"I adored it" says someone named Cathy Bramley. Who the fuck is she? And why would I care what she thinks? The tired plot of this ridiculous book, appropriating an already over-baked title, has it that "Widowed at age 64, Rosie can’t stop thinking about Peter, the first man she ever loved." Peter? Really? That's what you name this obsession of hers? Seriously? It goes on, "After an unexpected reunion, can Rosie seize her second chance at happiness?" I really don't care. It's been done to death and it's time to get a new Peter. And don't forget to tell Cathy Bramley you got one - so she can adore that, too.
