'There comes a time when nothing happens any more.'
This is a tiny little book. A novella. It has a nice cover. It has been translated by the good people at Gallic Books from the French. They are ever so good at doing that.
It is about a man who discovers that there is less orange juice in the fridge when he returns home from work than there was when he left the house in the morning. (How does he know? He checks it with a straw, obvs, and he lives alone so he knows the contents of his own fucking fridge, innit).
Cos this lad's completely normal, he sets up a selection of recording equipment so that he can see exactly what is going on when he's out of the house.
The tale is based on a story that appeared in Japanese newspapers in 2008. It's a good story. It's written with some good words and some good stuff happens. It's good. What is bad, is that with books of this length it's fucking difficult to tell you anything for fear that I'll accidentally be a big spoil-y cunt, and I just sit here tapping out 'it's good, I'm fucking telling you, it's good'. And then I hat myself a bit.
A lot of it is written down as the thoughts that are going through your man's mind. A stream. Not just about the missing juice and how the fuck he is going to find out what is going on and whether he is mad, but all of his wonderings and desires and regrets. It is a lovely piece of writing.
Recommended if you'd like to read a little book with a bloody great big bit of reflection.