Alexander McCall Smith ‘Espresso Tales: The Latest from 44 Scotland Street’

This was an emergency buy; I certainly don’t normally seek out the opus of Mr McCall Smith. Like the rest of the British population, I have read some of his No.1 Detectives Agency series, but apparently unlike most of them, thought they really weren’t very good. I have nothing against easy reading or light fiction per se (in fact I’m a veritable lightweight compared to most of my peers I suspect) but the tales of Precious Ramotswe were just too twee, patronising and contrived in a ‘’oh look at the sweet simple African woman who’s canny in the way of the bush’’ kind of way. All power to McCall Smith who has furnished many tube carriages with their reading matter and no doubt made much money in the process, but this kind of ‘’lite’’ hurts my teeth. If I dare tempt a mobbing, it’s rather similar to Harry Potter in my opinion. Face it guys, it’s a kid’s book, it doesn’t have an adult sub-plot, there is nothing rather different about it, apart from a darned good marketing plan. Nothing wrong with enjoying them, but don’t start to pretend it’s anything more than children’s fiction (of course there are children’s books with genuine adult-orientated themes & nuances, such as Phillip Pullman’s Dark Materials triology which is light years ahead of Harry Potter). [I am now cowering in a corner waiting for the Rowling posse to come to beat me up]. Don't even start me on The Da Vinci Code or we'll be here for hours.

So I only bought ‘Espresso Tales’ because not much else was available in the Hotel Bookshop (still the Oberoi; yes, I did read a lot there; I was a social recluse, remember?). Therefore it was much to my surprise and all-round happiness that it turns out that McCall Smith is indeed capable of better. ‘Espresso Tales’ is a compilation of his weekly installments in The Scotsman (a bit of a cheek with the whole Dickens-emulation thing if you ask me; but you didn’t), which works pretty well in novel format, keeping the pace moving fast for a plot-junkie like myself. The highlight for me was definitely 6-year old Bertie, a mild-mannered genius with an insufferable mother who forces him to wear pink dungarees and go to a therapist (who, incidentally, she is attempting to seduce). Gentle chuckles all round. It’s also faintly soothing to read about a city (Edinburgh) which I know so well; probably the closest I get to being homesick for somewhere I’m not from (admittedly not the first time it’s happened). Next time I’m in an airport lounge I might just look for the sequel…