Sofia is a coke snorting, champagne swilling, alcohol drinking lap dancer. Shes also the main focus of this novel. Sofias best friend is also her old shrink. Sofias had a succession of psychiatrists dating back to her teens when she was incarcerated in a secure facitilty. Suffice it to say Sofia is several sandwiches short of a picnic.
Sofia likes intimate adult relationships, shes remarkably choosy about whom she has them with and the most recent man of the moment is James, downstairs neighbour and ex-boyfriend. Although its been quite some time.
Arriving home late from work one night (or rather early one morning) Sofia is greeted by an intruder sitting on her sofa. An intruder whos made it into a locked flat without opening any of the doors or windows. This stranger then embarks on a conversation with Sofia in which he informs her that shes the chosen one and will be the mother of the next messiah. All she has to do is agree. Sofia embarks on a tirade worthy of Little Britains Vicki Pollard with a yes but no but response however the mystery man leaves after the initial yes.
I've read worse plots. I was half expecting this to become some tale of a delusional woman coming to terms with mental illness but the author keeps up the charade until the bitter end choosing to name the messenger Gabriel, an angel who our unlikely not-so-virgin mother has carnal knowledge of on a number of occasions despite not being able to touch him seeing as how he doesn't actually exist.
Perhaps its meant to be a twist on the traditional nativity, it isn't. Its bizarre. It takes the highbrow approach to the womens right to choose debate with the odd theological argument thrown in and a lot more twaddle about feminist theory.
It portrays all lap dancers as desperate women with recreational drug addiction and the punters as sad old men in macs with the odd desperate 21 year old birthday party thrown in for a bit of balance.
Terrible would be one way of describing the plot line, awful would be another. Give it a miss.