Just been through the deals. Bought an Alison Weir and How to Eat a Peach which wanky Nigel waxes lyrical about. That's all.
38 The Other Wife Claire McGowan.
Just when I think I've found a decent psycho nutjob thriller writer, something like this comes up on Kindle Unlimited to remind me why some books are free, and some authors are churning them out. Generic title, generic women, generic men, generic nutters.
39 Frostquake Juliet Nicholson.
This should have been right up my street. Instead, I find myself agreeing with many other reviewers on Goodreads- specifically, what was this book actually about, and who was it for? And if I had a famous lineage and family name, could I have written similar and been published too? (and if I might possibly, due to some bang on the head, forget who JN is and from which branch of the British upper classes she comes, she kindly drops in a throwaway sentence about Vita, or Virginia, or Sissinghurst every other page.
Running with the tenuous "the cold winter of 1962 changed the world" premise, it was a mishmash of anecdotes, name-dropping and family biography. All interesting enough in themselves, but how many more crib notes do we really need on Christine Keeler, Sylvia Plath and the Beatles? Are we really meant to believe that a famous sex fiend, a tormented poet and a group of lads in a band only happened because it snowed? I don't think so.
The (clearly gleaned from talking to the hoi-polloi) anecdotes from the below stairs people who were alive when it snowed in 1962 were much more interesting. Especially as they didn't try and convince me that Sylvia put her head in the oven because she was cold.
If you hated Howard's End is on the Landing because of the "I was only saying to John Gielgud that..." then give this one a very wide berth.