Not even 50p. This was actually 30p from the Barbican
Library overstock shelves. Now, I do realize that, much like David Nicholls a
decade later, Nick Hornby isn’t exactly great literature, but it’s very well
written and funny, and its cultural pop references are still better than those
of plenty of bestsellers. So go ahead, and look down on me for enjoying a read
like this every once in a while.
For once I actually had a book that I could pick-up on a
short train journey (not that I use trains often – I just happened to do a bit
of parkrun tourism when I was reading About
a Boy), while waiting in line at the post office and, erm, on the toilet.
And it was great.
Having watched the movie, most of the gags and jokes were
unsurprising (that said, I did still giggle aloud a few times – the dead duck
remains priceless) but the ending was much more meaningful than I expected (not
that seeing Hugh Grant accompany Marcus’s version of Killing Me Softly isn’t meaningful). And reading about my old neighbourhood
always makes me feel all warm inside.
So yeah – Great literature? Not even remotely. Great read? Absolutely.
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