Lucky Jim, by Kingsley Amis

Having gone back to Scott Fitzgerald and been disappointed, I thought I would try to read again a book I did not enjoy on first reading, just to see if my tastes really have changed. And it looks like they have.

It took me ages to read it, but that was more about my having lost the habit of reading at the same time as I lost the commute; and if I don't read a book fairly quickly, I tend to lose the thread (memory fails as age increases) so there was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing while I tried to get back into it. But I did find it amusing in a bitterly cynical kind of a way, which is more than I did on first reading.

I think it says more about me than about the book.