In which we are enchanted in a soberly fashion.

Waiting for Snow in Havana: Confessions of a Cuban Boy had to wait, half-read, on the shelf while I made my way through Hobb and Fforde. This was an unwarranted slight on my part, and I apologise. Eire describes his childhood in Cuba in vivid detail and on occasion you almost feel the sun on your face as you watch him and his brother blow up lizards. From his father – who thinks he is the reincarnation of a French king – to the tiny figure of Castro as he addresses the people, the book invokes a magical – though by no means problem-free – childhood turned upside down because of a revolution.

In which we become clairvoyant.

Claudine Cullimore’s Small-Town Girl is a pleasant read. There is really not much more to be said about it.

Oh, go on then. It’s got the right mix of romance, friendship, character growth and serves-you-right-ness. The language is flawless, and never intrudes upon the flow of the story with odd springs (whether on purpose or mistakenly). The only negative thing about it is the predictability (I guessed all the major twists of plot way in advance of the «reveal»), but what can you expect?

Perhaps I should have left it at «a pleasant read» after all.

In which we ramble through Africa.

I picked up Peter Moore’s Swahili for the Broken-Hearted in the aforementioned 3 for 2 sale at Waterstone’s in Brighton, and started it shortly after finishing Fforde back in July. So why haven’t I reviewed before now? Well, things have been happening and book reviews haven’t exactly been my top priority.

Anyway. It’s pretty good. Nothing spectacular, but a decent, mildly entertaining read. I won’t ruch out to buy any more of Moore’s books, but if I come across one of them in another three-for-two sale, I might just buy it.

In which we find that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

The clothes do make a man. I picked The Memory of All That up in a charity shop in Prestwick because I found the cover attractive. That was probably related to me and Linda having spent a lot of time talking about Audrey Hepburn lately.

Well, they do say not to judge a book by it’s cover, and maybe they’re right. This was a very readable novel, no doubt about that, and the main character (who is also the narrator) definitely holds the reader’s attention while the novel lasts. However, once I’d turned the last page yesterday and shut the book, it seemed to fade very quickly from my mind. I can remember the plot all right, it just doesn’t seem to have any significance whatsoever beyond entertainment value for a few hours. I don’t know.

In which we wonder: What’s with the realism?

The good ladies at Pemberley have talked so much about I Capture the Castle that when I found it at Waterstone’s 3 for 2 sale, I obviously jumped at the chance to finally read it. I’d like to say I was not disappointed, unfortunately that would not be entirely true.

All they have said about the story is correct. The narrator is captivating. The characters deliciously eccentric and real. The story flows along and drags you ever onwards – it’s not a book you want to put down.

And then it ends. Realistically ambigiously, no doubt about that, but not on the ‘they lived happily ever after’ note that I was hoping for. Hang realism, I like ‘they lived happily ever after’.

If this continues I am going to have to start reading Mills&Boons.