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I read books, I write about books, I would probably marry a book if I could find one who liked me enough. Three words to describe me mature, irresponsible, contradictory, unreliable...oh...that's four...

On the Floor

On the Floor - Aifric Campbell I started this with loads of anticipation - Orange prize nommed, promising Irish writer and a subject (young financial trader struggles to hold her life together) that sounded fresh and original.Oh why do I listen to the hype? It wasn't the writing that let this book down - Campbell is skillful enough - it's not the premise, it's the handling of the premise.After a promising set up (broken love affair, sinister overseas client, bottles of vodka under the bed) the story just falls slowly apart as one tired literary cliche (for example there's a Tragedy In Her Past - who would have thunk it?) after another rears its weary head. The overall effect was to alienate me from the MC. Instead of feeling sorry for her, I ended up wanting to give her a good shake. Not quite the effect Campbell was after.And it's a shame, because with more attention to the plot and a stout resolve to avoid the obvious, Campbell is a good enough writer to compete with some of the best (Atwood, Mantel et al).