Fifty Shades of Eh?


The arrival schedule at Ibiza was staggered, but of the first tranche of four ladies, three – yes, that’s THREE – were carrying, er, spanking new copies of Fifty Shades of Grey. Indeed, one of the 75% had brought the entire trilogy. Which left one lady staring in panic at the horizon and wondering where it had all gone wrong.

Mortifyingly, I had only brought a detective thriller and One Day, which everyone in the world read at least a year ago. Of course I’d heard the brouhaha about the enchantingly named mummy porn (incidentally, how come ‘daddy’ porn doesn’t get its own special name? Are we to conclude that gentlemen’s minds are on higher things than all that nudeybiz?). And it wasn’t that I was being sniffy about it (yes, ok, I was), but it just wouldn’t occur to me to read it. Just because I’ve never really understood why you would want to get all hot and bothered without someone to, er, take it out on. (‘No, I don’t care if you’ve got a headache’).

No. In my world that’s just asking for trouble – let sleeping dogs lie and all that. Actually, I had ample opportunity to have a scan through the pages because the binding was so bad that the books fell apart as they were being read. Pages of pornette floated and tumbled all round the pool, getting caught in the hibiscus and trapped under the bougainvillea. Obviously they were completely out of sequence, having taken independent tours of the garden, but I gather that doesn’t make a lot of difference to the whole feathery-kisses-on-the-jawline ‘plot’.

The boys largely avoided the topic of The Book, only one asking a single question of the trilogy owner. If she had read the first installment on its own, he wondered, would she have gone back and bought the other two? Long, thoughtful pause. ‘No.’


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