So there was this rack of books and I stuck me hand in and dragged one out at random and it was James Herriot and his much awaited sequel "The Lord God Loves then all". Hmmm. Not the most rewarding of reads I have to say. The bloke is no author, he is not a story teller either. As an example I shall offer chapter 12, typical of it's type, wherein he relates how he gave is first ever injection of Penicillin as a last ditch desperation attempt to save a cow and how he made the syringe from the forerunner of fairy liquid bottles and sticky backed plastic. Yes but did the fucking thing live or did the fucking thing die? The whole book is like that, each chapter a tale and each told without an ending. It had a certain interest for me as he was telling about his life from 1947 through to 1963 which happens to coincide with the beginning of mine and there are things in there that kick off the old nostalgia endorfins. On the whole it was crap.
