Confessions of a Shopaholic 购物狂的自白 [平装] pdf epub mobi txt 电子书 下载 2025

简体网页||繁体网页

☆☆☆☆☆

Sophie Kinsella（索菲·金塞拉） 著

图书标签:

• 小说
• 时尚
• 幽默
• 爱情
• 购物
• 生活
• 英国
• 女性
• 轻松阅读
• 当代文学

出版社： Random House

ISBN：9780440241416

商品编码：19015390

包装：平装

丛书名： Shopaholic Series

出版时间：2003-11-04

页数：368

正文语种：英文

商品尺寸：17.02x10.67x3.05cm;0.07kg

内容简介

Millions of readers have come to adore New York Times best-selling author Sophie Kinsella's irrepressible heroine. Meet Becky Bloomwood, America's favorite shopaholic – a young woman with a big heart, big dreams…and just one little weakness.

Becky has a fabulous flat in London's trendiest neighborhood, a troupe of glamorous socialite friends, and a closet brimming with the season's must-haves. The only trouble is that she can't actually afford it–not any of it.

Her job writing at Successful Savings not only bores her to tears, it doesn't pay much at all. And lately Becky's been chased by dismal letters from the bank –letters with large red sums she can't bear to read–and they're getting ever harder to ignore.

She tries cutting back. But none of her efforts succeeds. Becky's only consolation is to buy herself something... just a little something...

Finally a story arises that Becky actually cares about, and her front-page article catalyzes a chain of events that will transform her life–and the lives of those around her–forever.

Sophie Kinsella has brilliantly tapped into our collective consumer conscience to deliver a novel of our times–and a heroine who grows stronger every time she weakens. Becky's hilarious schemes to pay back her debts are as endearing as they are desperate. Her "confessions" are the perfect pick-me-up when life is hanging in the (bank) balance.

作者简介

Sophie Kinsella is the author of the bestselling Shopaholic series, as well as The Undomestic Goddess and Can You Keep a Secret? She lives in England.

精彩书评

If you've ever paid off one credit card with another, thrown out a bill before opening it, or convinced yourself that buying at a two-for-one sale is like making money, then this silly, appealing novel is for you. In the opening pages of Confessions of a Shopaholic, recent college graduate Rebecca Bloomwood is offered a hefty line of credit by a London bank. Within a few months, Sophie Kinsella's heroine has exceeded the limits of this generous offer, and begins furtively to scan her credit-card bills at work, certain that she couldn't have spent the reported sums.

In theory anyway, the world of finance shouldn't be a mystery to Rebecca, since she writes for a magazine called Successful Saving. Struggling with her spendthrift impulses, she tries to heed the advice of an expert and appreciate life's cheaper pleasures: parks, museums, and so forth. Yet her first Saturday at the Victoria and Albert Museum strikes her as a waste. Why? There's not a price tag in sight.

It kind of takes the fun out of it, doesn't it? You wander round, just looking at things, and it all gets a bit boring after a while. Whereas if they put price tags on, you'd be far more interested. In fact, I think all museums should put prices on their exhibits. You'd look at a silver chalice or a marble statue or the Mona Lisa or whatever, and admire it for its beauty and historical importance and everything--and then you'd reach for the price tag and gasp, "Hey, look how much this one is!" It would really liven things up.

Eventually, Rebecca's uncontrollable shopping and her "imaginative" solutions to her debt attract the attention not only of her bank manager but of handsome Luke Brandon--a multimillionaire PR representative for a finance group frequently covered in Successful Saving. Unlike her opposite number in Bridget Jones's Diary, however, Rebecca actually seems too scattered and spacey to reel in such a successful man. Maybe it's her Denny and George scarf. In any case, Kinsella's debut makes excellent fantasy reading for the long stretches between white sales and appliance specials.
——Regina Marler

