The Age of Misadventure by Judy Leigh #AuthorFeature @JudyLeighWriter @AvonBooksUK #BookTalk

Today is my turn on the The Age of Misadventure by Judy Leigh book blog tour. I have an author feature spot today with a review coming soon to the blog.

The Age of Misadventure by Judy Leigh

The Age of Misadventure: The new, most uplifting feel good fiction book of 2019! by [Leigh, Judy]

You’re never too old to live dangerously…

The gloriously funny new novel from the author of A Grand Old Time.

All Georgie Turner wants is to keep her family together. But with her daughter growing up fast, her sister married to a man Georgie hates, and their aging aunt getting more and more outrageous, nothing’s simple.

So when her brother-in-law makes his biggest mistake yet, Georgie sees the chance to reunite the ladies in her life. And after a little persuasion, three generations of Turner women head off on a very unusual road trip. Georgie’s confident that some sun, sea and a bottle or two of prosecco will make this an adventure they’ll never forget.

What could possibly go wrong?
A gorgeously fun and uplifting novel about living your life to the full, whatever your age. Perfect for fans of Dawn French and Fern Britton.

Authors love Judy Leigh’s books:

‘Brilliantly funny, emotional and uplifting’ – Miranda Dickinson

‘Lovely . . . a book that assures that life is far from over at seventy’ – Cathy Hopkins, bestselling author of The Kicking the Bucket List

’Brimming with warmth, humour and a love of life… a wonderful escapade’ – Fiona Gibson, bestselling author of The Woman Who Upped and Left


I haven’t touched the black coffee I poured half an hour ago, or the scrambled eggs. I really don’t have a hangover after Demi’s wedding, although it was certainly a day to remember. The string quartet playing Vivaldi was hilarious, Adie raising a champagne glass, acting the distinguished father of the bride, while my sister Bonnie sobbed in the corner and drank too many cocktails. She left him two days before Demi’s wedding after finding lipstick smudges on his shirt collar again. I told her it would be a bad idea to go back to him, and she gave me the usual reply: ‘But he needs me, Georgie.’ So I dragged her on the dance floor to bop to Aerosmith and watched helpless while she threw up outside in the lush grounds of the spectacular Cheshire mansion. Of course, Adie, the brother-in-law from hell, sidled over and led her away, promising to look after her forever, and I was left by myself in the bar.Then I was accosted by a man with a neatly clipped beard who tried to smooch with me to ‘Lay Lady Lay’, breathing down my ear like an asthmatic bloodhound. Not flattering, not even for a fifty-five-year-old woman who’s been single for almost six years and has hardly had a second look from a decent man in all that time. Not that I’m interested. I ditched the snorting bloodhound on the dance floor, strutted past Demi and Kyle, who were swaying together, their eyes locked, oblivious to the mayhem caused by her philandering father, and took a taxi all the way back home to Liverpool.

It was a costly evening all round.This morning, my head aches so badly because I’m worried about my daughter and my sister. It’s ten o’clock and Jade didn’t come home last night. She left the wedding straight after the church service, wrinkling her nose and telling me she was going to a proper party where there’d be young people, not ageing has-beens making fools of themselves. Jade’s often out until two in the morning but seldom all night, and she’s not answering my texts, which is unusual. Bonnie’s keeping quiet, too – no reply to my six messages over the last hour. I assume my sister has a hangover and is still asleep. I expect she’s gone home with Adie. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was stifled in their airless bedroom, lying pale in the four-poster with the curtains drawn while Adie hovers overhead, fangs at the ready, rubbing his hands together with glee.

Jade’s twenty-four: she knows she can do as she pleases but I’m becoming concerned. She often comes in late on a Saturday night after hours of non-stop clubbing, but not much gets in the way of her Sunday morning muesli and a 10-k run. Apart from the half-marathon she’s preparing for, she works as a personal trainer, so she knows the value of sleep and a good breakfast. I pour more coffee and breathe in roasted beans.

I’m in a soft dressing gown to my ankles and furry boot slippers. I look a mess. My hair’s sticking out, dried with hairspray and sweat from last night’s dancing. My skin feels slack, like it doesn’t fit the bones in my face. I do a reasonable impression of Marge Simpson, but it’s nothing I can’t fix with an hour in the gym, a shower and a bit of TLC. I check my phone again, and then push the half-eaten breakfast away from me. I wonder why I thought I wanted scrambled eggs. I smile to myself. It’s the same thing with men: appetising and desirable at first glance, then too hot, then too tepid and finally unpalatable. I pour more coffee and check my phone again. The screen is blank and I feel the same way.

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