I hadn’t heard of this novel, and if I hadn’t come across Alan Bennett’s praise of it, I never would have read it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a laudatory quote from him on the cover of anything else; I like him and felt I could trust him. It took me a while to get to grips with the book, and to decide that I liked it. The reason for this was its peculiar style: scenes run very short, and there is much emphasis on inconsequential detail. Even the title has almost nothing to do with the story.
Initially, I was waiting for ‘the plot’ to reveal itself, but it never really does. I felt wrong-footed. It is strangely disturbing to have the usual rhythm and shape of a work of fiction withheld from you, especially when the tone is comic. The inconsequentialities give it a strong sense of the autobiographical, and I would be very surprised if it wasn’t based on the author’s own life and family. Andrew Barrow’s approach is oblique and slyly experimental, playful and idiosyncratic, and once I’d adjusted to it, I enjoyed myself and laughed a fair bit.