Read two non-fiction books that I feel I should have loved, Notes to Self, by Emilie Pine and Surfacing, by Kathleen Jamie - didn't love either as much as expected.
The first book is by an Irish woman writing about her life: trying to take care of her seriously ill father in the face of indifferent health systems; dealing with infertility; her difficult adolescence; life as an overworked academic. I rather liked it, but I think I have now overdosed on women writing about their lives and bodies.
The second book is by a Scottish woman, writing about nature, archaeology and her travels. Nice work if you can get it I liked the archaeology bit the most, but again, I'm a bit tired of sensitive musings.
There were also two fiction books:
Nine Lessons, by Nicola Upson Part of a series that inserts real-life crime writer Josephine Tey into a fictional crime story. I'm not a big fan of this mechanism (there are similar books about the Mitford sisters etc) and I haven't read the rest of the series. This one lured me in as it's based around murders recalling M R James ghost stories. I enjoyed it as a 1930s set crime story; the Josephine Tey bit didn't add much.
Plastic, by Christopher Fowler
Oh dear. This was published in 2013. The author, male and in his 50s when writing this, unwisely used a narrator who is female and aged 29. He is not convincing in this persona. When escaping murderous villains by leaping off a balcony, I have never once fretted about whether the knees of my tights will ladder. When pulling a gun on the bad guy, a 29-year old does not quip "I may be low on estrogen, but I have plenty of bullets!" It's not bad in some ways - readable enough, and London is vividly evoked. The narrator's friend is a colourful character, although I'm po-faced about her alcoholism being playing for laughs. There is a foreword that explains that the author struggled to get this published, and I can see why.