I was about to do my big reveal to the man still behind the counter when he told me he'd already read it and it wasn't really his thing - he didn't know why it had been bothering the charts. It tries a bit too hard to be funny, he said, and fails entirely on that score. And that endless swearing, how very clever. He's all for an unlikeable protagonist, he wanged on, but the author of this book just seemed a little bit too much of an arsehole. In short, he concluded, in a field of a thousand medical memoirs, I could do a lot better. Paul Kalanithi's When Breath Becomes Air, perhaps? I couldn't face turning around to see my mother's face.