If he always has the headache, why should you suffer In the bestselling tradition of Bridget Jones's Diary comes this outrageous, hilarious look at love, marriage, and sex, introducing Anna Shapiro, who believes that surely there must be more to married life....Tabloid reporter Anna Shapiro can pinpoint the day, three years ago, that she and her husband, Dan, last had great sex. Anna would be grateful if something as ordinary as a mere headache was her husband's excuse; Dan's hypochondriac terrors include brain tumors, tropical diseases, and spontaneous combustion. While she loves her husband, she's not ready to give up on sex at age thirty-seven--so what can she do
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December 31, 1997
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Excerpt from Neurotica by Sue Margolis
"'WE USED TO BE A HAPPY FAMILY before all this happened,' wept attractive mum of two, Dawn, 40, from the beamed mock-Tudor lounge of her apartment in Barking. "I used to enjoy going out for a Malibu and Coke with the girls of an evening. Terry used to look forward to a bit of a fight with his mates at the West Ham football matches. These days, all our friends have deserted us. We daren't even walk round the estate without the Rottweilers, because there's always some bastard pointing a finger at us. Sigourney and Keanu are wonderful kids since they came out of the detention center, but they're being bullied so much at school over this, they've been offered counseling.'"
Anna was sitting at the word processor in her bedroom-cum-study, just getting to the end of a piece for the health pages of the Globe on Sunday about coping with nits--provisionally headlined "Lousy Mother's Nit Nightmare Shame"--when she looked down at her watch and realized that if she didn't get a move on, she was going to be late for Uncle Henry's funeral.
The article should have taken only a couple of hours to write, but Anna was spending ages on it, because she had passed most of the morning staring out of the window trying to pluck up the courage to phone Liaisons Dangereux, but then decided she couldn't because they were bound to want her to deliver her romantic manifesto in some cringe-makingly embarrassing video. She knew the style, since she had done an article a couple of years ago on women who used dating agencies, and had sat in while some of them performed what one outfit referred to pretentiously as the client's "piece to camera."
The women fell into two groups. First there were the fat middle-aged divorcees with bad perms, who had just started some computer access course or other. Then there were the sad twenty-something lasses with eczema and brains the size of Cadbury's Creme Eggs, who sat in front of the camera and gabbled: "Hi, my name's Nicole and I come from Worcester Park. I work in personnel for a large company which specializes in intimate rubberwear. My ambitions are to meet Noel Edmonds, to find a way to wax my bikini line without getting that embarrassing rash and to end world hunger. At this moment in time I am without a special someone in my life and I'm searching for a soulmate for walks, talks and maybe more. Are you the shining star who can brighten up my lonely nights "