Nick Hornby is the sort of author who, in theory, I would love to hate.
Relentlessly populist (not to mention hugely popular), resolutely proletarian and never particularly subtle with his themes, Hornby seems made for me to sneer at.
I was quite impressed with High Fidelity on a first reading, but hardly blown away: it wasn’t until I read A Long Way Down that I fell in love. And Fever Pitch sealed the deal.
Since then, I haven’t been able to walk past one of his books without buying it. I’m saving up About A Boy for a particularly nice and lazy day when I can wolf it down in one go. Preferably while being fed peeled grapes by Elizabeth Hurley, but Liz’s people won’t return my calls. Continue reading