I wasn't very good at being a stereotypical teenage girl, so I somehow never got round to reading Wuthering Heights. After all the hype I've heard about the dark, handsome, brooding Heathcliff, I figured it was going to be gothic, melodramatic, romantic, and probably some other words ending in -ic. You never know, I might enjoy it.

Well, either (a) I'm too old, (b) I have very little innate appreciation of 19th century literature, or (c) Wuthering Heights is the most facile, one-dimensional, badly-plotted, repetitive, unsuspenseful, and, funnily enough, loveless monstrosity of a novel that I've ever wasted time reading.

Obviously Charlotte got all the family's writing genes.