The last three books I read (over a period of about six months I ought to add)

American novel about a woman’s emotional struggle with new motherhood and a new neighbourhood all at the same time, all the while still traumatised from an emergency caesarian. It’s very good in parts about the ferocious uppercut of motherhood – but the hardline breast-is-best message is a bit screechy.

I spent most of this book trying to work out if brain surgeon Henry Marsh is unbearably pompous and therefore hateful, or just very honest about being unbearably pompous, so hateful – but gets full marks for being honest. Anyway – do not read this if you are even slightly a little bit of a hypochondriac. Or you’re about to have an aneurysm clipped. This is pretty much a novel constructed to make use of a lot of detailed period research. If you hated Captain Corelli, you’ll hate this. I found its dreamy whimsicality really soothing. Especially after reading the previous two books.