So the book Jemima J is about Jemima Jones, who, at 5’7″ and 217 pounds (p. 136), is the fattest woman in Kilburn, England, and maybe the rest of London, too. Possibly also the only fat woman there. Apparently.
Her massive fat is a result of hiding candy bars in her desk (p. 3), making poor choices at the salad bar (p. 17), and an insufferably generic childhood pathology (pp. 2, 112). Her considerable girth makes it difficult for her to sit in ordinary chairs (p. 5), completely rules out wearing bootcut jeans (p, 57), has been known to increase at a rate of two to three pounds overnight (p. 64), and has pretty much prevented any kind of sexual enjoyment whatsoever in her life (p. 18). As a result of her immense size, her leisure activties are usually limited to sitting in her room and cutting out pictures of supermodels from magazines (p. 2), and wallowing in self-pity (pp. 1, 2, 4, 8, 9, 10, 14-17, 19, 21, 22, 31, 38, 40-47, 51, 58-62, et. al).
Yeah, not only does her weight keep her from telling jokes (p. 23), applying flattering makeup (p. 15), or, really, ever experiencing more than a split second of unadulterated happiness (pp. 1-371), it also pretty much keeps anything remotely interesting from happening in the first third of the book, where pretty much every twenty pages or so, an opportunity for a meet-cute encounter with her dull love interest, Ben, totally fails to happen because old fat-ass Jemima keeps having to stop somewhere to stuff her face. Poor Jemima!
Oh, and then it gets worse.