I loved this delightful little book. Everything from the portrait of post-war London to the slightly quirky story was my cup of tea. You might enjoy it even more if you’ve read some Tolstoy, but it stands alone just as well.
Unconditional love: people say it is the essence of motherhood. I was barely old enough to recognise it when suddenly she was no more, like a comet extinguished. To have a famous mother is a curse. To lose your mother at nine is a tragedy. I have lived my life in the shadow of these two misfortunes. It took a lifetime to comprehend the extent of the devastation they caused. There is no mother more famous than mine. Except the Holy Virgin, perhaps. Soon you will understand it all much better.