Time travel has served many novelists well, thanks to a premise that allows for the complete disregard of reality. Here we have the scrappy, corseted Charlotte, a prostitute in 1890s Copenhagen whose travels to 21st-century London introduce her to flavored condoms, modern plumbing, and true love. It's impossible not to root for Charlotte or her creator, who is clearly having fun. But Liz Jensen's insistence on writing ''old style'' (ampersands instead of ands), frequent call-outs to the reader (''precious love'') and more exclamation points than even a self-respecting issue of OK! would allow finally render My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time more campy than clever.
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