My Life On A Plate Pa

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Optioned for film and published in sixteen countries, this British sensation explodes the myth that all people need to be truly happy is love and marriage. Meet thirty-three-year-old Clara Hutt: irreverent, sometimes unkind, always self-deprecating. Clara is a part-time magazine writer with a perpetually mysterious husband and two small boys, and some days she wakes up with the feeling that her life isn't all it should be. Her extended stepfamily is forever making demands; her sons are constantly "murdering each ...

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Optioned for film and published in sixteen countries, this British sensation explodes the myth that all people need to be truly happy is love and marriage. Meet thirty-three-year-old Clara Hutt: irreverent, sometimes unkind, always self-deprecating. Clara is a part-time magazine writer with a perpetually mysterious husband and two small boys, and some days she wakes up with the feeling that her life isn't all it should be. Her extended stepfamily is forever making demands; her sons are constantly "murdering each other"; all the other mothers at the school gate are perfectly groomed, but Clara is in her pajama bottoms and her husband's sweater.
With razor-sharp wit and a healthy dose of insight into married life, India Knight takes readers on a continually entertaining ride through one woman's bumpy search for fulfillment.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"a jaunty, post-feminist fairy tale..." Boston Globe

"An enormously charming, often scabrously funny first novel . . . The irrepressible Clara is also irresistible: as she deconstructs and reconstructs herself endlessly, there are insights aplenty about making do, holding on, and letting go.” Kirkus Reviews

“Witty and raucous . . . entertains while animating many of the common misconceptions people have about marriage." Publishers Weekly

“Witty commentary on middle-class mores and humor make this . . . novel an enjoyable read.” Library Journal

At once realistic and hopeful.” Booklist, ALA, Boxed Review

“A wickedly funny and painfully honest comic novel. It comforts those of us who have experienced the misery of marital desertion and an infestation of headlice. It's a triumph. I intend to buy it for everybody I love.”—Sue Townsend, author of The Adrian Mole Diaries

“Well-written, neatly constructed and . . . funny . . . Like her creator, Clara has a talent for seeing the farcically tragic in all that surrounds her.”—The Guardian (UK)

“Disturbingly funny . . . India Knight has a gritty understanding of the games married people play. This witty writer has written a snappy account of modern marriage with an underlying seriousness.”—Sunday Times (UK)

“India Knight’s wildly funny survey of women’s lives will leave you nodding in recognition and laughing out loud. Picture Nora Ephron (of Heartburn) meeting Nora Helmer (of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House) for cake, coffee, and fireworks. Delicious.”—Regina Barreca, author of Perfect Husbands (and Other Fairy Tales)

“Sharp, witty . . . Knight’s novel is groundbreaking in current fiction in that it attempts to investigate modern marriage: what it does to women, their sex drive and their sense of self." Marie Claire (UK)

“Knight’s funny, assured portrait . . . combines chick lit with journalistic lifestyle-ese (and the power of YSL’s Touch Eclat).”—Independent (UK)

"So vigorous, funny and opinionated . . . Not only full of brilliantly funny and knowing sentences, but of heroically ghastly characters too.” Evening Standard (UK)

"India Knight dishes us a helping of humour and heartache on the condition of the modern Mrs.” Elle (UK)

“This novel makes a refreshing change from the ‘single girl seeks man with increasing desperation’ theme . . . The style is zappy and witty, with clever and perceptive dialogue…Clara is such a riotously outspoken and unpretentious heroine that you cannot help loving her.”—The Bookseller (UK)

