Man, I am just not having a good run here. Thankfully I didn’t pay anything for this kindle edition of the book, thanks to BookBub. I generally enjoy reading memoirs, getting inside somebody else’s skin, going places I never could. How could I go wrong with her tale: Spending her early childhood in Africa, then London in the swinging sixties, the tumultuous lives of artists, musicians and household names sounded like fun. All that shagging, drugs and rock and roll, right?
Well technically that stuff was there, sort of, but the execution of this book was just so dreadfully dull. A straight up “This happened. Then this happened. And that happened.” So dispassionate and wooden. Even when she’s writing about scandalous events or childhood trauma, it’s bloodless and strangely self-UN-aware. If only she had gotten a better editor or ghostwriter or something. It was honestly a bit of a chore to finish this thing off.