A few more catch-up reviews:
10. Mrs P's Journey by Sarah Hartley
This had such an interesting premise – it was supposedly a biography about Phyllis Pearsall, who founded the Geographers’ A-Z Map Company and is famous for walking 23,000 streets in London to produce the first indexed A-Z of London. (As it turns out, it wasn’t the first, but that doesn’t diminish her achievement or her drive to realise her vision.) She had a very turbulent upbringing: her mother was a histrionic suffragette and groundbreaking playwright from an Irish-Italian Catholic family, and her father Sandor Gross was a spiky and self-aggrandising Hungarian refugee whose business ventures meant that his family oscillated between huge wealth and dire poverty. Phyllis spent her childhood in posh boarding schools where she never fitted in properly, having to leave at short notice when her father’s map-making business went bust and they couldn’t afford the fees. Unsurprisingly, she left home as soon as she could, went to study art at the Sorbonne (sleeping on the streets when she couldn’t afford accommodation), married a fellow art student, lived a bohemian life travelling around France and Spain, then abandoned her husband in Spain because the marriage had never been consummated and had become unhappy and abusive. She spent the rest of her life single, working as an artist-cum-cartographer-cum-entrepreneuse and spending her later years with her companion Esme Wren (the book oddly rejects the idea that Phyllis was a lesbian, but it seems a reasonable speculation, especially given her unconsummated marriage).
Unfortunately, despite the fantastic material, this book has major flaws. The biggest for me is the writing style, which is overwrought and laboured. Even worse, Hartley acknowledges that Phyllis was a hugely charismatic fantasist who made up a lot of stories about her life that aren’t necessarily founded 100% in fact – but then throws her hands up and says that, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, she’s just going to take it all at face value
. However, she doesn’t seem to have done any legwork to establish which of Phyllis’ stories is true (e.g. by consulting institutional records or talking to peers). But the most annoying aspect of all was that, wherever the record is lacking or where Hartley feels that a key scene should be recorded in detail, she just makes it up, giving us huge tracts of flowery description, lengthy conversations and hamfisted psychological speculation to fill the gaps. It’s a fascinating story, but the lack of biographical rigour rather took the shine off it for me.
11. The Day I Fell Into a Fairytale by Ben Miller
I read this to the DCs a couple of months ago. It’s a mildly entertaining tale about siblings Harrison and Lana who discover a portal to a fairytale world in the middle of a local supermarket (which has sinisterly sprung up overnight to lure adults in with ridiculous bargains, Amazon-style). There are some pleasing story-within-a-story parts and a twisty plot that kept the DCs entertained – and although it had a rather trite moral (you’re never too old to believe in fairytales), it was a huge improvement on David Bloody Walliams.
12. Thinking About It Only Makes It Worse by David Mitchell
I bought this in a charity shop a couple of years ago, but have only just got round to reading it. I shouldn’t have bothered. It’s not a bad book: David Mitchell is an intelligent man, with interesting (and mostly funny) things to say, and his heart is in the right place (if you’re a slightly contrarian leftie like me). But what makes for a an attention-grabbing-but-thoughtful Observer column every Sunday becomes repetitive and irritating when read back-to-back. Mitchell’s splenetic tone stops being amusing after a couple of hours and just sounds like haranguing. You start to notice all his repeated preoccupations and lazy jokes. And you also start to feel a bit grubby about all the self-congratulation that you’re supposed to feel by being on his side and laughing at those who aren’t. This is one of those odd books that’s somehow less than the sum of its parts.