Pup fiction

It isn't often a book makes me angry. If I'm not enjoying a book, I tend to dismiss it as trashy or unreadable and then decide whether to soldier onwards, realising it's trash and enjoying in as much as I can in its newly-defined genre, or else abandon it altogether. It's rare I abandon. I'm a finisher-completer, after all.

An unforeseen side-effect of the new job is the commute. By London standards, it's hardly horrific - about 40 minutes door-to-door, but as my previous commute was about ten minutes, it's a noticeable difference. The biggest impact has been on my paperback consumption. I used to get through a novel a fortnight - now it's nearer two per week. Luckily, I work close to a library (sorry, Idea Store. Don't ask.) so I can be all credit crunchy and economical and manage to spend as little as possible on my paperback habit.


But sometimes I get caught short.

Last week my latest Book Club book (A Christmas Carol) still hadn't arrived from the mail order company, and my library books were finished. I had nothing to read and two lots of 40 minutes ahead of me. Of course, I could have read the Metro or the London Lite, but my brain hasn't yet atrophied sufficiently. I will keep you posted. I ransacked the bookshelf for TheBloke (TM)'s books. I'd read all his Stephen King. I'd read anything that looked readable. All that was left was a novel by Dean Koontz. I'd read one of his previously and it had been OK. Not great, very much trash, but OK. I took the plunge. This one was called The Darkest Evening of the Year.

Ooh. Spooky.

Now, I don't want to spoil it for Dean Koontz fans (who really should be ashamed of themselves), or for TheBloke (TM) who hasn't yet read this book. Its good points:

a) I finished it in about three days
b) It remained finished.

But what I will say is this: I never again want to read a grown-ups' novel where:

a) there is a magic dog
b) the denouement involes angels.

The angels done it. With the help of a magic dog. Great. This is my angry face. See it and fear me.