Do you know what would be amazing? To live inside a chick lit book. I'm serious. It would be, by far, the most wonderful existence for a woman, as all chick literature basically follows the same model of beauty, wealth and glamour. Add a hot, rich/adorably poor man and his charm, and you have yourself a guaranteed happy ending.

I'm talking about Jemima J, or Bridget Jones, or Sparkles and Glamour, Bergdof Blondes or Gold Diggers. (Yes, these books are all on my heavily overflowing bookshelf, their colourful and shiny covers proudly displayed amongst my media and journalism textbooks, the considerably deeper writings of Jodi Picoult and of course, the classics.) These are the ultimate pick me ups, provided you don't mind the rather cliched endings and beautifying processes, the endless shopping trips and descriptions of unattainable brand names such as Prada, Gucci, Miu Miu etc (bliss...) and the constant stream of sexy, sexy men. Personally, I am a fan. I love pretending that I have millions of dollars and a million men at my disposal, and if not, at least the long, brown body and silky blonde/brown/chestnut hair, cascading down my back in a waterfall of luscious curls.

Upon opening that golden cover, I know that I am entering a world of romance, Ritz and glamour and that absolutely nothing will make me feel as wonderful as pretending I am the next heiress to a massive fortune, which I can use to further my career as a brilliant lawyer or journalist.

But above all, the best kind of chick lit heroine is the daughter of a happy couple, content within her loving family, facing little to no problems from obstinate family members who are beyond difficult to live with.

I think I shall go and read my book now.