Some laughs but ultimately turned into a journal.
The first series of chapters were really fun and throughout the book there's genuine chuckles from the writing, but the actual content is what left me feeling the book could have either been 150 or so pages, or at least dig a little deeper under the skin of anxiety.
This is supposed to be a memoir of the author's life over a year following some unknown years of possibly being house bound with anxiety and/or alcoholism. As you can see, it's not clear. He also alludes to a marriage break up, and at first I expected he was going to explain the backstory to how he arrived to this year where he's trying to find his (I guess) purpose in life, but unfortunately not. It's more like it's a reference his friends (many of which are casually mentioned in the book) might understand, but not us the average reader.
One thing that is clear is that he suffers from a very high level of anxiety. He's on prescription medication to help but it's always rattling around in the background. Something I can understand (similarly with depression).
The problem is that all throughout the book (and year?) he's trying to find his purpose or calling in life, as if it's one thing that everyone has and that's all. At first I can understand that desire, but as he repeats his attempts at adventures to fill his supposed hole it gets repetitive and like he's actively avoiding the lessons that's certainly clear to me as a reader: it's all a bit messy and that's okay.
There is a single chapter that does give an insight into the anxiety - which I appreciated as a reader, but it's over in a matter of pages (literally) and there's nothing further to explain what it's like all the time.
The further the book goes the more it swaps from memoir to journal. We're often treated to a blow by blow account of how he arrives at a field, with shops he passed and roads he walked.
I think I would have enjoyed some introspection rather than the 4 page conclusion at the end of the book. By the 80% mark, I found I was just trying to skim through the pages because I didn't care about what he'd brought home from the shops for his dad and the end of the book was welcomed though I felt it could have come a lot sooner and likely left me with a better impression.
5 Highlight(s)
Christ, I'm knackered, drained from running on fake bravado all morning, from trying to walk with a sense of purpose; exhausted from attempting to not look constantly lost and through forcing myself to speak clearly and at a volume higher than my usual mumble.
The soup, rich with shell juice, is the type of curry powder/ turmeric colour that really stains white linen when splashed about by a shaky man's spoon. Soon the tablecloth looks like someone's shot the yellow Teletubby in the back of the head over it.
He stared at the fake sausage on the floor and then looked sadly at me, as if to say, 'I'm not angry with you, I'm just disappointed'. I'm talking about a dog who would go out of his way to try and eat wood and poo no matter how much I tried to convince him it wasn't part of a balanced diet.
the clock is only entirely accurate once every five minutes,
The idea that we (look at me, I'm on my soapbox now, I'm on a roll, I think I've had too much Haribo) have a deadline to 'get happy' seems counterproductive.