Reviews

I got up early this morning, and was writing about Martin Amis's new novel, and had pretty much finished this morning's househusbandnot as a review of this book when I reminded myself that I had not actually read it, making the whole exercise pretty pointless and speculative. Cultural observation at its finest - as in slim rather than elegant.

Mind you newspaper reviews never tell you anything you don't already know or think. All the reviews did for me this weekend was remind me that I should buy the new Martin Amis book which I would have done anyway because I like him, that I will not be going to the Rodin exhibition at The Royal Academy because mrs househusbandnot and I had already magnanimously decided not to go to it because all his stuff looks so great in Paris, reminded me not to buy tickets to go and see Michael Bolton, and I don't do theatre so I didn't even have to read any reviews of plays to remind myself that I don't do theatre because I really really don't do theatre. We are just reading reviews to remind ourselves about what we already know.

They should be called Reminder not Review sections. I fundamentally don't think anyone - other than friends and mrs househusbandnot - could make me want to go and see or hear or taste something I did not already want to see or hear or taste, or stop me from going to see or hear or taste something I already wanted to see or hear or taste. I think restaurant reviews may be an exception to this rule, but I'm distracted from this line of argument because most restaurant critics come across as such smug and fussy free-loading tossers. ("The badger and fennel stew was a little more peppery than I was expecting", "The rhubarb crumble marched rather than danced onto my spoon" etc.)

I've now exhausted myself - and no doubt your patience - trying to work out why I bother reading reviews. Send me a review of househusbandnot. I'll remember to remind myself not to read it.

In other news, one of my sisters - of whom I have quite a few - has invited me to go and stay with her in Denmark to help her husband decorate a new house they are building. I am tempted by this invitation, seeing myself like Harrison Ford in that movie where he goes and hides in an Amish community, fortified by the dignity of honest labour and scratchy work clothes. But I think this would be a distraction from finding some real work here in London, which is - I hope - going to happen sooner rather than later this autumn.