One thing you are guaranteed not to get on madmusings is a literary review. Oh yes, we read books. Heck, we even review books. History, biography, all manner of non-fiction. We do read fiction, but, let's be blunt here, we are not of a literary turn-of-mind.
Oh yes, we have a few Penguin Classics, read, on our shelves, some classics of the twentieth century, too. We believe Wuthering Heights and Cry, The Beloved Country to be the greatest books ever written. But, let's be blunt, we read those in the early 1980s. Our tastes haven't moved on and matured since. We have been known to read Mary Wesley and Joanna Trollope, and not just on beaches.
However, until yesterday we had never read any Jilly Cooper. Yesterday, we had some time to spare on the South Bank before a concert at the Purcell Room, so we drifted into Books Etc, and, having looked through the intellectual books, we bought 'Score' by Jilly Cooper.
I guess it was going to happen: three times this has come up in conversation recentl, including a blog comment from Somewhat, who refers to an evil-but-sexy conductor. So, I had to splurge.
Despite the embarrassment of reading a downmarket trashy novel in a public place with pretentions to intellectuality I simply could not put the book down, except for during the actual concert (Mozart and Handel, review soon-ish). I can certainly see the appeal of the writer - galloping plot, descriptive phrasing, two-and-a-half dimensional characters (always the best - they get far more troublesome if they move into three dimensions). Kind of gripping.
But some of the phraseology is extraordinary. I wonder if readers take these cliches and contrived metaphors at face value, or do they all snigger at the florid prose. When I have finished, I may go through it again and pull out some of the worst examples. At the moment, the one that is sticking in mind is "He was the James Galway of oral sex"
This so doesn't work on so many levels. I mean, if any man (or woman) tried to blow me like a flute, I would find it bizarre, and almost certainly not a turn on. Flautists do odd things with their lips. And James Galway...I mean, I'm sure he's a nice bloke, and what a legend, but, ooh no, stop it make this thought disappear.
I know I am just a humble accountant, and my adding and counting maybe suspect, but I'm trying to work out how the evil-but-sexy one can manage to be so priapic. And I'm guessing wildly, but conducting Don Carlos is probably quite physically exacting.
Without providing a spoiler, we have reached the bit where the Old Bill have made an entrance (phnarr phnarr). No doubt, by the end, we shall know who dunnit.
