If you would like to relive those glorious days of Hollywood gossip tabloids from the "good old days", you might like this book. Every one here is either a saint or a miserable sinner, as according to the gospel of St. Esther.

Esther Williams seems determined to make her life appear as interesting as possible, which is understandable, but often at the expense of others who are no longer able to protest at her catty, sometimes bitchy, reminiscing. Not that catty or bitchy can't be fun, but unfortunately Ms Williams has removed any light-heartedness by couching all of her gossip in an eternal litany of ego massage. One can certainly surmise that Williams never met a mirror she didn't like. All men wanted her, all women were either adoring acolytes or jealous of her beauty, athleticism, morality, All-American sweetness or a host of other self-described traits.

The self-absorbed tone of the book completely put me off, and the blocky style, whether dictated by Williams or contributor Diehl zaps any pleasure I might have gotten from her reminiscing.

In short, this memoir is sour, more like a chance to even some scores than to tell tales of a grand Hollywood life. The million dollar mermaid comes off as something which would have best been thrown back as not really fit for consumption. Sorry, Charlie.