Do not read this book if you suffer from squeamishness or a delicate stomach for We Are All Made Of Glue is full of grotesque descriptions of hygienically challenged Mrs Shapiro.
Mrs Shapiro's 'smell was ripe and farty like old cheese, with a faint hint of Chanel No.5.'
Mrs Shapiro's house smells of 'damp and cat pee and shit and rot and food mould and house filth and sink gunge and cutting through all that a rank, nauseating fishy stink.'
In the pocket of Mrs Shapiro's coat is a 'disgusting snot-caked handkerchief with traces of dried blood'.
On the floor of Mrs Shapiro's bedroom lie 'a pair of peach camiknickers trimmed with cream lace a faint stain yellowing the silk.'
I have always considered myself to be fairly tolerant of filth; my mother used to lament: "Anne wouldn't see dirt if it hit her between the eyes..."
Yet I'm not sure I can read on without retching...
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