Every now and again I have another attempt to defeat my old adversary Scandinavian Crime Fiction.
Once more I must confess I have failed. I have struggled with The Redbreast by Jo Nesbo and I've got as far as page 116. Nothing has happened yet. There has been no murder (that I am aware of). There has been no tension, apart from a short bit on pages 12 to 13. It's just page after page of not very interesting people talking and even less interesting people going about their seriously uninteresting lives. I thought I must be missing something. After all, lovely people who's opinions I trust and respect, like Karen and Maxine, like these books. I thought I'd try and read another hundred pages just in case. You know what? I cannot bring myself to even pick the book up, never mind read another 100 pages. I would rather stick pins in my eyes.
I give up. Next time I mention that I'm reading anything set slightly to the west of Russia please shoot me.