Add this aptly titled piffle to the ranks of pink-covered girl-centric fiction that has come sailing out of England over the last two years. At age 25, Rebecca Bloomwood has everything she wants. Or does she? Can her career as a financial journalist, a fab flat and a closet full of designer clothes lessen the blow of the dunning letters from credit card companies and banks that have been arriving too quickly to be contained by the drawer in which Rebecca hides them? Although her romantic entanglements tend toward the superficial, there is that wonderful Luke Brandon of Brandon Communications: handsome, intelligent, the 31st-richest bachelor according to Harper's and actually possessed of a personality that is more substance than style. Too bad that Rebecca blows it whenever their paths cross. Will Rebecca learn to stop shopping before she loses everything worthwhile? When faced with the opportunity to do good for others and impress Luke, will she finally measure up? Rebecca is so unremittingly shallow and Luke is so wonderful that readers may find themselves rooting for the heroine not to get the manAalthough, since Shakespeare's time, there's rarely been any doubt concerning how romantic comedies will end. There's a certain degree of madcap fun with some of Rebecca's creative untruths; when she persuades her parents that a bank manager is a stalker, some very amusing situations ensue. Still, this is familiar stuff, and Rebecca is the kind of unrepentant spender who will make readers, save those who share her disorder in the worst way, pity the poor bill collector. (Feb. 13) Forecast: This is a well-designed book, with a catchy magenta spine, and a colorful and kinetic double coverAwhich will attract many browsers.
——Publishers Weekly

London's chic boutiques and glamorous socialites star in this comic novel about binge shopping for clothes and makeup. Kinsella wickedly sets up shopping addict and financial writer Becky Bloomwood at Successful Savings , a second-rate trade magazine. Becky, for whom saving is a concept for other people, relieves the tedium of meaningless work with giddy sprees she can ill afford. As her debt grows ever more unmanageable, Becky's self-justifying obbligatos become ever more shrill, and her white lies turn steadily darker. In one self-delusional attempt to find a better paying job, she bolsters her resume with fluency in Finnish, only to come face to face with the CEO of the Bank of Helsinki. But when Becky gets her teeth into a real news story, she discovers her limits are far greater than she had imagined. Kinsella's novel, though antic, would be more compelling if Becky were even slightly more self-aware. Does Kinsella sustain an entire novel with a 25-year-old writer addicted to clothes and makeup? Perhaps, if readers love clothes and makeup just as much.
——Suzanne Young

精彩书摘

Chapter One

Ok. don't panic. Don't panic. It's only a VISA bill. It's a piece of paper; a few numbers. I mean, just how scary can a few numbers be?

I stare out of the office window at a bus driving down Oxford Street, willing myself to open the white envelope sitting on my cluttered desk. It's only a piece of paper, I tell myself for the thousandth time. And I'm not stupid, am I? I know exactly how much this VISA bill will be.

Sort of. Roughly.

It'll be about... ￡200. Three hundred, maybe. Yes, maybe ￡300. Three-fifty, max.

I casually close my eyes and start to tot up. There was that suit in Jigsaw. And there was dinner with Suze at Quaglinos. And there was that gorgeous red and yellow rug. The rug was ￡200, come to think of it. But it was definitely worth every penny — everyone's admired it. Or, at least, Suze has.

And the Jigsaw suit was on sale — 30 percent off. So that was actually saving money.

I open my eyes and reach for the bill. As my fingers hit the paper I remember new contact lenses. Ninety-five pounds. Quite a lot. But, I mean, I had to get those, didn't I? What am I supposed to do, walk around in a blur?

And I had to buy some new solutions and a cute case and some hypoallergenic eyeliner. So that takes it up to... ￡400?

At the desk next to mine, Clare Edwards looks up from her post. She's sorting all her letters into neat piles, just like she does every morning. She puts rubber bands round them and puts labels on them saying things like "Answer immediately" and "Not urgent but respond." I loathe Clare Edwards.

"OK, Becky?" she says.

"Fine," I say lightly. "Just reading a letter."

