Okay, I admit it, this is trivial, superficial chic-lit and I only read it because my other half got it somewhere for free and was under a pre-birthday ban not to buy any books or even walk past Waterstones.  It's the sort of book where every character has some singular defining trait, where nothing in the world is important except for what is happening on the character-strewn social scene, and where you know practically every scrap of the plot from page two.
   And yet, I quite enjoyed it.  I giggled along with the author on several occasions (and then quickly looked around in case anybody noticed).  It's pure, frilly, feminine escapism; but if you want something light to pass a few hours it will probably provide you with some laughs.  I can't help comparing it with McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street and confessing that if I had to choose between the two, I'd pick West End Girls every time.