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When I wasn't being irritated by the completely over the top neuroses being documented, I did quite enjoy the book for short spurts of a time. Crewe writes wryly and with neat observations, and while I was not laughing and crying, as other reviewers claim to have been, I did enjoy the irony and wittiness of the text. Her examination of the stem of her problems is interesting and unusual at times, though it does also include the boring and common "I lost weight to make men like me" and "Beauty is thin, thin is beauty" nuggets. I also enjoyed the food descriptions - the baguettes and cheese, the chocolate tortes, the hot toast slathered with peanut butter. While this book wouldn't come close to [[The Gypsy Tearoom]] or [[The Food of Love]] in this respect, the descriptions were nice because they were for solid, simple, tasty food rather than gourmet meals. If just seemed such a waste that half of it would be thrown away later, or be ingested only to be regretted and possibly vomited up shortly afterwards.
The book may well have been a therapeutic one to write, but it is less so to read, because unless you have exactly the same issues and thought processes as the author, it is hard to identify completely with the sentiments being expressed. At times, I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, give her a good shake and tell her that shifting pounds comes down to nothing more complicated than eating less and moving more. At times I felt very glad that my mind is not messed up in this way when it comes to food. At times I mourned for the lost chocolate and cream cakes, discarded in a manner that can only be described as criminal. If you're a nicer person than me, you might feel sorry for the author as she describes her life being controlled by such an unnatural preoccupation with food. If you're really nice, though, and you like all those battered, abused children memoirs ( [[''A Child Called It]]'', [[''Don't Tell Mummy]]'') you might end up wanting to tell Crewe to get a grip, grow up and deal with an issue which seems nothing in the grand scheme of things (she's a half-hearted bulimic for example - she doesn't really manage the throwing up part - so it's hard to sympathise as you might with someone clearly in the grips of a full blown eating disorder). But, if you're like me, you may end up simply pitying a woman who cannot seem to have her cake and eat it, and feeling everso sorry for all those unloved, unwanted chocolate bars in her life.
My thanks to the publishers for sending the Bookbag a copy of this book.
