Last month Mrs M’s Uncle A passed away. He was eighty-something, a man of his generation – ie very set in his ways about the role of women in his and everyone’s life, and very definite about his taste in music (strictly classical) and books.

The latter consisted of mainly what I think of as old-fashioned thrillers – where men were men and women knew their place. Which is not to denigrate that sort of writing – as a sixty-something person I grew up with Ian Fleming in print and on screen and still read/watch the best of it. Uncle A also enjoyed more contemporary writers who admittedly write in that passé manner – Lee Child, Daniel Silva and so on. We would occasionally swap books and on the occasions when we saw each other – usually family birthdays and occasions – it was a good conversation to have with him. He was a bit of a grumpy old bugger but I quite liked him and we got on well.

Anyway, a few weeks ago Mrs M’s aunt delivered a bagful of aforementioned old-fashioned thrillers to our house. About a dozen books by two of Uncle A’s favourite authors » Continue Reading.