Kiss of Death

There’s nothing worse than being recommended a book by your mother once you’ve reached a certain age. A sour uninterested glower can be your only reward when you’ve waxed lyrical about a novel you know your darling will absolutely love: It’s right up your street, you’d really enjoy it, are words that should never pass your lips.

Well, I have learned my lesson. Whenever I come across something that my son and heir could possibly enjoy, I say nothing. I leave it around, in plan view, to tempt him, lure him in while keeping schtum, my trap firmly shut. And if he’s away, I hold my tongue, dampen down my irritating long-range enthusiasm (difficult for me) and refrain.

I got a call, on Skype, from foreign parts: "Hey, I’ve just read something really good. It’s called A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. You should try and get it. You’d really enjoy it!" I, however, had read this semi autobiographical novel long before. And I did thoroughly enjoy reading about its unlikely hero who became parent to his younger brother after tragic circumstances. Eggers, a man after my own heart, described himself as a 40-year old mother when it came to worrying; his first fun night out with friends that turned into a worry fest was absolutely hilarious.

"Oh, I read that ages ago, I just didn’t tell you about it, kiss of death and all that."

At least he laughed!