“A comic tour de force.”—Telegraph

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Clara Hutt, 33, speaks for middle-class marital ennui as she reflects on her life, her indifferent husband, Robert, her two lice-ridden young boys, and her "roomy four-bedroomed Victorian terraced" London home and asks, "Is that it, then?" With a sense of humor that ranges from witty and raucous to simpering and mean-spirited, British first-time author Knight relates the ribald story of a modern woman and her quest for happiness. Clara, whose fragmented family consists of a mother who's fond of accumulating ex-husbands, a wealthy but distant father, two spoiled stepsisters and a listless stepbrother, resolves to have a "nuclear" family. After attaining this conventional goal, however, she discovers that marriage is more boring than blissful. The arduous rigmarole of "hoovering," chauffeuring, cooking and compromising leaves Clara unsatisfied. She tends to complain, self-deprecate and obsess on trivialities while comparing herself to her friends: Tamsin, who is single, unburdened and prowling for romance; Stella the "pottery cat," a rustic single mother who bakes her own bread; Naomi, the model housewife who feeds her kids gourmet lunches and manages to keep her home impeccably clean. Simmering with envy, longing for affection (and a little bit of "swooning"), Clara grows restless and seeks solace in the admiring eyes of an unlikely character. Although Knight's lively narrative entertains while animating many of the common misconceptions people have about marriage, the reader should be prepared to suspend belief for the final course of this chatty tale. (Oct.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|
Library Journal
Knight, whose weekly London Sunday Times columns are filled with wry social commentary, has joined the Bridget Jones school of novelists. With less-than-perfect grace, our heroine, Clara Hutt, is dealing with the mini-traumas of married life, including juggling freelance writing and parenting. Beset with a domineering but oh-so-chic mother, ditzy stepsisters, befuddled friends, and a mostly absent husband, Clara worries about her weight, the slide of her wardrobe from elegance to comfort, marital infidelity, and recovering from a disastrous interview in which she managed not only to insult an up-and-coming dance star but also to give him head lice. Despite her self-doubts, Clara proves to have sufficient resiliency to deal with the end of her marriage and the beginning of a new relationship. The witty commentary on middle-class mores and humor make this slight novel an enjoyable read and saves it from being simply a clone. Recommended for public libraries.--Jan Blodgett, Davidson Coll. Lib., NC Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
Julia Dahl
In her hilarious new novel, My Life on a Plate, India Knight blows the lid off the myth of domestic bliss, yet we never doubt that her heroine's adventures on the fringes of family life will end in triumph.
Kirkus Reviews
An enormously charming, often scabrously funny first novel by English columnist Knight, who takes a vivacious approach to a once-happily-married woman beset with weighty issues—and two lively wee boys. Eight years into her marriage, Clara has a sinking feeling that something isn't right. It isn't her kids; she loves them to pieces, even though their needs make mincemeat of her freelance writing schedule. It isn't her friends, although one has just gotten pregnant from a one-night stand and another's husband has started an affair with one of his office help. It isn't her imperious, magnificently packaged mother, about to be wed for the fourth time. It isn't even her disastrous interview with a rising star in the dance world, an Irishman she mortally offended by calling him a "poof." No, it has everything to do with the dashing and impeccable, aloof and workaholic Robert: her husband. While they're kind and loving toward each other, Clara doesn't get the feeling that they're in love anymore—and it doesn't help that she's putting on pounds worrying about it. She wants romance back in her life, and as a way of getting it decides to attend a dinner she's been invited to by the Irish dancer, who inexplicably seems to have forgiven her and wants her there to celebrate his triumph on the London stage. She makes a stunning entrance, wowing Robert and the other men in the room, and while she awakens the next morning with the mother of all hangovers, hope is in the air. She and Robert go to Paris alone for a weekend, but Clara's vision of how it will go proves faulty at best, even though, in the end, she gets what she wished for. The irrepressible Clara is also irresistible: asshedeconstructs and reconstructs herself endlessly, there are insights aplenty about making do, holding on, and letting go. Lyons, Richard DIVISIBLE BY ONE Van Neste(12836 Ashtree Rd., Midlothian, VA 23113) (152 pp.) Jan. 2001
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780618154449
  • Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
  • Publication date: 8/23/2001
  • Edition description: 1ST MARINE
  • Pages: 224
  • Sales rank: 823,469
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.50 (h) x 0.51 (d)

Meet the Author

India Knight used to write a weekly column in the Observer Life section, and is a regular contributor to a number of magazines and newspapers. My Life on a Plate is her first novel.

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Read an Excerpt


What should happen is, I should somehow catch my reflection in a mirror, or a shop window, fifty or so pages in, and describe myself to you that way. Seems a bit contrived to me, that method, besides which, if I catch my reflection in shop windows, I tend to scream with horror, rather than tip my head to one side and make measured, composed obser-vations. Also, I always want to know what people look like right at the start, don’t you? You’d feel pretty peeved if you discovered, much later on, that I was a psychopathic two- ton Tessie with flat feet and a moustache, or—worse—some hateful, eating- disordery twig that wafts around in Prada smelling of sick.
So let’s get things straight. I don’t smell of sick. (That’s my friend Amber, whom you’ll meet later. Her hobbies are bu-limia and self-help books. My hobby is being compassionate.) And I don’t weigh two tons, although, as a ripe size 16, I’m hardly what you’d call frail and reedy either. What else? Five nine, dark hair, green eyes—oh look, I’m sounding all sexy, which isn’t quite right. Let’s see. If you asked Kate, my mother, she would shake her head very sadly, as if I were an especially precious kitten that had died in tragic circumstances, and tell you I’ve ‘let myself go disgustingly’. And I suppose she would be right. I mean, I’ve got the man, the house, the children: why not celebrate by tucking into a doughnut or two of a morning? Or an apricot Danish, or indeed a whole tube of Pringles . . . As a consequence, I favour elasticated waists and loose tops, although I have a sneaky liking for vulgar shoes and organza (which I try to curb, as nobody wants to look like White Trash Slut Mum at the PTA meetings). The best way I can think of describing my-self is: we’re not talking control pants yet, but we’re not go-ing to pretend that they haven’t struck us as being a pretty damned handy kind of a garment either.
My name is Clara, which is quite pretty, and my surname is Hutt, which isn’t, although it enables me to think of myself as Jabba the Hutt in my more self-loathing moments. This is useful. I have two children, Charlie, who is six, and Jack, who is three. I have a husband, Robert, who is a mystery (does anybody actually know what goes on in their husband’s head, or is it just me?) but quite attractive. I have a part-time job as a magazine writer, a big house and nice clothes, and friends that don’t smell of sick as well as some that do. I am thirty-three. And some days I wake up with the sneaky feeling that my life isn’t all it should be.

