Anybody got any lemons to counter all that syrup?
If I said I was disappointed, I underestimated my reaction to Anna Jacobs’ novel High Street. It started off like a Catherine Cookson novel, ended like a Harlequin, and had a distinct flavour of Judith Krantz somewhere in between. I did enjoy the few bits of Phyllis A. Whitney, and even a tiny bit of V.C. Andrews, but Jacobs bored me with her stereotypical characters and even more familiar plot lines. It really made me want to reach out for a Jane Austen. (Yawn.) Lord, spare from ever writing anything like that.
