Certain novels seem to take hold in the popular imagination and sell in huge numbers, their success propelled as much by word of mouth as by reviews.  Think of Gone, Girl or The Girl on The Train.  It’s difficult to explain the appeal of such books.  Intricate, suspenseful plots?  Yes, but thousands of other novels have such plots and never get close to that kind of success.  Clever marketing?  Maybe.

The Wife Between Us is the latest bestseller in this category, the most recent succès du jour.  Having finished it recently, I’m as mystified by its success as I am by the plaudits printed on its cover.  Fiendishly smart.  No.  Deliciously clever. No.  Masterful.  No. In fact it’s overlong, over written, trite throughout, and filled with mostly loathsome characters. I’ve no doubt the film rights have been sold and the authors are fending off publishers offering multi-book deals.  Good luck to them.  There are far too many impecunious writers to resent those who succeed.  That changes nothing. The Wife Between Us is schlock.

I spent time in sixteen countries in 2018: Japan (twice), Korea, Singapore, Hong Kong, New Zealand, India, United Arab Emirates, Jordan, Iceland, Netherlands (twice), Greece, Germany (twice), Belgium, Norway, Sweden, and the U.K (six times). Many miles, many airports, many forgettable hotels for sure, and more than a few days woozy with jet lag.  But if that’s the price of some unforgettable experiences, it’s a tiny one and I’m happy to keep paying.  A few days of solitary wandering in the Far North of New Zealand, the empty spaces of Kis and Snaefellsjokull in Iceland, an afternoon exploring Lamma Island, dinner overlooking the floodlit Parthenon, canal-side strolls in Amsterdam with my oldest son, quad biking in Sharjah, Petra, distillery hopping in Scotland, and a lot more besides; not a bad haul in a single year.

Seeing the world, even after all these years and all the minor inconveniences that get gathered along the way, continues to be the most extraordinary privilege.  It still surprises me when I hear equally fortunate colleagues and friends complain about their experiences.  Days will come when I’ll see less of the world and the world will see less of me.  Those will be sad days made tolerable by a store of lovely memories.

Having said all that, I don’t want to paint a picture of uninterrupted bliss.  Just in case the powers-that-be are reading this (I know they’re not), I’d like to whine just a little and make a few recommendations on behalf of the regular traveler.  If airport terminals must be shopping malls (why?), can you please squeeze in a decent bookshop now and then among the luxury clothing stores?  Can we have in every airport somewhere that sells good quality, affordable food that we can take on board, thereby avoiding inedible plane meals? Can those who supervise security screening at JFK please travel to other airports overseas and discover what the rest of us have known for years, that it can be done without long queues and without rudeness?  Can hotels that provide safes in the rooms (thank you!) please make them large enough to accommodate a laptop and replace all the Nespresso machines with complimentary bottled water?

And for my fellow airline travelers, if I ask very nicely will you please always wear socks, never clip your toenails, control your flatulence, be nice to the cabin crew, and never, ever talk to me?  It would be much appreciated.  Looking forward to 2019.

Why would one bother reading a collection of old book reviews, books one had never read or never intend to read? In the case of Human Relations And Other Difficulties, because Mary-Kay Wilmers, the editor of the London Review of Books, writes so wisely and so wittily about people and their relationships.  At first sight the reviews seem to cover a wide range of topics – the life of Alice James, menopause, Patty Hearst, Pears’ Cyclopedia, and much more – but Wilmers has something she turns to time and time again: the relationship between the sexes. Looking at the lives of Jean Rhys, Ann Fleming, Barbara Skelton, and Vita Sackville-West is the springboard for serious reflection on how men have constrained and limited women’s lives.  When I imagined Wilmers writing these pieces, the image of a skilled surgeon came into my mind: someone cool, meticulous, and appropriately removed, completely at ease with her tools and very clear about what she intended to do with them.  A witty surgeon admittedly, and one you might like to have dinner with, but someone engaged in a serious business.

England’s ancient cathedrals have always been special places for me.  Salisbury, Ely, Winchester, Wells, Lincoln – each so distinctive but all suffused with the same ineffable spirit.  Places of worship and prayer for those who worship and pray.  Objects of wonder for the more secular-minded who love these soaring spaces and the art and music that fills them.

Stepping through the west door and into the nave of the cathedral at Canterbury is an overwhelming experience.  So much sheer beauty and so much more besides held within the giant and ancient stone space – ingenuity, aspiration, devotion, longing, humility, hubris, creativity.  Centuries of human feeling of every kind held in place by the arches, pillars, and walls of this glorious building and absorbed into its stone, wood, and plaster. And centuries of action, from coronations to murders.

Seeing Canterbury Cathedral for the first time through the eyes of one of my sons was unforgettable.  Its recumbent statues marking the resting places of long-dead kings, queens, princes, and archbishops; stone steps polished by the feet of centuries of pilgrims; brilliant stained glass; the 12th century wall paintings of St. Gabriel’s chapel, the music from the giant organ.  Don’t let anyone tell you that the young can’t be awestruck or that these beautiful buildings have lost their power.

Few sporting rivalries are as intense as the one between Manchester’s two football teams: United and City.  United fans like me, accustomed to decades of comfortable superiority and to sneering at their near neighbors, are now suffering as City dominates English football.  The teams, separated by a few miles and and lifelong allegiances, meet twice every season for the Manchester derby.  Don’t for one moment mistake this for a football match.  This is a confrontation between two warring tribes.  When a friend offered us four tickets to the recent derby, we all hopped on a plane behind enemy lines to City’s Etihad stadium.

The game took place on Armistice Day and the 100th anniversary of the end of the Great War.  A famous coach once said that football isn’t a matter of life and death; it’s far more important than that.  None of the 55,000 supporters in the stadium who fell silent to commemorate the war dead believe that, but you would never have guessed it once the first ball was kicked.

There’s no hiding it.  The game didn’t end well for my team and it was a painful reminder that United’s glory days aren’t coming back anytime soon.  But what a joy it was to watch it through the eyes of my sons.  Their first derby, their first visit to the Etihad’s cauldron of noise and passion, and a useful reminder that in the longest relationships it’s important to know how to handle an occasional disappointment.