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The Best Christmas Story for Crazy Holiday Shopaholics: A Book Review ^Featured

Christmas Shopaholic by The Shopaholic Series author Sophie Kinsella: A Book Review

Getting through Chapter One of Sophie Kinsella's Christmas Shopaholic took me, approximately, three hours. My delay was neither due to difficulty in reading comprehension, nor a lack of interesting content. It was, in fact due to, as is Kinsella's way, the utmost of engaging empathy. Kinsella's characters are so relatable and approachable, it is easy to fold into their world and become one with them. It is this exact, canny ability Kinsella possesses to tap into her readers' psyche and know precisely what they feel and need, emotionally as well as commercially. From page one, Christmas Shopaholic was so relatable, I set aside my reading, at regular intervals to, obviously, do some Christmas procuring.

Oh, my God, I've missed shopping. ... i mean, I've shopped online, obviously. But that's a whole different activity. In fact, I think they should invent a different word for it. Online ordering isn't really shopping, it's "procuring". You procure stuff online. But you don't get the buzz of actually stepping into a shop and seeing all the gorgeous stuff, feeling it, stroking it, being seduced by it.

Selfridge's at Christmastime, photo by BoyMeetsFashion.com

Whilst no scientific data exist, it is believed, in old, Irish lore, some scribes possessed the ability to mind-meld, like Druids, and enter the human brain, perchance as we sleep, to record our imaginations, experiences, embarrassments, wishes and fears. Then, as day would break, borrowing on the mind's eye of the sleeping mortals, these magical scribes put quill to paper. It is still believed, some contemporary authors possess this ancient, magical power.

Just kidding, but, it feels like it with some authors, right? When you stumble upon one of these magical authors, you consume their words with an obscene voracity.

Sophie Kinsella is just such an author, for millions of readers, as is attested by her multiple, #1 New York Times Best-Seller status. Her omnibus overflows with sheaves of relatable narratives, cheery self-deprication, quintessential and overly-apologetic English charm, and a heartwarming quality only a perky, pretty, optimist, poking the grouchy forces that be, can proffer.

Revisiting Kinsella's first Shopaholic title, Confessions of a Shopaholic (Book I in the series and also a satisfying, film adaptation starring the affable and effervescent Isla Fisher), Yours Truly readily related to multiple silly scenarios involving her quirky heroine. It is this oneness that curated a relationship between this new reader and that first-discovered work, so many Christmases ago, by a soon-to-be fave author of mine. That relationship quickly led to the very real need to seek, and oft times wait years, for more literary confections by the inimitable Sophie Kinsella.

Par example: Confessions of a Shopaholic introduces Becky Bloomwood: sassy, savvy, stylish, London heroine-at-large. Necessary to Becky's - very accidental - gig as a financial-advice columnist, she carries with her daily the notable business-newspaper, Financial Times. Yet, however adult-y and professionally she folds it in thirds and tucks it under her designer-sheathed arm, Becky's FT is not useful for its moneyed missives therein, but, rather understandably, because it is pink. (Well, more of a peachy-rose, but still. It makes perfect sense, choosing a daily paper based on its colour palette.)

Yours Truly went through a similar FT phase, making sure to carry it everywhere, especially upon Starbucks visits. After my initial sip of café crème, I would snap open my peachy FT and, as I perused articles and stock quotes, nod and frown knowingly, with the occasionally audible, annoyed harrumph. Once done with my café, I would fold my FT neatly back into thirds and, with pursed lips and slight head-shake about the state of world finances, tuck it under my arm and retain absolutely nothing I had just read.

*Aside: There was also an International Herald Tribune phase. Yet, that, I really did read, nay, devour and retain every single word. World affairs, I crave. World finances? Meh.

I digress …

It is Kinsella's ability to craft just such situations that, ironically, can tear the reader away from her words, for the very habit of recollecting one's own silly history; or even sparking the need to attend to a current, silly situation. Even pausing for a moment, to recall that time you looked fabulous, just walking downtown.

I can see my reflection in the windows as I walk along, and I can't help shimmying like a model ... I even mentally itemize my outfit as if I'm in a magazine, which is an old habit of mine. Coat: Topshop. Jumpsuit: ASOS. Shoes: See by Chloe. Bracelet: model's own (can't remember where I got it).

At first blush, Becky's draw is her seemingly inane, Lucy Ricardo tendencies, her Fran Fine absurdities (and élan) and her 2 Broke Girls antics. Yet, it is not simply Becky's CBS sitcom-ready shenanigans that have made Sophie Kinsella a best-seller. In fact, upon deeper reading and introspection, likened to any beloved, durable fictional character, it is Becky's intimate correlation with each devoted reader that gives her longevity. Kinsella devotees - largely female, but with easy gender-crossover, especially in the same family, thanks to nighttime read-alouds and road trip snippets - will tell you they know this character, they are this character, that they have shared her mortifying scrapes and cloud-dancing victories. If you bump into an old frenemy/school chum on the street, the one whom always seemed a step ahead of you in everything, and whom now happens to look fresh-from-the-salon amazing, just as you're digging a letter out of a trash bin, a letter you desperately need yet accidentally tossed with a bit of trash, you're Becky. Therein lies the beauty of Becky Brandon (née Bloomwood) as icon of turn-of-the-21stC., chick-lit Brit-lit.

