I count myself lucky that I inherited my father's sense of humour (although he is certainly not to blame for the inappropriateness of some of the things I find funny). I also inherited most of his books and quite a few of his favourite authors. His tastes would have been formed in the thirties and forties, so many of them are out of fashion nowadays. I keep Wodehouse by the bed (and, for a pinko-liberal Guardian reader, liking Wodehouse is pretty much as bad as liking Wagner) and while I may hate his sins I can't help liking the sinner.
In the days when I was having children, I never went into hospital without either Saki or Thurber, neither of them read or regarded by anyone I know although I would recommend them to everyone. They are of their time, admittedly, but so is Jane Austen and noone ever holds it against her. I have just returned once more to Thurber, in an ancient yellow paperback which was my father's, falling to bits and with that ripe smell that old paperbacks have. And I was laughing aloud on the train on Thursday morning (for which I apologise to my fellow travellers).
What's not to love about an author who manages to work into his story, "an old zither that our guinea pig used to sleep on"?
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