I’ve got mixed feelings about memoirs. Having cringed my way through the insipid or vitriolic ramblings of a number of previously admired politicians, actors and journalists, I’ve come to the conclusion that some people’s inner worlds are best kept that way. Nonetheless, I had high hopes as I read the blurb for well known Australian writer Gabrielle Carey’s Waiting room, and plucked it from the review pile to read over a long weekend.
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