Roger Windsor’s stories of life as, first, a naive student at vet school, then as a junior vet in general practice, and finally as a senior member of the Veterinary Investigation Service running a laboratory in Africa, certainly give James Herriot a run for his money. His vignettes of animal woe and human frailty have enduring appeal, and the story of setting up such a valuable service in Botswana, and helping to build that country’s agricultural and forensic veterinary resources, is truly fascinating. With his particular talent for veterinary detective work and more general eye for a character sketch and a tall tale, Windsor will keep even the most animal-averse readers turning the pages of this hilarious and touching autobiography.
I made it fifty pages in before the fact that Robert Windsor is more a stark raving misogynist than Sherlock Holmes became glaringly apparent. How phenomenally dull to have to hear an old man rant on about the "nanny state" we currently live in - if you cut your colleagues thumb open thinking its an infected lymph node you're damn right there should be a lawsuit.
A stellar example of how they really do just let anyone write a book, and a cautionary tale about how maybe they shouldn't.