Ladies, sit up and take note:

This would be the perfect Christmas present for the Neanderthal in any woman’s life. Certainly, it will prove to be vastly more entertaining, useful, and longer-lasting than the atrocious dreck that E. L. James successfully managed to turn into a hugely popular global franchise (God help us all…).

And, despite being basically just a picture book, it is almost certainly better written too:

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my
hair – it just won’t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill
and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final
exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into
submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting
this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under
control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the
pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back
at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a
ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable.