A free spirit, or a bit of a flake, depending on how you look at it, Daisy leaves Las Vegas, her dead best friend and her McJob to follow her rocket-scientist boyfriend of 24 hours to London where she intends to discover her British roots and work out, at last, and at 29, just exactly what she was put on this earth to do.
But while Rob is reaching for the stars, Daisy is left alone in the worst shared house in South London, penniless, bored and miserable. Should she get a job? Have an affair? Become a poet? She manages to avoid doing anything either radical or useful and instead takes her mind off the swirly carpets and unspeakable wallpaper by keeping a diary. But while Daisy's got a lot to say, she doesn't have much of a life, right now.
There are always the repellently fascinating doings of her housemates to fill the pages, although she needs to find out more about them, preferably when they're not there. A bit of research can't possibly do any harm, can it? After all, no one will ever know. So why, then, do her loathsome cohabitees - and Rob - start to act as if they loathe her?