I reach gaily into the envelope, but my fingers don't quite pull out the bill. They remain clutched around it while my mind is seized — as it is every month — by my secret dream.

Do you want to know about my secret dream? It's based on a story I once read in The Daily World about a mix-up at a bank. I loved this story so much, I cut it out and stuck it onto my wardrobe door. Two credit card bills were sent to the wrong people, and — get this — each person paid the wrong bill without realizing. They paid off each other's bills without even checking them.

And ever since I read that story, my secret fantasy has been that the same thing will happen to me. I mean, I know it sounds unlikely — but if it happened once, it can happen again, can't it? Some dotty old woman in Cornwall will be sent my humongous bill and will pay it without even looking at it. And I'll be sent her bill for three tins of cat food at fifty-nine pence each. Which, naturally, I'll pay without question. Fair's fair, after all.

A smile is plastered over my face as I gaze out of the window. I'm convinced that this month it'll happen — my secret dream is about to come true. But when I eventually pull the bill out of the envelope — goaded by Clare's curious gaze — my smile falters, then disappears. Something hot is blocking my throat. I think it could be panic.

The page is black with type. A series of familiar names rushes past my eyes like a mini shopping mall. I try to take them in, but they're moving too fast. Thorntons, I manage to glimpse. Thorntons Chocolates? What was I doing in Thorntons Chocolates? I'm supposed to be on a diet. This bill can't be right. This can't be me. I can't possibly have spent all this money.

Don't panic! I yell internally. The key is not to panic. Just read each entry slowly, one by one. I take a deep breath and force myself to focus calmly, starting at the top.

WHSmith (well, that's OK. Everyone needs stationery.)

Boots (everyone needs shampoo)

Specsavers (essential)

Oddbins (bottle of wine — essential)

Our Price (Our Price? Oh yes. The new Charlatans album. Well, I had to have that, didn't I?)

Bella Pasta (supper with Caitlin)

Oddbins (bottle of wine — essential)

Esso (petrol doesn't count)

Quaglinos (expensive — but it was a one-off)

Pret à Manger (that time I ran out of cash)

Oddbins (bottle of wine — essential)

Rugs to Riches (what? Oh yes. Stupid rug.)

La Senza (sexy underwear for date with James)

Agent Provocateur (even sexier underwear for date with James. Like I needed it.)

Body Shop (that skin brusher thing which I must use)

Next (fairly boring white shirt — but it was in the sale)

Millets...

I stop in my tracks. Millets? I never go into Millets. What would I be doing in Millets? I stare at the statement in puzzlement, wrinkling my brow and trying to think — and then suddenly, the truth dawns on me. It's obvious. Someone else has been using my card.

Oh my God. I, Rebecca Bloomwood, have been the victim of a crime.

Now it all makes sense. Some criminal's pinched my credit card and forged my signature. Who knows where else they've used it? No wonder my statement's so black with figures! Someone's gone on a spending spree round London with my card — and they thought they would just get away with it.

But how? I scrabble in my bag for my purse, open it — and there's my VISA card, staring up at me. I take it out and run my fingers over the glossy surface. Someone must have pinched it from my purse, used it — and then put it back. It must be someone I know. Oh my God. Who?

I look suspiciously round the office. Whoever it is, isn't very bright. Using my card at Millets! It's almost laughable. As if I'd ever shop there.

"I've never even been into Millets!" I say aloud.

"Yes you have," says Clare.

"What?" I turn to her. "No I haven't."

"You bought Michael's leaving present from Millets, didn't you?"

I feel my smile disappear. Oh, bugger. Of course. The blue anorak for Michael. The blue sodding anorak from Millets.

When Michael, our deputy editor, left three weeks ago, I volunteered to buy his present. I took the brown envelope full of coins and notes into the shop and picked out an anorak (take it from me, he's that kind of guy). And at the last minute, now I remember, I decided to pay on credit and keep all that handy cash for myself.

