I have to say I’m not the luckiest of folk; I’m the wrong side of 40 with bilateral kidney stones, osteoarthritis, a chequered history when it comes to mental health and my Dances with Wolves name is ‘Drinks for Comfort’,. However…two exceptional things have happened in the past decade; first, I was lucky enough to win a proof copy of @mariankeyes’ The Break AND a matching tote bag which I still take on little ‘jaunts’ here and there, I don’t sully her with shopping, I just strap her in the passenger seat and confess all my sins as I window shop bags I’ll never afford and clothes I’ll never fit in. This, I thought, was the height of my success. But then along came a spider (cheeky Mr Pudd reference) in the human form of @Bookish_Becky who very kindly provided me after much groveling with a proof copy of @jconnollybooks’ The Land of Lost Things.

Let me tell you when the coveted bookmail arrived I must have sounded like Ursula the sea witch I laughed so manically, greedily clutching it to my chest like Golum #KeepItSecretKeepItSafe and then, cautiously and with much reverence, like these fancy wine types do with a bottle of merlot, I gently skimmed the pages and had a good old nose of it before giddily opening the cover.

Now, I won’t give away spoilers as I despise of people ruining surprises but I will divulge one major plot twist I DID NOT see coming; I didn’t consume it in my usual 24 hours when it comes to all things Connolly/Parker, and in the words of Bryn of Gavin and Stacey fame adopts dubious Welsh accent “I’ll tell you for why”; it upset me. Not in the #airfanyourtearswithyourhand way the stars do, by upset I mean it made me bawl unashamedly ugly ass tears that I didn’t know I was still holding back – but I assure you this is by no means a criticism of the book, if anything, I had to take a wee emotional break due to the poignancy of the writing and the way it transported me back 13 years to the side of my dad’s ICU bed.

Before you question my devotion to all things Connolly let me tell you I am THAT kind of fan I had my dad’s old paperback of Every Dead Thing dedicated to him by the great author himself and whenever some upheaval happens in life it’s the first thing stowed in my bag and in the house it’s never usually further than arm’s reach from me. That old battered book has become a literary totem representing equally my love of books and my dad – it anoints all new arrivals to my TBR pile as one would swear by the Bible in a Court of law and whenever the absence of my father is too painful I run my fingers gently over the creased spine as tenderly as I applied cream to his cracked feet as he went through chemo, pick any page and immediately float somewhere between this world and the next.

Now back to the Land of Lost Things; and what a befitting title. As I’ve come to expect from Mr Connolly, the novel is a story within a story, its deliciously gothic lore subconsciously heightening your senses whilst quietly but firmly dragging you into his honeycomb world.

Most of my life I can pretty much pin point through books, and I remember all too well as Taylor Swift would quip my dad messaging me with smugness that he’d got a copy of The Book of Lost Things when it first came out and our joint race to finish it so we could bask in the glory and enjoy picking over the literary spoils for days – in fact I could practically hear him chuckling in my ear all these years later as I sat with the curtains drawn and The Land of Lost Things in my lap as the crooked man emerged from print.

While TLOLT stands up as a sequel it stands out all in its own and for me I took it to my heart even more so than the first. It shook me to the core at first in how true Ceres and Phoebe’s plight is – the reality of caring for someone who is in that place between; neither here nor there…

Yet when I resumed reading what really resonated with me was its message of hope – the hope that keeps not just Ceres going but all of us fighting for those we love, the limitless depths of love and what it can endure.

I remembered the weeks going back and forth to hospital while 8+ months pregnant and sitting beside all the machines he was shrouded by and their soft lights and mechanical groans…I swear Greenwich Mean Time does not apply in those places, yet I had hope – because love endures.

As always, Mr Connolly delivers on the macabre delivering plenty of unnerving moments to raise the hairs at the back of your neck. It has that beautiful balance of being delightfully dark whilst interspersed with shards of light just when you need them.

Finally, whilst I won’t give anything away and ruin your experience, I have to give a shout out to Olivier; from the moment I discovered him I instantly thought of Jon Coffey of the Green Mile and smiled. He reminded me of one of the nurses who dabbed a damp sponge on my father’s lips when they were cracked weeks after the tracheotomy. Because the loved ones who can’t speak for themselves still deserve our time and our care and most of all, for us to remember they’re still here.

So I implore you to forgo your compass and go in search of the Land of Lost Things and lose yourself.