Who’s got their tree up already? Yep, me too.
Not only am I (Norwegian) spruced up by late November, I also have an outside middle class Las Vegas going on. A light-up reindeer, flouro presents, a bedazzled wreath and fairy bulbs light the stairs to my front door – all in a very tasteful manner, of course. But still. November.
I’m not even going to describe to you inside, but suffice to say, my electricity bill will be much higher than normal come January. I’m not even sorry – I need the joy. We all do, so bring it. I fully support all your endeavours towards entertainment. If you fancy a ten-foot blow-up Santa in your garden, I say, do you. Giving in is the only way forward.
Which brings me nicely onto this month’s reviews. For, in my submission to all things twee and generally, under normal circumstances, a tad uncool, I have succumbed to the romance novel. Not Mills and Boon, you understand. No, I’m poring over contemporary romance, a classier affair you see.
Yes, I normally avoid happily-ever-after like the plague. This reviewer is in her late 30s (I tried to hold onto mid-30s for as long as I could, but there’s no denying it now) and frankly, not sure anymore that thunderbolts strike anywhere but Florida in the summer. But here we are, with three whole romance books from my shelves (there are way more than that now, by the way), to talk about. And while there’s romance, and sex, obv, there’s also humour, complex 3D characters and real-life problems to navigate. There is also, I think it is key to point out, respect, boundaries and consent.
Consent is sexy. The steamy encounters throughout these books involve explicit permission, and condoms. Lots of condoms. A great deal of safe sex and consenting and adulting is going on here. And in this post #MeToo era, we call out the pleasant surprises when they occur.
So, if I may assume you’ve got your own hygge requirements taken care off – fairy lights fired up, a cosy blanket etc – it’s time to dive into some cute-as-a-button tales of courtship, guaranteed to make you warm, fuzzy, and at times, a little fluttery (don’t read in front of your granny). It might be frigid outside, but it certainly ain’t on my bookshelves…
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