I can vividly remember fishing out the four ￡5 notes and carefully putting them in my wallet, sorting out the pound coins and putting them in my coin compartment, and pouring the rest of the change into the bottom of my bag. Oh good, I remember thinking. I won't have to go to the cash machine. I'd thought that sixty quid would last me for weeks.

So what happened to it? I can't have just spent sixty quid without realizing it, can I?

"Why are you asking, anyway?" says Clare, and she leans forward. I can see her beady little X-ray eyes gleaming behind her specs. She knows I'm looking at my VISA bill. "No reason," I say, briskly turning to the second page of my statement.

But I've been put off my stride. Instead of doing what I normally do — look at the minimum payment required and ignore the total completely — I find myself staring straight at the bottom figure.

Nine hundred and forty-nine pounds, sixty-three pence. In clear black and white.

For thirty seconds I am completely motionless. Then, without changing expression, I stuff the bill back into the envelope. I honestly feel as though this piece of paper has nothing to do with me. Perhaps, if I carelessly let it drop down on the floor behind my computer, it will disappear. The cleaners will sweep it up and I can claim I never got it. They can't charge me for a bill I never received, can they?

I'm already composing a letter in my head. "Dear Managing Director of VISA. Your letter has confused me. What bill are you talking about, precisely? I never received any bill from your company. I did not care for your tone and should warn you, I am writing to Anne Robinson of Watchdog."

Or I could always move abroad.

"Becky?" My head jerks up and I see Clare holding this month's news list. "Have you finished the piece on Lloyds?"

"Nearly," I lie. As she's watching me, I feel forced to summon it up on my computer screen, just to show I'm willing.

"This high-yield, 60-day access account offers tiered rates of interest on investments of over ￡2,000," I type onto the screen, copying directly from a press release in front of me. "Long-term savers may also be interested in a new stepped-rate bond which requires a minimum of ￡5,000."

I type a full stop, take a sip of coffee, and turn to the second page of the press release.

This is what I do, by the way. I'm a journalist on a financial magazine. I'm paid to tell other people how to organize their money.

Of course, being a financial journalist is not the career I always wanted. No one who writes about personal finance ever meant to do it. People tell you they "fell into" personal finance. They're lying. What they mean is they couldn't get a job writing about anything more interesting. They mean they applied for jobs at The Times and The Express and Marie-Claire and Vogue and GQ, and all they got back was "Piss off."

So they started applying to Metalwork Monthly and Cheesemakers Gazette and What Investment Plan? And they were taken on as the crappiest editorial assistant possible on no money whatsoever and were grateful. And they've stayed on writing about metal, or cheese, or savings, ever since — because that's all they know. I myself started on the catchily titled Personal Investment Periodical. I learned how to copy out a press release and nod at press conferences and ask questions that sounded as though I knew what I was talking about. After a year and a half...

