В отличие от мемуара Джанетт Уоллс, эта книжка не автобиографична. Маленький отрывок, одна из героинь, замученная мамаша с тремя детьми, занимает на греческом курорте очередь за мороженым, и встречается там с, очевидно, более богатой туристкой и ее двумя дочками, одетыми как для обложки журнала:
A woman appeared behind them in the queue, a serene creature in a white dress, tailed by two immaculate sylphlike daughters, all blond, all legs. Meg glanced briefly at them, then at her raggle-taggle mismatch of screaming infants, Molly in last year’s chlorine-stained swimsuit because they hadn’t started selling swimwear in the shops yet, the boys in cheap blue things from Woolworths, freckled backs and chocolate-smeared faces. She thought of herself, a size fourteen to sixteen now. Fourteen to sixteen. And all on her hips and thighs, not an extra ounce on her boobs. She thought of her unwaxed bikini line (she simply had not had the time, she’d had to shave instead and had given herself a rash), her sensible swimsuit, her latest, not entirely successful haircut (she’d had the baby on her lap and hadn’t been concentrating on what the hairdresser was saying—it was very short). She thought of the past five sleepless nights all squashed into what had laughably been described as a “family” suite but was in fact a normal hotel room with a travel cot and two camp beds packed into it.
And then she smiled tightly at the mother behind her and said, “Sorry about this traveling circus, we’ll be out of your way any minute.”
Женщина в белом платье, по всей видимости, камео самой Лизы.