In the current climate, you probably want to know how I Got My Man. I do feel quite pleased with myself, sometimes, actually. I look at my friend Tamsin, thirty-four, single and desperate, and feel a warm glow of intense smuggery. Sometimes, though, I am so overwhelmed with jealousy—I can’t remember the last time I was out all night, drinking martinis and flirting with strangers—that I feel compelled to initiate lectures, masquerading as conversations, about all the things that might go wrong if one were—perfectly hypothetically, of course—trying to have a child past the age of thirty-five. This is because, despite external appearances, I am a) on the childish side and b) not very nice.
Getting my man: why, the trick is to be young and attractive. No, not really. The trick is not to look. Robert and I were twenty-five when we got married, which is comparatively young these days, and I weighed three stone less and was a bit of a minx, which helped. I can say it, now that I am an Old Married Lady, with my minxdom very much behind me—rather like my cellulite. I don’t know quite what happened. We met, we fell in love, we got married. It helps not to be desperate, as I’m so fond of telling Tamsin in my meaner moments.
Anyway, eight years! Isn’t that amazing? And I haven’t strayed. Well, I haven’t got naked. I kissed someone I used to go out with, at a party, two years ago, but I don’t think that counts. Does it? It was only a peck, though it was pecking with intent. I try not to think about it too often. Married women pecking exes with intent is like opening a tiny win-dow and letting in a shaft of light. People in my position really oughtn’t to do it. Or think about why they might have wanted to.

My mother is on the phone. It’s Robert’s birthday next week and, she says, we ‘need’ to make a plan. What I would like to do is have dinner, in a restaurant, alone with my husband. Life is, sadly, not quite that simple. Mine is the kind of family that likes to involve itself intimately in all aspects of each other’s lives. So on Robert’s birthday we’ll all be having din-ner together: me, Robert, my mother,, Kate, my half-sisters, Evie and Flo, their boyfriends and my stepbrother, Tom. We don’t actually get on with each other terribly well—my sistersssss excepted—but, coming from the kind of family we do—‘fragmented’ is an adjective that springs to mind, as does ‘dysfunctional’—we like the idea of these get-togethers, in theory if not in practice, and no one more so than my mother, the über-matriarch. The dinners often end in screaming rows, and someone always weeps. One of the things I like about Robert is his composure in these situations, which he seems to find amusing rather than exhausting.
Anyway, heeeeeeere’s Mummy: ‘Clara?’ ‘Yes, Kate.’ ‘Don’t sound so resigned, Clara. I am your mother.’ ‘I know, Kate. You are. Isn’t it bliss?’ I can’t help myself with my mother. I just can’t help it.
‘It’s bloody discourteous to put on that bored voice and be sarcastic.’ Kate is getting agitated now. Kate is revving up.
‘I’m not putting on any voice, Kate. Anyway, you are bliss.’ And it’s true. She is, sometimes. But not today.
‘Christ, Clara. You’re so sly and rude. Just like That Bloody Man. Your genes are coming out.’ This is a reference to my father. Kate and he were married for six months. He was followed by two more husbands, and we’re bracing ourselves for number four, who’s bound to occur sometime soon. My genes are always coming out, apparently. Peepo!
‘Kate. Robert’s birthday. Dinner. Where shall we go? Have you spoken to Evie? Flo?’ There is a pause, during which Kate splutters.
‘Do you think I have nothing better to do with my time than chase all of you all over London? Do you think? I have a very busy life. Very busy. The busiest, Clara. I can’t be expected to be your social secretary.’ ‘I know, Kate. I am busy too—the boys. . .’ ‘The boys! Those poor children. Don’t drag them into it.’ My children are always ‘poor’ when Kate mentions them, presumably because they have me as a mother and not Kate. Many men Kate knows are ‘poor’ also, because they have the misfortune not to be married to her.
‘Kate, it was your idea, the dinner. But fine. I’ll round everyone up. Since you are so very busy, and since my life is one enormous vacuum.’ ‘Hola!’ Kate suddenly shouts in my ear. ‘Hola! Up here! In the drawing room! Did you bring the Chanel pale pink? El pinky? Para los fingers? Clara, darling, Conchita’s here for my manicure. Which reminds me. Your fingernails are a disgrace. I shudder to think of them. I practically retch. Call me later.’ And she hangs up.

Copyright © 2000 by India Knight. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.

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Customer Reviews

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  • Posted February 15, 2009

    more from this reviewer

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    Cute reading

    This was a fun book to read. I felt the ending was a bit rushed, but it was entertaining and made me smile and laugh to myself many times.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 10, 2002

    Great reading

    This book was easy to get into. I really enjoyed it.

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