AS reality TV, with its relentless focus on the ordinary, has gone from strength to strength, it was only a matter of time before an equivalent emerged in the world of publishing.

Billed by Picador as "the East End minimalist", Smith has been feted as a fresh and authentic voice of the metropolitan working-class.

Her sparse style, deadpan delivery and mania for minutiae have earned rave reviews from various quarters including Helen Fielding, creator of Bridget Jones.

Her pedestrian, low-brow, unperceptive prose has struck a chord with the so-bad-it's-good brigade. Cue ironic sniggers all round as My Holidays, her third book, provides us with yet more vignettes from what one critic has dubbed The Diary of a Nobody for the 21st century.

Marking a departure from her usual stomping ground: the world of dodgy bedsits and dead-end jobs, this travel memoir proves that while you can take the girl out of the East End you can't take the East End out of the girl. Whether she's in Rome or Ilfracombe, Smith's horizons are resolutely limited. Her descriptions of people, places and events have all the subtlety and sophistication of the "What I Did In My Summer Holiday" essay.

In the forward to the book, Smith says she remembers her holidays in such detail because so many have been "jinxed". But with the exception of a visit to New York in September 2001, this book is just a series of anecdotes about caravans, blocked toilets, petty rows and minor misdemeanours in her car.

My Holidays by Sylvia Smith (Picador, £12.99)