So a mutual friend says to me the novel is good; the Booker Prize committee say it's good. Okay, I pick it up, I start reading. It's quite charming- and apparently either Michael knows Alan better than he let on, or Michael and his circle of associates were the people that Alan wanted to lean on for writing a novel about the British aristos in my own age bracket. It's very very weird reading a novel by someone you've never met which has a character in it who is quite obviously a thinly-veiled portrait of someone you not-only-have-met-but-have-slept-with-re
And even weirder to read a novel by someone you don't know about people you do know when that novel kicks off with the main character flipping through a mid-80s book on the new Torys to look for the places where his landlord (a Tory MP) turns up.
I suffer from brain-hurty.