So, who believes in sheep, then? Very mystical, mythical creatures, if I’m to believe Sally Prue’s truth sayer.
This is a very funny book. I had no idea. It’s been sitting on my horizon for a year, at least. The Resident IT Consultant read it over half term. Fantasy, he muttered, as though it’s a bad thing. And it struck me as strange, because Adele Geras is always saying what a great book this is, and she doesn’t like fantasy. But it is, and she does make exceptions.
Though I have to say that the best is the outsider’s view of perfectly ordinary Essex life. Crisps and fish fingers are delicious, and grandmothers should be revered. Or not. The mental picture of tomato ketchup isn’t all that appetising. And are white lies (more grey, here) necessary?