Alas, here I go with another apologetic opening line. I've had a signed copy of this book on my shelves since Alison Kennedy attended a book signing in Cardiff way back in April 2007, and have studiously ignored it since. Sorry. I'm sorry because A.L. Kennedy is a brave and interesting person. Not only has she had the pleasure of my company for a beer or two (hence brave), she is also a stand-up comedian* and a successful essayist. She has won prizes and awards**, and was smashing to talk with, albeit briefly. But the truth should be known - I dislike novels that dwell on the world wars, and was terribly afraid that I would hate this book and thus sound like an arse.
The background to this, only partly understood and therefore difficult to explain, is that the particular emphasis on Britishness that seems to be the fall back position for writers, both novelists and screenwriters, makes me spectacularly uncomfortable. For some reason on which I don't have a handle, I squirm…