Hmm. I’ve done a few book reviews myself but I will admit to not offering quite such an accurate precis of a book’s contents:

My publisher had told me to put some sex in the first chapter and my
date for the night had just cancelled. Things were not looking good. I
went into the kitchen and took the largest rabbit I could find out of
the dishwasher and slipped my hand inside my Agent Provocateur
knickers. That’s better, I thought. Problem sorted.

My sex column in
the Independent began with an ending. Two days before I was due to
leave New York to live with Patrick in London, he emailed me to say it
was over. "What shall I do?" I sobbed to my best friend, Victoria, as
we sank three bottles of tequila in her Hoxton apartment.

The only thing that jars slightly is the amount the Independent pays for a column. £ 75? The only one I ever did for them gained me £ 0. Still, if that is what they pay then that does explain some of the things that turn up in that paper.