Ruth Picardie's early death was an awful tragedy for her and her family and I would not like this review to be interpreted as in any way minimising this loss.

However, that, for me, is the precisely the problem with this book. Any sort of criticism comes across as heartless yet a publication of this sort must stand or fall on its own enduring merits to a far greater extent than the more ephemeral medium of newspaper where, if one columnist fails to interest, others will.

Picardie's style of writing, frequently described as witty, just does not appeal to me. I find it slick and self-consciously clever. She lived and moved in a rather narrow and privileged social milieu and, on the evidence of the writing I have seen, displayed not very much comprehension of those outside it. Of course, she was ill and furiously angry and few people would display their best side in those circumstances but, much as I sympathised with her situation, I did not really warm to her or her writing.

That, of course, would be fair enough in most circumstances. Not every book appeals to every person but, in the present case, just writing this makes me feel uncomfortable and guilty. In other words, there is a pressure to be kind about this book because of who wrote it which does not square for me with the commercial proposition represented by the fact of publication, an ambiguity given a further twist by the (small) donation to the charity set up in her memory for every copy sold. There is a suggestion here of emotional blackmail to which I fear almost every other critic has succumbed.

I can understand the desperate need of those left behind to do everything possible to ensure Ruth Picardie's memory lives on. Her family had also lost a breadwinner. However, and I am aware that I am against the tide here, I am not convinced that this book should have been published. Her e-mails to her friends are full of anguish or banality (often both at once). That is to be expected but does not necessarily make for good reading. She occasionally hints at the possibility of publication in them which makes me uneasy. Was there an element of self-consciousness in these also? Again, writing this makes me feel guilty and ungenerous but it would be a legitimate enquiry in any other situation. The letters to her children should most certainly not have been published. They are private letters to individuals who are not yet in a position to decide whether they wish to keep them private. The adults concerned had no right to make that decision for them.

The most effective part of the book for me was the letters from readers many of whom were suffering similar agony either directly or by proxy. Their writing is often deeply moving in its humility, humour and anguish. If there is a book to be made out of this whole awful affair, then these should have been its foundations.

Having said that, though, I don't think this a good book. Picardie died so soon after her diagnosis that she left very little written material and this book is mostly padded out with emails she sent to friends; like most emails, these are of very little literary merit or interest to the world at large. More disturbingly, the final letters she wrote to her two year old twins are reprinted in this book and this actually made me feel quite angry. Even in this confessional culture, some things should be private, and I think the last communication between a dying mother and her infant children falls into this category. These letters are horribly poignant and I think they should have been left for her children's eyes only.

Even with all the email padding, this is a very slim volume indeed. While I understand that Picardie's family may have felt the need to memorialise Ruth Picardie with a book of her own, and indeed having just lost a wage-earner they must need the royalties it will bring in, I can't say I would recommend that anyone buy it for its own merits. It is very difficult to criticise a book of this sort, it feels rather like walking into Highgate Cemetary and stamping on the graves, but there is simply very little here, which underscores the tragedy: had Ruth Picardie lived a while longer I am sure she could have written a very good book about her experiences.

Ruth Picardie's early death was an awful tragedy for her and her family and I would not like this review to be interpreted as in any way minimising this loss.

However, that, for me, is the precisely the problem with this book. Any sort of criticism comes across as heartless yet a publication of this sort must stand or fall on its own enduring merits to a far greater extent than the more ephemeral medium of newspaper where, if one columnist fails to interest, others will.

Picardie's style of writing, frequently described as witty, just does not appeal to me. I find it slick and self-consciously clever. She lived and moved in a rather narrow and privileged social milieu and, on the evidence of the writing I have seen, displayed not very much comprehension of those outside it. Of course, she was ill and furiously angry and few people would display their best side in those circumstances but, much as I sympathised with her situation, I did not really warm to her or her writing.

That, of course, would be fair enough in most circumstances. Not every book appeals to every person but, in the present case, just writing this makes me feel uncomfortable and guilty. In other words, there is a pressure to be kind about this book because of who wrote it which does not square for me with the commercial proposition represented by the fact of publication, an ambiguity given a further twist by the (small) donation to the charity set up in her memory for every copy sold. There is a suggestion here of emotional blackmail to which I fear almost every other critic has succumbed.

I can understand the desperate need of those left behind to do everything possible to ensure Ruth Picardie's memory lives on. Her family had also lost a breadwinner. However, and I am aware that I am against the tide here, I am not convinced that this book should have been published. Her e-mails to her friends are full of anguish or banality (often both at once). That is to be expected but does not necessarily make for good reading. She occasionally hints at the possibility of publication in them which makes me uneasy. Was there an element of self-consciousness in these also? Again, writing this makes me feel guilty and ungenerous but it would be a legitimate enquiry in any other situation. The letters to her children should most certainly not have been published. They are private letters to individuals who are not yet in a position to decide whether they wish to keep them private. The adults concerned had no right to make that decision for them.

The most effective part of the book for me was the letters from readers many of whom were suffering similar agony either directly or by proxy. Their writing is often deeply moving in its humility, humour and anguish. If there is a book to be made out of this whole awful affair, then these should have been its foundations.

Having said that, though, I don't think this a good book. Picardie died so soon after her diagnosis that she left very little written material and this book is mostly padded out with emails she sent to friends; like most emails, these are of very little literary merit or interest to the world at large. More disturbingly, the final letters she wrote to her two year old twins are reprinted in this book and this actually made me feel quite angry. Even in this confessional culture, some things should be private, and I think the last communication between a dying mother and her infant children falls into this category. These letters are horribly poignant and I think they should have been left for her children's eyes only.

Even with all the email padding, this is a very slim volume indeed. While I understand that Picardie's family may have felt the need to memorialise Ruth Picardie with a book of her own, and indeed having just lost a wage-earner they must need the royalties it will bring in, I can't say I would recommend that anyone buy it for its own merits. It is very difficult to criticise a book of this sort, it feels rather like walking into Highgate Cemetary and stamping on the graves, but there is simply very little here, which underscores the tragedy: had Ruth Picardie lived a while longer I am sure she could have written a very good book about her experiences.