Like Sam Walton and Donald Trump before her, Ms. Ferguson has written a seminal primer on the psyche of the entrepreneur, bristling with homespun wisdom sure to be passed down from generation.... [A]nyone wishing to emulate Ms. Ferguson should bear these words in mind: "When you have touched the flames of hell, a branding iron is only a mild inconvenience."

My thoughts
When I started this book I said, "I hope this book picks up fast. Right now it's so dark and gloomy that I'm having trouble getting through it." I will admit that I struggled from start to finish. This is not a book for someone who is prone to depression, that's for sure!

I have always admired the royal family for reasons I cannot explain. My fascination for royalty picked up when Diana married Charles, probably because Diana is about my age and what young girl doesn't dream of being a princess herself?! I suppose for the same reason I was taken with Fergie, having bought the Budgie books for my children when they were young.

After reading Sarah's book, I feel badly for her. It's really sad that she loved Andrew as much as she did -- and does -- and yet couldn't make it work. I'm confident there's another side to the story but I'd tend to believe that the truth lies somewhere in the middle, in which case, why didn't someone try to help Fergie? Where were the doctors and psychologists and people who loved her when she was struggling so? Did anyone try to help her fit in, or was she deemed an outcast from the beginning, even in her most popular years?

It's all very complicated and quite depressing. I can't really recommend this book as good reading unless you have a fixation on the Royal Family, as I do. Again, I don't recommend it to anyone who has a history of depression or who struggles with their own measure of self-worth. Even the "good parts" were not particularly uplifting.

And if anything Sarah Ferguson said was true, oh how the Grey Men would love the way she destroys herself in this book. It makes me sad.

Favorite Passage
Royalty never takes a holiday, never relaxes; you are always on display...But no day was more exhausting than Christmas at Sandringham. At first light I would dress for breakfast: a long tweed skirt with a smart blouse and matching cardigan. The plates were barely cleared before I'd be upstairs again to change for church, something very smart, a dress or a suit under a long coat (it gets biting cold in Norfolk), with hat and gloves, of course.

Then back to the house, off with the coat and hat and gloves, on with a silk dress and change of shoes for lunch. If I planned to stay in that afternoon, I could move into something more relaxed -- a cotton shirt, perhaps even trousers, but definitely not jeans. If I were going out for a walk, it would be a long country jacket, a walking skirt, and either leather ankle boots or the old reliable walking shoes. In either case, I would need another change for tea, something similar to breakfast: probably a long silk skirt with matching top and flat shoes.

Finally came drinks and dinner, a formal affair that demanded either a long, straight gown or a full skirt. By that point my poor dresser's tongue would be dragging, but I never questioned what I was doing, much less resented it. It was par for the course, the accepted local custom, and I'd never have dreamed of deviating.