As I mentioned in my previous post about Jane Austen, I lived in the UK in my twenties, working as a hospital pharmacist. I earned reasonable money but spent it all on travels on the Continent, so when returned to Australia I had few possessions to show for a year and a half of living; except for books, that is.

Less sentimental people may have tossed out their collection of dog-eared paperbacks. Instead I arranged for them to be shipped back to Australia. Many of those books, yellowed now, are still crammed together in my bookcases. Some of them I have read again; others, such as the Gormenghast trilogy, I probably never will. Yet they remain my old friends and I can’t bear to part with them.

My recent visit to Europe was brief.  I was planning to work on my new novel whilst away, but in the end couldn’t be bother lugging my computer along, so instead I performed the second most essential duty of a writer: I read. And along the way I discovered some brand new friends.

At Sydney International Airport I picked up two new books.  Jasper Jones, a part coming-of-age/part detective novel by precociously talented Australian author Craig Silvey, was the first. This award-winning novel had come highly recommended and didn’t disappoint.  When Jasper asks the 13-year old narrator, Charlie Bucktin, to follow him into the bush that first night I willingly went along too.

I started reading while the plane was still on the tarmac, through half of the flight to Hong Kong, through two hours of my stopover in Hong Kong and finally through seven whole hours of my Hong Kong-Rome flight!  On that second leg, my complimentary headphones remained virginal in their plastic packaging. I slept, ate and read Jasper Jones.

It‘s ever so slightly imperfect, at least in my eyes.  I found some events towards the end unconvincing, but by this time the novel had cast such a spell over me that I no longer cared. It’s moral and thoughtful, beautifully written, and in many parts laugh-out-loud funny. And if there is a more lovable character than Charlie’s friend, Jeffrey Lu, inhabiting an Australian novel I’ve yet to come across him.

Anyway, Silvey is only in twenties. Who wants to peak too early? He has the talent to write even better books and I’m sure he will.

When I arrived at the villa in Tuscany I discovered that the English owners, and presumably some of their guests, were readers. No Jeffrey Archers and Danielle Steels here—the bookshelves held McEwans and Byatts. I appointed myself an unofficial cultural ambassador for Australia and added my copy of Jasper Jones to the collection, so that others might read it and discover its magic. (Of course, I immediately regretted leaving it behind and when back in Australia bought a second copy of Jasper, which my eldest son is currently reading!)

The second book I bought, In Office Hours by Lucy Kellaway, was an intelligent airport novel (my own genre), perfect for reading by a pool (which is exactly what I did).

The first thing I did was check out the author’s bio. I was encouraged to find that Kellaway’s previous novel was published in 2005—a hiatus of five years.  I’ve become concerned, for commercial reasons, about slow progress on my second novel—unfortunately my non-fiction writing and life keep getting in the way. However, Kellaway’s experience gives me hope that I will get there, if a little later than I hoped.

Kellaway is a Financial Times journalist and an astute observer of office politics and intrigues. Her sharply satirical eye made me laugh on more than one occasion. It’s about two women embroiled in extra-marital office affairs, with the inevitable consequences. I particularly liked the fact that one of these women is a senior executive in an energy company, rather than working on PR or fashion like so many inhabitants of planet chick-lit.

Curiously for a book about affairs, I found it quite unsexy. Whilst my pervy side was disappointed by this—a bit of raunch is always fun—this may well have been the author’s intention: once you deglamourise adultery its foolishness becomes only too apparent.

I left In Office Hours at my English girlfriend’s place for her to enjoy, as I was struggling to fit all my Italian purchases in my luggage by this stage, but that doesn’t reflect my regard for the novel.

If you’re into women’s fiction but not satisfied by lightweight fluff I think you’ll have fun with In Office Hours.

To be continued next week.