It is no accident Becky's lives The Life of Riley; it is by design, with a little serendipity from the Universe. Attractive, vibrant and relentless in character, and fortunate enough to have a supportive network of friends and fam, Becky has always had a fine, natural start to a happy, fruitful existence. Still, the proverbial sun doesn't always shine on Becky. When dark clouds hinder her Riley ways, she fights the hindrance with all her ingenuity, temerity and perseverance, like a chic Jack Russell. Whatever Becky wants, Becky gets, eventually and generally under the oddest of circumstances.

In the pretty, rabbit-y, chocolate-tin world of Letherby Village, just outside London, Becky Brandon lives her, nearly, perfect life. Married to the, naturally, handsome Luke Brandon, of Brandon Communications, she is a lively, young and pretty mum to their precocious and twee daughter, Minnie. Becky enjoys not only setting up her glamourous new home, just a three-minute walk to her BFF's house, stately Letherby Hall, but she also works with her BFF - Suze, Lady Cleath-Stuart - managing the Letherby Hall Gift Shop. If anyone is skilled in merchandising and attracting buyers to a posh gift shop, it is Becky Brandon.

Loving her new, country-squire life, it's admittedly nothing like her previous, townie life in bustling, vogue London and Becky finds herself feeling somewhat, well, not bored, but, maybe, missing out on the fast lane ... until her college ex-boyfriend, now a global rock star, just happens to move into a cottage on the Letherby estate. An unexpected drop-in to the gift shop flips country life on its ear and proves Becky may have a greater desire for the fast lane than she'd thought.

If a new house, a new job and an old flame aren't enough to keep a hummingbird kind of girl busy, Becky's usually consistent, rock-solid, mild-mannered parents pop her a real Christmas cracker. When Becky's half-sister and her husband return to England from a sojourn in Chile, the Parental Units offer up their lovely, suburban home in Oxshott for a few months and take the opportunity to excavate their lost youth by leaving their quiet, Hyacinth Bucket lifestyle and moving to London's hip, Shoreditch district. There, Mum and Dad discover a newfound need for smashed avocado, craft cocktails and urban beekeeping. Not only disturbing to see her parents acting like hipster doofuses, but their sudden move ignites a holiday firestorm even the inimitable, bright-eyed Becky Brandon might not be able to contain.

Mum and Dad's impromptu move to Shoreditch, and a tiny co-op apartment, means a tectonic shift in Christmas tradition. For the first time ever, Becky must host Christmas! As Mum horrifically suggests, Now you're in your lovely house, maybe it's time for you to host Christmas!

I don't host Christmas; Mum hosts Christmas. She knows how to do it. She knows how to unwrap the chocolate roll and put it on a doily and sprinkle icing sugar on it.

Not a problem. Hosting her first Christmas shall not fail! How could it? First things first, Becky has a WhatsApp group going, to get ideas from everyone invited to Christmas. What could be better than input from a dozen folks? She has fresh salmon (30 lbs of it). She has aromatic pine garland which will, eventually, stay tacked up on the mantel and plans for a spirited, Christmas Eve, gingerbread house-building party. She's even joined the Myriad Miracle Training System to lose "fifteen to forty pounds" by Christmas, to fit into her new, amazing, but a little small, Alexander McQueen dress. She's determined to get Luke the perfect present this year and not the boring aftershave he professes he wants. She's already got Minnie's most-requested pressie purchased and hidden. Best of all, she's going to have the most on-trend, sparkly, stylized Christmas tree in town, decorated tip to toe with the season's hippest, most coveted ornament: the silver llama.

Toss into this funny, figgy pudding an elementary school play with designer-costume malfunctions, old flames (maybe, old feelings?), infiltration of an ancient, private, gentlemen-only, London billiards-club, family infighting, possible freind-betrayals, a friend's heartbreaking divorce, an obsessive business-groupie stalking Luke, a humourless, environmentally-militant vegan demanding no store-bought gifts, Becky's attempt to introduce a new word into the Norwegian National Dictionary, plus an overnight, pet store lockdown, and Christmas Shopaholic is the star atop your Christmas reads.

As Kinsella's nine previous Shopaholic novels will attest, mis-en-scène from NYC to Vegas, from Hollywood to London, Becky Brandon (née Bloomwood) takes readers on interpersonal tours of monumental expectations, confusing emotions, disappointing reveals, exhilarating accomplishments and, of course, gorgeous hair and the cutest boots, bags and togs. Whether she's rescuing her BFF, Lady Cleath-Stuart, from a sexy, L.A. guru, branding herself as Hollywood's It Stylist to the Stars, saving her husband's sometimes-nemesis (a.k.a. Alicia Bitch Long-legs) or helping her dad find an old school mate in the wilds of Arizona's desert art-communities, nobody puts Becky in a corner, or an ugly dress. Becky can, and will, conquer any obstacle, personal, physical or otherwise.

In addition to her ten Shopaholic titles, Sophie Kinsella has penned nineteen other tales, some under the nom de plume, Madeleine Wickham: different heroines and varying venues, yet with the same charm, quirk, tenacity and, important for these times, I believe, happy endings … yet not always with the outcomes you might expect. If you are a new reader, lucky you! So many titles await you! Moi? Alas, I shall wait, as long as is necessary, and re-read my beloved Kinsellas, when the craving strikes.

*Aside: As far as Christmas goes, even when it's passed, why wait all the way to next December to celebrate?! Give yourself some holiday cheer, any time of year, with any of your hoiday, media faves, but especially when a shopp-y mood strikes, enjoy a little Becky Brandon (née Bloomwood). When it's just too hot outside to even fathom there shall ever be a December again, dive into Christmas Shopaholic, after you dive into the pool. Sophie Kinsella, combined with your own, silly stories make life a very lovely thing, indeed. TTFN, kittens!