At Home - Bill Bryson

I don't usually write book reviews, because I don't read books I don't love. So if I begin a book and I am not passionate within the first chapter or two, I simply stop reading, and thus reviews of books tend to be a bit pointless. However, there is an exception to this rule, as with all rules, and the one author to make it through the tiny loophole that presented itself, is Bill Bryson.

I love Bill. I don't just love him as an author, I tend to love him as a kindred spirit, as my kind of person, as someone with whom I could have a great and wholesome relationship because, based on my extensive and comprehensive reading of his work, I have come to the conclusion that we are in fact the same person (The only point of discernible difference between us I should like to point out, is that he doesn't like dogs. But that’s it). So I will read anything he writes, anything at all. I would read his grocery list if that were available for perusal.

Which brings me to the point. I recently acquired (and at only two thirds of the MRP, Heeheehee) his newest book, and have been in a tizzy of excitement ever since. Entitled 'At Home' it is a history of the humble abode, and all the other humble things that make up the bulk of everyday life and have done so for ever but never got the credit and recognition they deserved. Until now. Truly typical Bryson, the book is stuffed with bizarre and baffling trivia that awes and entertains all written in his wonderfully lighthearted, yet acidly irreverent style.

So why am I writing a review? Last night, circa 3:00 AM, I finished the chapter on Drawing Rooms and was struck with a rather unusual emotion. Well not unusual in itself, but certainly unusual in the context of reading a Bryson. I was... unsatisfied, and mildly irritated. So remarkable was this, that I spent many minutes trying to make sure that the source of my discomfort wasn't external. I checked the air conditioner and the mosquito repellent. I poked the dog awake to make sure she wasn't trying to make me let her out (mild irritation appears to be a ferociously infectious condition) and drank some water just to be sure I wasn't thirsty. It was no good though, I was mildly irritated by Bryson and I couldn't pretend I wasn't.

It isn't that book is bad, it is, as I said, typical Bryson, which is a good thing, but also allows me to confidently review the book before I have finished it. Though stuffed with interesting trivia narrated in his wonderfully lighthearted yet acidly irreverant style, his jokes have become, well, a little predictable. And I have never noticed before how deeply disorganised he is. Or perhaps it is only this book, but the chapter on the scullery, for example, takes you on a somewhat complicated journey through the life of the average servant in 18th century England. This is confusing enough to be honest, but he takes this a step further by including a story about a gentleman who wrote a history of the French Revolution and another who had an extremely complicated wig. And though I remember all this, and think it was rather funny, I have to admit I simply can't recall what purpose the Scullery actually served.

See what I mean? It’s wonderfully entertaining, but it doesn't make any sense. It’s like reading '1001 Jokes by Bill Bryson'.

Regardless, and in the words of Bryson himself, I will devour it (Yes I realise it’s an odd line to quote, but that's how Bryson quotes come to me. Odd one liners that I really shouldn't bother crediting to him). I will probably love it also, but for today, I am mourning a little. I'm sure it will pass.