A couple of years ago I made what was, if I recall correctly, an in the moment, flip of a switch decision to stop including ratings in my reviews. (As a lover of information I feel I should act accordingly – the last review to include a rating was Natasha Miller’s Relentless which I posted in 2022.)

I say flip of a switch decision – at the time it was. It was a kind of ‘am I doing this darn thing of going with my new thought that I don’t want to rate any more, or not?’

But in the bigger context of my blog as a whole, I’d been thinking about ratings for a long time. In March 2014, I wrote about my 3/5 rating. Three months later that June, I wrote about ratings more broadly. And I returned again in 2018, where I spoke about my conflicting thoughts. My usage of the same graphic as those posts for this post is very intentional!

So in all, my dropping ratings has been a long time coming. I do remember wondering about it a lot over the four years it was in my mind (if we assume my feeling conflicted begun in 2018).

Do I feel better for it? I have to say I do. Whilst I may be a sucker for categorisation and data and statistics (outside of a maths lesson), my original thoughts that it would make me feel more free did turn out to be correct. One of the benefits is that it has made me be clearer in my writing. This is not to say I wasn’t clear but when you’ve a numbered system to fall back on, you can think on occasion – for example when a review is proving tricky to write – that if all else fails, the numbers will do the explaining.

That worked in my head when I was greener, before I understood just how differently each person views numbers to another, but it doesn’t work any more. I think the first time I pondered on the idea was when I saw that a lot of people used an out-of-ten rating system – I never saw the point in that… but then I started using half numbers within my out-of-five system. I did, however, continue to not quite understand the out-of-ten system; it always seemed like too many numbers and, somehow, more complicated than using half numbers.

And this actually leads me to my next point – perhaps I should have realised a lot earlier than I did how differently people did see rating numbers. Having been blogging for so long, and just having read around the subject of books for so long, I’ve learned a lot about how numbers are viewed in context. To me a 3/5 or, bringing in others’ systems, a 5 or 6/10 means a pretty average book, one that’s not bad, per se, but could have been better. For others, though this is rare, that rating means the book’s not at all good. And then there are the people who would say a 7/10 is a very good book, which is something I can’t quite get my head around. Some of these people will never give 10/10 – by their own confession – because either absolute perfection is impossible or, for a subset of this ‘some’, once they give a 10/10 that means any further ratings would be incredibly hard to assign.

I don’t think I’ve ever properly explained my own ratings. Originally that would’ve been due to a lack of self-awareness, in that surely everyone felt the same way. But later it was in fact due to a bit of embarrassment, and that’s because my rating system came from The Daily Mail and as I was getting older and moving away from the certain isolation you have when still a child and living with parents, I was starting to realise that my values did not align with the newspaper I had, prior, happily read from cover to cover (I had no experience of any other papers).

While The Mail’s rating system isn’t exactly political, and it’s something I can still agree with, certainly discussing the source felt problematic. I now have stronger critical thinking skills and an understanding that choices made in childhood are limited by what you are taught and what is available to you, which is usually less than what is available to you in adulthood.

So the ratings were as follows: 1 – poor. 2 – adequate. 3 – worth reading/watching. 4 – good. 5 – very good (which, for lack of a 6 rating, I viewed as being synonymous with ‘perfect’). I added my own half points to get around the pesky problems when, for example, a book was just that bit more than ‘worth reading’.

And these ratings could still serve me if I wanted them to, indeed I do keep a rating in my personal tracking which allows for an ‘objective’ rating (I still believe in reviewing and rating as objectively as one can) and, if my personal opinion in full subjective terms is different, a second, personal, rating. (I often opt for two. For example, I can’t deny that the Christmas I read Outlander was massively fun and memorable due to that reading and that I now like to read a book of the series a year at about the same time but, objectively, there are issues with it.)

I mentioned above that no longer including ratings in my reviews has been freeing and that it made me a better, clearer, writer. I think it also helps my real thoughts to stand out. Reducing your opinion to a number, no matter that you have text to back it up, means some of the meaning of your words are lost. It means there’s also a big chance a reader of your review could say ‘too long; didn’t read’ and skip to the rating, and while I can’t argue about how people prioritise their time, you do lose nuances when you’ve got numbers. Do numbers mean you’ve an additional review, a sort of second review? Yes. Do they mean your well-laid-out thoughts could be lost in a sea of numbers? Yes. I was also just starting to feel unhappy including ratings, which I needed to listen to.

I don’t think this change will be reversed – this is partly why it took so long for me to start leaving ratings out – I’m one for systems and frameworks on my blog. Likewise I’m not going to go back to older reviews and remove ratings – I stand with those who see deleting older work as deleting the progression you’ve made in your chosen subject and those reviews are testament to who I was when they were written, and a diary of sorts. (My review of Pride And Prejudice leaves much to be desired, no matter how much I loved the book!)

