i.....am.......in.......the.......slow......read....ers......group

have decided to briefly review the last few books i have read (at a painful pace of roughly a quarter of a chapter per month)

1) Haruki Murakami - The Wind-up Bird Chronicle

I read it because: Well, a bit because my old house-mate Daphne recommended it, and she was really arty and wise, but also because this really sexy/awful man i was boning said it was the best book he'd ever read (and I thought we needed something else to talk about in between him biting his lip and leaving abruptly at 9am).

I enjoyed it because: The main character had given his cat a surname, and spent a week living down a well. There was also an awesome woman in it who wore sixties makeup, false eyelashes and little pillbox hats that matched her handbags. I was really into her. In addition to this, there were loads of creepy bits where the man had saucy sex dreams about various hot babes including matchies hat lady, and he would wake up and have to wash jizz of himself. Quite grim but definitely a highlight.

To sum up: I never finished it, because my brain can't seem to handle books over 2 chapters long. Also I moved out of Daphne's and I stopped boning the lip-biter, so what would have really been the point anyway?

2) Perfume by Patrick Süskind
I read it because: My friend Rosie (who is also arty and wise, my main criteria for book recommenders) lent it to me.

I enjoyed it because: The description is delicious (and grim/gross/vivid/vile), and the main character is a creepy genius 'with no personal odour' (human equivalent of Oust). I much prefer a soulless, murderous, eerie protagonist (like Pinkie from Brighton Rock or Capote's Perry Smith - even better cause he was real) to the kinds of gushing girlie characters I am supposed to relate to, but ultimately wish to stab in the tits.

ALSO - back to perfume, but Spoiler Alert!! Everyone gets involved in a cheeky orgy at the end. If someone hasn't made this into a musical, they really should..

To sum up: It made me a bit depressed thinking about the world's (and my personal) fight to smell all minty and flowery, when really humans have rotten-pond-weed-mouth in the mornings, and stale beery barfly breath on fridays. And how festivals smell like armpit after half a morning/half a pill, and how children's mouths smell of sour milk and their feet of wendsleydale. And how buses stink of vomit and piss and nightclubs of miaow miaow and boozy farts. And how kittens teeth reek of catfood (and their bums of that same meaty slush, a few hours later). And how foreign people seem to somehow have a foreign smell, but how on stuffy, sweaty days we all unite in the international scent of Bleurgh....

...Awesome book though.

2) House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende

I judged it by it's cover but it was actually well good, a latin american family saga full of magic realism, which mainly made me want to speak more spanish, understand the communist revolution, dye my hair mermaid green and practice moving plates with my mind.

Stand-out moments were the blood-drenched dog Barrabas staggering into Rosa's engagement party with a knife in his back, a car journey into a forest to find a severed head, and a saucy prozzy wiggling her hips to make a snake tattoo dance around her navel. Need to lose about 10 stone and then I'm so getting on that party trick.

So there we go. Having ploughed my way through these three (not a chore at all, but certainly a challenge for my little brain) I am now LOVING Brighton Rock by Graham Greene. So much suspense, and with my favourite breed of chilling, grey eyed, vitriol-swilling killer in the starring role. The best part for me is the frequent mention of local spots like the Palace Pier, Old Steyne (spelt the 1930s way), the viaduct, Lewes and Queens Road, meaning that my wide eyes and shuddering are nicely punctuated with the squeeze of recognition and a satisfied 'yay' of 'that's

my city!'