know. So when it rolled around to exam time, the most I could hope for was to be able to write my name legibly at the top of the page (and even in this task I struggled. My handwriting is bad) I barely new where I was and had a hard time comprehending what the hell was going on. Math? That's like, numbers right? I thank all the gods that the marking gurus decided, in their infinite wisdom to lower the pass mark that year to 23% because I guess we all sucked. Somehow I actually passed, not with a fantastic grade or that but I actually passed. The markers must have found something they could grade in amongst all the song lyrics, quotes and cartoon ponies I scrawled across my exam paper. Or maybe they just had a really great sense of humour.

Mercy by Rebecca Lim felt like that goddam math exam all over again - I have no fucking idea what the hell is going on here.

Mercy, I think, is an angel (though I only know this because it says so on the blurb) who wakes up to find herself inhabiting a new human body periodically. She must use her enormous wit, talent and bravery (ha) to accomplish good deeds (for some reason) and make her time on earth worth while (I think) She lands in Paradise - a small town hiding great tragedy - in the body of Carmen, posing as a participant in a multi-school choir concert. There she meets Ryan and his stick-figure parents who are struggling to come to terms with the kidnapping of their daughter, Lauren two years previously. Mercy takes it upon herself to rescue Lauren and right the wrongs of this fractured family and town.

I have this friend who I can't stand. I'm using the term friend rather loosely here, I think recently we have spiralled downward into somewhat frosty acquaintances. She's violently pretentious. She has this thing about champagne. She knows all about the vintages and what vineyard the grapes were grown and the names of the crows that perched on the goddam vines while they were growing and all that other boring shit that she trots out at dinner parties, for some reason thinking people will be impressed. I'll tell you a secret - I "accidentally" stole one of these vomit inducingly expensive bottles of champagne recently. And I drank it. And it wasn't all that. Tasted exactly the same as every other bottle of champagne I've ever drank from. But oh no - this friend would insist she could detect notes of oak, or a hint of apple or whatever other bullshit she dreamt up. I mean she has a wine cellar for fucks sake. Not in her house. No. She has a rented wine cellar. Because let me tell you something. It's all a facade. It's all smoke and mirrors. Oh sure, at every dinner party, event and function we attend she's wearing her Louboutins, she's sipping her freaking champagne and she proclaiming loudly about her trip to Portugal or Greece or somewhere (yeah, I don't really listen that hard .....) to find a marriage location (her actual words. Whatevs girl .....) but I know it's all fake. I've been to her crummy apartment. I've sat on her frayed and faded red couch which reeks of cat pee. I've seen her so poor she's sitting on her bedroom floor crying, sorting through her clothes, picking out things to sell on eBay. I've seen her desperately trying to make something to eat out of a packet of mushrooms, a block of mouldy cheese and some questionable smelling chicken because she's spent all her money on fucking champagne.

This is my exact problem with her. She's so dishonest. I don't have a problem with someone having money and enjoying flashing it around a little, talking the talk at some party. But don't do this unless you actually have money. And don't forgo petrol that week to find the money, forcing you to get up at 4am to allow you the time for the two and half hour walk to work. This is a true story. There are a lot of people this crazy chick has fooled but I'm not one of them. I've known her for too long. I've shared an apartment with her. I've seen her sticky taping her bath taps back together because she can't afford to hire a plumber. That's a pretty dark time for anyone to live through. But instead of accepting that everyone goes through these things, and working hard to make life a bit more bearable, she's attempting to skip that and fake success instead, scrimping where no-one has any business scrimping (like tea bags. I'm really not happy reusing tea bags.) and splashing out on "props" for her trendy, lavish lifestyle. Yeah - her imaginary trendy, lavish lifestyle. I've tried an intervention with her. I was genuinely concerned about her spending habits and her sustainability. But she's not interested. So long as people flutter to her at social events, wowing over whatever bottle she brought for the evening I guess she feels like she's winning. But she bugs the crap outta me. I know it's petty to still care, it's not my problem. But I can't help but care when we were once close.

I'm digressing. What I'm trying to say is that reading Gone Girl was rather like spending an evening with this friend - boring, uncomfortable and with the knowledge that you just know you're being lied to constantly.

The basic plot is pretty straight forward: Amy disappears. Whodunit? I can't really say much more without spoiling the whole thing.

