Jones begins this candid memoir about her more or less unexceptional sexual history with a confession: "I can't lay claim to any great trauma that might colour my narrative with gothic: no fashionably horrific abuse ... no serious neglect". She sounds disappointed. Instead, what has coloured her narrative is a strange disconnect between sex and love, sex and constancy, sex and anything, really.
There is no real explanation for this, though her mum comes in for some stick, and you almost want to rescue her husband. Though the book is ultimately inconclusive there are some neat moments of insight and recognition – just not enough humour to carry them off.Reuse content