My first - and almost certainly last - foray into chick lit. Very shallow, contrived and implausible, albeit in a self-conscious ("ironic"?) way.
Although the "plot" may excuse the improbable co-incidences, there is no justification for the ludicrously artificial dialogue. I find all the "poor fluffy little me struggling to bluff it in the big bad grown up world" nauseating. Not as funny as it thinks because the humour, such as it is, is entirely reliant on very cliched stereotypes. If it were written by a man, people would be outraged at how sexist it is.
Even if Kinsella was once ahead of the game by writing in this way, its startling unoriginality is just another annoyance.
I expected a juice bar/coffee shop rather than Heston Blumenthal's molecular gastronomy, but I ended up with soggy fluorescent candy floss.