Finally the fuss over Fifty Shades of Grey (and the copycats it spawned – the true plagiarist really is devoid of shame) appears to be dying down.
I gave it a couple of pages, just to see how on-target my suspicions were.
Pinpoint, it turned out. A lot of sex, the more lurid the better.
It was as I listened to a breathless debate about it among my female colleagues, that I was struck by the fact that men have been here before, years ago, in similarly feverish huddles in newsagents, as a group of hormone-crazed teenage boys discussed who among them could pass for 18 and usher the gang through the gates of paradise by procuring the coveted Club International.
The girls got to hear of it back at school, of course and how we were made to suffer. Not through overt denunciation but by the curled lip and ‘disappointed’ look that we would recognise only too well in later life. We were soiled, tarnished and though it went unspoken, we knew all right. This was how Original Sin must have felt.
Now? It’s the girls who have been caught with forbidden fruit. The guilty smiles are now framed in lipstick, the conspiratorial whispers hang in air laced with perfume.
The unthinkable has happened. They are fallen angels, no better than blokes.
It has been a landmark book, all right.