I'd been saving up Richard Ford's The Lay of the Land for a time when I'd be able to give it the unswerving attention his books deserve, but this week concluded that such an opportunity was unlikely to manifest itself any time soon and so cracked the spine on the Piccadilly Line in defiance of the unbroken ranks of Potteroos.
I've heard nothing but reverent praise about his third novel featuring Frank Bascombe, and, 200 pages in, I concur wholeheartedly. The density of cultural references makes it necessarily slow going for someone unacquainted with suburbia in the grand American style, but such a close reading gives me the chance to savour every perfectly cast sentence, to delight in what Stephen Fry calls "the chewiness of language".
In a bar, Bascombe sees a silent TV image of George Dubya on the campaign trail in 2000: "Bush's grinning, smirking, depthless face is visible, talking soundlessly, arms held away from his sides as if he was hiding tennis balls in his armpits."
The wit is coruscating; the image is indelible. And there's even something about the passage as a whole which suggests that Ford wants us consider the possibility that the tennis balls, for some maleficent purpose, might actually be there.
When he came in to the shop to sign stock last autumn, I felt a sense of awe. He has a grand presence and a measured stride. His huge hand embraces yours, his voice has an authoritative rumble, what he says is succinct and definitive.
And for perhaps the only time in my life when meeting someone with an iconic status in my eyes, I wasn't reduced to sweaty gaucheness. We spoke about the great writers of post-war
Trite and grovelling, no doubt you think, but it was utterly sincere. So, David Gilmour, if, by some bizarre happenstance, you're reading this, I can only apologise. It was a thrill to meet you, but excruciating for you, I'm sure. Still, you should have told me you were duetting with David Bowie a week later. I'd have mortgaged the cat for a ticket.
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