I started reading the second in this series of memoirs at a friend’s house. It was so effortlessly entertaining, I thought I ought to read the first one before going any further.
Such is/was our exposure to Clive James as a talking head on TV, it’s hard not to imagine him half squinting, half smiling, narrating as you read. The book covers his life until he reaches London and has too much childhood memories for me (kinda inevitable I suppose), but it has enough poignant insights and humour to make for an enjoyable diversion. I read most of it on a pair I long flights and that seemed quite appropriate.