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This is crazy. Even for me.

I glance down at the dizzying expanse of garden far too many feet below.

My scarf snags on a metal strut; I cling on one-handed, swinging ape-like from the drainpipe.

"Mom – you can see your underwear from here."

"Thanks for that darling."

How did I get here? You may well ask.

Romance novels are the Rodney Dangerfield of books, they get no respect. Some people won’t admit to reading them, others confess their sin with self-conscious guilt. Others equate the Romance novel with the end of civilization. Why? Is it the lurid covers? Is it the formula plot? Do Romance novels lack all literary merit? Or might there be some other more insidious reason at work here?