迷失在代码的海洋：一个程序员的内心独白 内容提要： 本书深入探讨了现代软件开发领域中，一位资深程序员在面对快速迭代的技术浪潮、永无止境的 Bug 修复以及人机交互边界模糊时的内心挣扎与成长。它不仅仅是一部技术随笔，更是一场关于逻辑、创造力、孤独与归属感的深刻哲学思辨。通过一系列生动的案例和对编程哲学的探讨，作者揭示了“创造数字世界”背后，人类情感和心智如何被算法的精确性所塑造和考验。 --- 第一章：二进制的黎明与迷失的路径 清晨六点，当城市还在沉睡，我的世界早已被屏幕发出的冷光所占据。这不是工作，这是一种仪式。桌面上堆叠的不再是咖啡渍和便利贴，而是密密麻麻的架构图和版本控制的日志。 我叫亚历克斯，一个在硅谷边缘地带摸爬滚打了十五年的“代码匠人”。我曾是追逐最新框架的狂热信徒，从 Ruby on Rails 的优雅到 Go 语言的性能狂飙，每一种技术浪潮都曾让我热血沸腾。但随着时间的推移，那种初次编译成功、世界为之运转的兴奋感，正被一种深层的、难以名状的疲惫所取代。 本书的开篇，我将带你走进我那间布满了散热风扇噪音和键盘敲击声的“圣殿”。我们不会讨论如何优化数据库查询，而是探讨这些查询背后，程序员如何处理“无限性”与“有限性”的矛盾。我们构建的系统是无限扩展的，但我们的时间和精力却是残酷有限的。 我记得有一次，为了修复一个发生在用户支付环节的罕见并发 Bug，我连续七十二小时没有离开过我的工位。那感觉，就像是深入一个信息黑洞，周围的一切现实感都在衰减，只剩下屏幕上跳动的十六进制代码。当 Bug 最终被定位并修复时，我感受到的不是胜利的喜悦，而是一种对自身心智被机器过度消耗的恐惧。这种恐惧，是每一个深陷其中的创造者都必须面对的。 第二章：API 的诗意与机器的冷漠 软件开发的核心，在于定义接口（API）。API 是沟通的桥梁，是不同模块之间交流的契约。对我而言，设计一个优雅、健壮的 API，其美感不亚于海明威的一句话。它要求极度的简洁、严密的逻辑和对未来扩展性的深思熟虑。 然而，机器对这种诗意是无感的。 在第三部分，我将详细阐述我与“遗留代码”（Legacy Code）的搏斗史。这些代码，就像是城市深处的地下管道系统，它们在运作，但你永远不知道它们是如何运作的，更别提修改了。每一个企图优化的尝试，都可能引发连锁反应，导致整个系统的“雪崩”。 我曾花费数月时间试图重构一个由十年前离职的同事留下的核心模块。那段经历让我深刻理解了“技术债务”的真正含义：它不是金钱上的负债，而是精神上的枷锁。每次提交代码时，我都会产生一种负罪感，害怕我修复的只是表象，而深层的结构性缺陷依然潜伏着。 我们是数字世界的建筑师，但我们却必须生活在他人留下的、未经规划的废墟之上。这种对“完美”的不懈追求与对“现实妥协”的反复拉扯，构成了我们日常工作的基本张力。 第三章：调试：人类思维与随机错误的哲学对决 “九十 процентов 的编程是调试。” 这是一个广为流传的笑话，但它残酷地揭示了真相。调试，就是与那些你绝对没有编写的错误进行对话。 在这一章中，我将拆解几次我职业生涯中最具挑战性的调试案例。其中一个 Bug 表现为：只有在闰年二月的第三个星期二的下午三点零三分，且用户的 IP 地址落在特定地理坐标范围时才会出现。这不再是逻辑错误，它更像是一种宇宙的嘲弄。 我们不得不进入一种近乎偏执的状态：质疑一切。是内存泄漏？是时区转换错误？是编译器优化过度？还是……只是一个错位的零和一？ 调试的过程，是对程序员耐心和心智的极限测试。它强迫我们将思维从宏大的系统架构拉回到最微小的代码行。我发现，在那些深夜，当整个办公室只剩下我的显示器散发着微光时，我与代码之间的界限变得模糊。我不再是“阅读”代码，我仿佛在“感受”数据流动的方向。这是一种危险的沉浸，因为它让你开始相信，你所创造的逻辑世界，其真实性远高于窗外模糊的物理世界。 