The Pool at Night

A new book. Decision time. After Peter Hennessy’s fabulously weighty tome, there was a need for a bit of fiction. But the last three fiction books I’d read all being written by women authors, I thought a bit of manly stuff was required. To stiffen the sinews. 
Classic stuff. There’s that coterie of authors like Ian MacEwan, Julian Barnes, Martin Amis… but I’d never read a single book by William Boyd. And he a Scot, too. Well, ish. So a quick scurry through the "best of" lists and it was settled. Any Human Heart! Oh my word it’s good. How I chuckled. Don’t get me wrong, I could see how it wouldn’t appeal to everyone. And quite justifiably so, oh yes. But it’s so far up my street that errrr….  how can I finish this sentence… so far up my street that I’ve…. started making a nest in the sycamores?