I am sure I read this about 2 years ago and hated it. This time round it was very good, maybe in contrast to the excess Kate Atkinson in Spain.
Morgan Leafy is not, by any token, the good man in Africa, that is Murray whom Leafy hates, but this is a very funny, post colonial novel, of the Waugh/Greene type.
Don’t understand why I disliked it so much last time; maybe indicative that reading is more of a mood thing that we think.
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