There aren't that many things on this earth that hold my interest. I've tried ice skating, painting, long distance running, photography, yoga, aromatherapy, tennis: the list goes on. And the only thing I have an unending obsession with is my animals, particularly my horses. I love to ride. I love the power, grace and beauty of the horses. I love the speed and the agility they lend, and I love them for who they are too, in all their quirky, stroppy, unpredictable glory. My horses are my passion. I devote so much time, energy and cold, hard cash into making them the best they can be. I'm competitive and I love to win. I love the adrenaline rush that comes with the incredible highs of achievements and the lowest of the lows that come with the inevitable failures. And boy have I had some failures ..... Riding doesn't make it onto the list of the top ten most dangerous sports for nothing. The worst accident I ever had was when I fell from a bitch of a pony and landed hard on the ground with my foot twisted round the wrong way. I bust my knee pretty much as bad as is possible without breaking a bone. Every ligament torn, every muscle ripped, every nerve irreparably damaged. My left knee is still swollen and completely numb five years later. So why do I keep coming back for more? With so much risk involved, and having gone through so much pain, why do I keep trusting my safety into the hooves of a massive, unpredictable creature who's highly likely to leap three feet into the air when he catches his own shadow out of the corner of his eye? Maybe I'm a little crazy .....

It's the same story with The Mortal Instruments series. Granted, I'm not taking my life in my hands when I pick up the book but I am beginning to doubt my sanity when I beginning reading something that I know will cause me pain.

City of Ashes made my jaw hurt.

If you want to retain any amount of your sanity, don't buy a house in the UK. I have been tackling this massive undertaking over the past month and I can tell you my friends, it's no picnic. Or in fact, it is a picnic. A picnic with giant, poisonous ants traipsing over all the food, staring daggers at you when you timidly try to shoo them away. The underwriters are the ants. I am the anxious picnic-participant. It's been one thing after another, culminating in my requiring a forklift truck in order to deliver the mountain of paper work that the bank requested. They wanted to see three different proofs of income, bank statements dated from when I was 6 months old, eight-four forms of photo ID, blood and urine samples and for me to take part in a pagan full-moon ritual in which sacrificing a baby goat was necessary. Okay, okay. I exaggerate (slightly) but there have been many hoops to leap through. Thankfully the end is in sight. I have chosen a beautiful apartment two streets from the park with countertops made of crushed diamonds and flooring I would kill a man for. Needless to say I can't wait to move.

So in light of the stress I've had piled on my head the past month, I opted for an easy read. Enter Teardrop by Lauren Kate. C'mon, I needed a good laugh. And laugh I did. This book is a hot mess of sexism, teenage angsting and foul romance.

Let's start with the plot. So the story goes that this chick, Eureka (I know! That goddam name!) has been grieving for a year (has it been a year? This seems to fluctuate to fit her mood) over the untimely death of her mother who was killed by a freak wave accident, of which Eureka miraculously survived. Naturally this gives Eureka the right to act like a complete bitch for the duration of the novel. Urgh. She discovers she has a stalker and then there's something about her best friend being possessed in order to mildly humiliate her. I don't know. The end culminates in her discovering her destiny and endangering the lives of her family and friends - exactly the way all great literary works should end. Right?!

My hairdresser and I have a strange relationship. I hate her, or rather I hate her work, and she charges me for this privilege. She refuses, point blank to give me what I want and it seems to cost me at least £120 every time I set foot in the salon. She makes me feel guilty for not taking care of my over-processed, over-bleached hair, subtly so as not to be blatantly rude to a customer but I hear that edge in her voice, that irritated, judgemental edge. And yet, I keep going back for more. Why?!! Who knows? Habit maybe, some deep rooted loyalty which I blame on my star sign. Leos are nothing if not loyal. But all I know is I'm never happy when I leave, my hair never looks how I imagined it would. Every six weeks I climb the stairs to the place (it's part of an office complex, downstairs from a psychologists clinic. One day I'm just gonna keep climbing and ask him why the hell I do the things I do) and I ask myself "Why am I back here? Why do I keep paying to be insulted and unsatisfied?!!

And so it is with Scott Westerfeld's Uglies series. I hated the first book. It was stupid and absurd. And yet, here I am again - reading and now reviewing book two, Pretties. And I can tell you my friends, just like my hair salon experience, coming back for more doesn't make it any better. In fact, in the case of Pretties it got worse!