In Which, Perhaps, We Reveal
Victoria's Literary Secret
(or make a boldly wrong guess)

"Oxford-educated It girl" Plum Sykes is getting knocked around by the British book press--and though I loathe the practice of reviewing the author instead of the book, I do have to admit that it's probably bad form to create a "Bergdorf bitch" scene in front of an interviewer (especially if the reason said interviewer hasn't gotten 'round to reading your book is that your publicists haven't sent it). Still, we all have our bad days for reasons nobody else knows about, and that particular journalist is quite frankly aggravatingly condescending enough on her own; Hadley Freeman seems to have caught Sykes on a much better day.

Some bloggers have had fun with Sykes' comment in the "bitchy" interview:

"One paper described me as the new Candace Bushnell; my book the new Sex And The City. Ha! That is so wrong. My book is an Oscar Wilde type souffle. It's the Breakfast At Tiffany's for 2004."

But the chance collisions of my reading habits have steered me towards a new reference point: P.G. Wodehouse. If he centered his stories around slightly dim but financially well-off women instead of slightly dim but financially well-off men, that is, and threw in a lot more brand names. Granted,
Bergdorf Blondes isn't quite Uncle Fred in the Springtime, but Wodehouse took his time in becoming Wodehouse, too, right? (Surely he must have; it would be utterly too depressing if he was that brilliant from word one.) Anyway, with that in mind, all sorts of things drop into place as I make my way through the back half of the novel.

And here's the clincher: his nickname was Plummie--or Plum, depending on who you ask. (Of course, I wouldn't mind confirmation, so if you're reading, Ms. Sykes, do let us know! My email's on the home page...)