第四章：技术更迭的焦虑与工匠精神的回归 近五年来，技术栈的更新速度达到了一个前所未有的峰值。新的框架、语言和云服务层出不穷，它们承诺着更高的效率和更少的样板代码。但对我而言，这更像是不断被要求学习一门新语言，而旧的知识储备却在迅速贬值。 这种持续的焦虑——“我是否被淘汰了？”——是数字时代独有的集体病症。我们被训练成“快速学习者”，却鲜有时间成为“深刻理解者”。 我开始反思：我们是在构建工具，还是在被工具所驱使？ 在本书的后半部分，我将介绍我如何有意识地放慢脚步。我开始重新钻研基础：操作系统原理、网络协议的底层细节、编译器的工作方式。我发现，真正的力量并非来自于掌握最新的“糖衣”，而是理解其下的“面粉”。 当我不再追逐每一个新工具的闪光点，而是专注于将我已掌握的工具打磨到极致时，我终于找回了那种作为“匠人”的满足感。这是一种慢下来才能获得的深度。这不再是关于“快”，而是关于“准”和“恒久”。 第五章：代码之外的连接：人机交互的温度 我们构建的程序最终要服务于人。然而，在高度抽象化的开发过程中，我们很容易忘记用户那张有着情绪、疲劳和非理性需求的脸。 本书最后探讨的是人机界面的“情感代码”。为什么一个设计精良的错误提示能挽救一天的坏心情，而一个冰冷、通用的“Error 500”则能瞬间点燃用户的怒火？ 我分享了在设计用户体验（UX）时，我如何运用自己在调试中获得的“同理心”来预测用户的困境。当我们面对一个复杂的系统时，我们必须像一个外星人一样，用全新的、充满耐心的眼光去审视自己的创作。 《迷失在代码的海洋》不是一本教你如何写出完美代码的书，因为它相信完美是永恒的幻觉。它是一份关于一个现代数字创造者，如何在逻辑的绝对性与人性的模糊性之间，寻找平衡、保持清醒和实现自我价值的详尽记录。它邀请每一位在屏幕前与复杂性搏斗的人，停下来，审视那段被键盘敲击声掩盖的、真实的心跳。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这是一本看完会让人心情愉悦、嘴角不自觉上扬的作品。它的叙事节奏如同欢快的爵士乐，起伏跌宕却又保持着一种迷人的律动感。我特别欣赏作者在细节处理上的精妙，无论是对不同品牌、设计师的巧妙提及，还是对特定场景的细致描摹，都显示出作者对生活品质有着相当的洞察力。每次读到主角巧妙地周旋于各种债务和谎言之间时，我都替她感到肾上腺素飙升，这种“在刀尖上跳舞”的刺激感，是其他很多小说难以给予的。而且，书中大量的内心独白，尖锐、刻薄却又无比真诚，将一个略显矛盾的女性形象刻画得立体可信。它提供了一种极佳的“逃避式阅读体验”，让你暂时忘却自己的柴米油盐，沉浸在一个充满香槟气泡和高定礼服的世界里，享受片刻的“不负责任”的快乐。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这本书简直是都市女性的“生存指南”，读起来让人欲罢不能。从翻开第一页开始，我就被那种轻快、略带夸张的叙事风格深深吸引住了。作者对主角内心世界的刻画极其细腻，那种面对诱惑时的挣扎、得手后的狂喜，以及随之而来的财务压力，都被描绘得淋漓尽致，仿佛我就是那个在琳琅满目的橱窗前徘徊不定的“她”。整本书的节奏把握得非常好，既有让人捧腹大笑的幽默桥段，也有让人忍不住捏一把汗的紧张时刻，特别是处理那些令人啼笑皆非的“小麻烦”时，那种机智和临场反应，读起来真是酣畅淋漓。它不仅仅是一部关于消费主义的探讨，更像是一面镜子，映照出我们当代人在追求物质满足和保持理性生活之间的微妙平衡。我特别欣赏作者在保持故事趣味性的同时，并没有完全放弃对责任感的探讨，尽管主角的行为常常令人捏把汗，但故事的走向总能给人一种“迷途知返”的希望感，让读者在享受阅读乐趣的同时，也能从中汲取到一些生活中的小智慧。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

