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!