Jonathan Meades plumbs the depths of black humour in a tale that with each diverse twist plunges the knife of deception deeper and deeper into the body of the main protaganist.
It was with defiant pride that he would look up from his diary to tell Naomi that he hadn't been to the West End for ten months. Naomi was different. She had her shopping, her friends. Their joke was that she would pass on in a boutique's fitting room and that he would go too during a service in a chapel of remembrance. Henry Fowler expected to live all his life in South London. He expected too that his children would follow that example.