我必须承认，这本书的文笔有一种魔力，能让最普通的情节也变得妙趣横生。它没有刻意去拔高主题，而是以一种极其接地气、甚至有些自嘲的方式，展现了一个现代都市女性在物质洪流中的挣扎与成长。书中对主角的自我辩护和内心戏的描绘，简直是教科书级别的，那种“我知道这是错的，但我忍不住”的心理活动，被捕捉得精准到位。阅读过程中，我常常会暂停下来，回味某一句犀利的吐槽或者某个精妙的比喻，然后会心一笑。这本书的结构设计也很有心思，总是在危机即将爆发时，巧妙地引入新的转折点，保证了阅读的连贯性和紧凑感。它成功地让人在被主角的“任性”逗乐的同时，也能对她所处的困境产生深切的同情，最终期待着她能够找到属于自己的、更健康的生活方式。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

老实说，起初我对这种题材有些保留，总觉得会是肤浅的堆砌，但这本书完全超出了我的预期。它探讨的远不止于“买买买”本身，更多的是关于身份认同和自我接纳的过程。主角那种近乎病态的购物冲动，其实投射了现代社会中许多人渴望通过外在物品来定义自我价值的普遍心态。作者的高明之处在于，她没有进行枯燥的说教，而是通过主角一系列啼笑皆非的错误和自我修正，引导读者去思考“什么才是真正重要的”。书中对人际关系的处理也十分到位，无论是与闺蜜之间的真诚互动，还是与潜在伴侣之间的情感拉扯，都写得真实而动人，让故事在光鲜亮丽的表面下，拥有了坚实的情感内核。每一次主角试图“金盆洗手”却又屡次破功的时刻，都让人感同身受，为她捏着一把汗，同时也忍不住为她的韧性鼓掌。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这部作品的魅力在于它提供了一个逃离现实的绝妙窗口，让我在忙碌的工作日里，也能找到一处心灵的避风港。我喜欢那种略带英式讽刺和自嘲的语调，它让原本可能显得有些沉重的主题——比如过度消费——变得异常轻松愉快。作者的文笔流畅自然，对话火花四射，角色的性格塑造得非常立体饱满，尤其是那些配角们，每一个都有自己独特的怪癖和闪光点，为故事增添了无穷的色彩和戏剧张力。阅读过程中，我常常不自觉地想象着那些发生在伦敦街头、精品店里，或者是在各种社交场合下的场景，画面感极强，仿佛置身于那个光怪陆离的上流社会边缘。这本书成功地将时尚、金钱、友情和爱情这些元素巧妙地编织在一起，形成了一张复杂而引人入胜的故事网，让人忍不住想一口气读完，去探究主角下一步会如何应对她自己挖下的“财务深坑”。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

很喜欢这个系列。Millions of readers have come to adore New York Times best-selling author Sophie Kinsella's irrepressible heroine. Meet Becky Bloomwood, America's favorite shopaholic

评分☆☆☆☆☆

（4）用紫砂壶泡茶，提携抚握不易炙手。紫砂壶线膨胀系数比瓷壶略高，而且没有釉，就不存在坯釉应力的问题；烧成以后的紫砂壶，玻璃极少，有足以克服冷热温度差所产生的急变能力，故具有缓慢的传热性。紫砂茶壶适应冷热急变的能力极佳，即使在上百度的高温中蒸煮后，迅速投到零下的冰雪中，也不会爆裂。因此，用紫砂壶泡茶，提携抚握不易炙手；寒冬腊月，用沸水泡茶，也不必担心裂开，甚至置于文火上烧炖，也无炸裂之虞

评分☆☆☆☆☆

特别明显特别严重的一道痕迹。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

很喜欢这个系列。Millions of readers have come to adore New York Times best-selling author Sophie Kinsella's irrepressible heroine. Meet Becky Bloomwood, America's favorite shopaholic

评分☆☆☆☆☆

特别明显特别严重的一道痕迹。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

帮人买的，还行，有点意思。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

）紫砂壶泡茶，保温时间长。由于壶壁内部存在着许多小气泡，气泡里又充满着不流动的空气，空气是热的不良导体，故紫砂壶有较好的保温性能。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

很喜欢的小说系列，幽默风趣。