Just finished Never Mind, the first of Edward St Aubyn's loosely autobiographical Patrick Melrose novels. Hmmm. Some stylish prose but nothing much to actually enjoy - one scene in particular is deeply unpleasant, all the more so for apparently being something that actually happened to the author. A lot of reviews mention how funny a writer he is but I didn't laugh once. None of the characters is even remotely likeable. And nothing much happens. And yet I feel a morbid fascination drawing me to the rest of the series. Hmmm.
Anyway, to follow that, I've just started Randall, the just-published debut novel by Jonathan Gibbs, who happens to be an old university friend of mine, albeit one I haven't seen for a few years. Not entirely surprising though - if you'd asked me in 1994 which of my peers would be first to get his novel published, I'd have put money on it being him. It's been getting rave reviews and first impressions are very promising - I wonder if that's because or in spite of the fact that I'm mentally hearing it in his voice...