The Wives of Bath

(When I read this book, I assumed it to be a debut, because of the uneven unpolished writing style. So imagine my surprise when I searched amazon.co.uk and discovered 5 other books by Wendy Holden.)

Yes, here I am again, discussing chick lit. But honestly, chick lit is not all bad. Sometimes you feel like a spot of Joyce (as if!), sometimes you want the magical seduction of Anne Rice's earlier books... and there are times when the tumble dryer is broken beyond repair, the credit card is groaning, the kids are grumpy and the only way you can stay sane is by eating junk food and reading junk books.

As junk books go, this is a good one, because it keeps you reading. It also makes you smile and nod in places, and even read bits to the husband with the interlude of "see, this sounds exactly like you".

As books go, this is not a great one. Don't we have copy editors anymore to spot blunders such as a five month baby crawling?

Is this my cow?

What I loved most about the latest Discworld book (Thud! for the uninitiated), were the bits where "the world went soft and pink". Every time Sam Vimes interacts with his son, I know that Pratchett is a truly great writer. And every time Sam Vimes fears for his son's safety, I know that Pratchett is seriously overdue for the Booker.

However, there is a however. For example, I found too many superflous characters in this book. Also, the plot is too complex (even though the theme is certainly topical and important) and it relies on too many external elements for both micro- and macro-resolution (as opposed to some of Pratchett's better books, where resolutions come from within the plot).

A good book, but not a good Pratchett.

All in all, that is not my cup of cow.

Sex (Goddess) and Murder Mysteries

Sex certainly sells. To a certain niche market, I grant you that, but it sells. Combine it with another market, that of murder mysteries, add some innovative marketing (in this case, publishing via email) and you get "The Daughters of Freya".

The premise is simple: a cult worshipping Freya, the Norse goddess of sex, is giving away sex as a means to get rid of all the negative energy in the world. Enter a journalist who is trying to save a friend's daughter swallowed up by the cult, solve a murder, save her own marriage and be there for numorous family crises.

I don't know how good the book is, because I'm forced to read it in drips and drabs: the publisher sends daily emails (about 3-5) in which the story unfolds. This creates natural cliffhangers, not to mention frustration when you want to page over, but can't. The style is typical email style, with no elaborations or descriptions, with the typical shortcuts and typos. All very realistic.

And I can't wait for my next instalment.

Single malt whisky

(because it's time to live up to the teasers scattered around my website)

Ask any non-whisky drinker to name a really good whisky, single malt - not blended, and they will probably come up with Glenfiddich. Go to an average bar, and that's what you'll find on the shelf. Sniff it, and you'll know what cockroach poison smelled like in the communist Poland of 1975. I'm not kidding. Glenfiddich is not good enough to cook with, let alone drink it.

So, what do I like? Lagavulin is my first love, a somewhat rough introduction into the bed of single malts. Oban would have been a gentler teacher, sweeter on the tongue, more understanding. Lagavulin grabbed me by the hair and made me pay attention. Smoky in the extreme, its first kiss was arrogance itself before it suddenly melted into honey.

Laphroiag is my second choice. If blindfolded, I might initially confuse its touch for Lagavulin. The impression never lasts. Although excellent, Laphroiag is not as intense a lay in the long run.

I'll always say "yes please" to the unassuming innocence of Oban, Scapa or Dalwhinnie. They alre welcome to whisper sweet nothings into my throat all night.

Talisker and I are not compatible, though. It does offer a rough ride that rivals that of Lagavulin, but it lacks Lagavulin's caressing finesse. There is no sugar pot at the end of a mouthful of Talisker, and you'll have to tie me up to make me swallow it.