September, reset month, was a funny one reading-wise. I didn’t feel like I got into the swing of anything, really. It could be said I was bogged down by too much narrative non-fiction, and although I enjoyed those books on the whole, I was starting to think like a long piece in The New Yorker. I developed an inner vocal fry. By the end of September, I was in dire need of fiction. And this is the time for fiction. The nights are drawing in; let’s hunker down!
The reset part of September went well. I bought new glasses and new sunglasses. Sunglasses: green lenses, pink frames. Wicked maintains its chokehold on the culture. Last Saturday I had the flat to myself, and after noodling around, I went out for a long walk with Shirley Jackson and my sunglasses. The sky was bright and the clouds were pea green. They were enormous.
I’ve kept this brief, not because I think recent posts have been too long (vanity, all is vanity), but I’m tired. It’s past my bedtime. Let me say this though. I feel positive about October. In a couple of weeks, Best British Short Stories 2026 is published by Salt. I am very proud to say that one of my stories, ‘Why Do You Let Me Lie Here Wastefully?’, is included this year. I have taken that Monday off work, just to sit with my own thoughts, drama queen that I am. Happy autumn. Bienvenu, the fatty end of the year.
The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole by Sue Townsend (1984)
The ending to Growing Pains is one of my favourite endings to a book ever:
Thursday June 2nd
My parents went to see a family therapist last night. During their absence Pandora and I indulged in extremely heavy petting; so heavy that I felt a weight fall from me. If I don’t pass my exams it won’t matter. I have known what it is to have the love of a good woman.
One of the many joys of Adrian Mole for me is wondering to what extent he is self-aware. I think it’s probably more than we give him credit for.
London Falling by Patrick Radden Keefe (2026)
I gave in to the hype and the absurdly long subtitle (A Mysterious Death in a Gilded City and A Family’s Search for the Truth) and bought the book. I enjoyed the analysis of how London metamorphosised between the eighties and noughties. I might have enjoyed reading more about that. I never felt he got to grips with the city, in the end. But this is a chilling story.
The Castle by Jon Ronson (2026)
I came away disappointed by The Castle, although there were stand out chapters for me. It was the story of Chris Mark and his castle that I found uninteresting. Awful things are happening in the castle, but I felt unengaged. The book was at its best focusing on YouTube, I thought.
Empire of Pain by Patrick Radden Keefe (2021)
The opening section of this book – ‘Patriarchy’ – had me gripped. But there is a lack of dynamism to Radden Keefe’s writing. The story spans decades. I never felt that this change was communicated on the page, other than literally. It felt staid.
Come Along with Me by Shirley Jackson (1968)
Shirley Jackson remains one of my top short story writers. Why would you suffer through hundreds of pages of Lolita when there’s ‘A Cauliflower in Her Hair’?
The Wren, The Wren by Anne Enright (2024)
I read, I read The Wren, The Wren back in 2024. I liked it just as much in 2026, perhaps a little more. I like the way Enright obfuscates. I love her motifs. Like Adrian Mole, Nell self-ironizes: “I am currently obsessed by light. It is hard to turn this into cash. An obsession with light does not commodify.”
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