I do think, had I done it much earlier, I might have failed – there’s a daunting shadow that hangs over you when you picture your text having to do more heavy lifting and you feel your writing isn’t yet there. But I think it was the right time and added to my recent restructuring of the format of my reviews I can say I’m very happy.

Doing the time warp.

Our narrator is a ‘bridge’ – a civil servant working in a top secret government ministry whose role it is to live and guide a person who has been extracted from the past and brought into the 21st century. These historical figures are people who are taken from their own time period just before the moment of their death – this gets around any pesky paradoxical issues created by time travel. Our narrator’s ‘expat’ is a man some readers may be familiar with – Graham Gore was a factual Navy Officer who died during the failed Franklin expedition to the Arctic – and in this book, he is revived in fiction twice over, once as a written character (little is known about the real man) and again through the time travel. Graham and our narrator get on quite well and Graham adjusts to the 21st century very well. But our narrator is well aware that she knows little of what’s really going on – she’s in on the secret of the government agency but not the secret’s secret. And as the year goes on and she makes friends with other ‘successful’ expats, she also finds herself feeling more for Graham than she probably should.

The Ministry Of Time is Kaliane Bradley’s phenomenal debut novel and one of the very best books of the year. (Don’t just take my word for it – it’s on many people’s lists.) Blending the sci-fi and fantasy of time travel, with the very real but little-known person of Graham Gore, adding some brilliant moments of comedy, and with some absolutely wonderful writing that manages to be literary and sparse and yet completely accessible, this is a very unique book that provides hours of absolute enjoyment and many moments of poignancy.

As the writing is the first thing this reviewer noted, it’s where we’ll start. When I say it’s literary but accessible I really mean it – Bradley doesn’t use all that much description. The Ministry Of Time is incredibly paired down in words enough that there’s a fair amount of white space within the stack of pages to the point that if it wasn’t for the slight distance you feel due to the way the first person/second person (at one point near the end) is written, you’d tear through this book at a rate of knots. Perhaps that’s the point – in creating a tale in sparse language, Bradley forces you to slow down and savour everything you’re reading, more so really think about what you’re reading. It’s the kind of book that you look forward to picking up every day but are sated enough each reading session to be happy to put it down. It is an incredible reading experience.

Yet none of this means the book lacks description – if I had to choose some words to describe this book I would pick ‘autumnal’ and that is because there are scenes set in autumn that are very immersive. Location, season, and, perhaps naturally, the progression of time, are all things Bradley, via the narrator, spends time on, with the role of ‘bridge’ being about a year long and time perhaps gaining new meaning with its manipulation having been achieved.

The characters are well created and developed – within the sparse framework there is still space to bring fully to life this unlikely band of people. The government agency, the other bridges (I think it’s safe to say that our narrator is fully realised!), the ‘expat’ time travellers. In fact, the sparse prose is very much in Graham Gore’s favour here, with his no-nonsense but caring personality and the way he responds to the many changes our narrator goes through. Their story is wonderfully written. And while the real Graham Gore may not have consented to being the hero of a love story – who knows? – it’s fair to say the representation by Bradley is considered, measured, and respectful. The narrator can be cagey, almost, sometimes, but more often she leaves things to subtext, such as her growing attraction to the man, which she shows in moments, for example, when she says that since living with Graham, her hemlines have lengthened.

The humour arrives with no warning – I think even if, unlike me, you know going in that it is an element of the book (well, you surely do now!), it will still be a surprise how and when it turns up. It’s a type of humour I can’t quite put a name to – not really laugh-out-loud or ‘typical’ British humour – but on occasion hilarious all the same whilst being mainly very… well, I’m going use the word ‘measured’ for a second time in this review. It’s obvious that a lot of work has gone into this book.

A change of tone in the second half brings poignancy, your guesses as to where the book will go perhaps mistaken. This is not to say the book becomes upsetting – it doesn’t – but the humour is dulled a little and a certain urgency and seriousness is slotted beside it.

There are a few keys threads in the novel that need mentioning. First is the look at race and multiculturalism and diversity and passing as white. The narrator, much like Bradley, is half-Cambodian, and she comments on the way people treat her and her family. In a great use of comparison, she speaks of Graham’s saying he can’t go ‘back’ – to the freezing Arctic that without the time travel intervention would’ve killed him – and how she’s always been asked by others if she’s been back to Cambodia, that place her mother had no choice but to leave. And there is a moment towards the end of Graham’s own chapters where different peoples are conflated.

(Graham’s chapters, about his last days in the Arctic, are quite a change from the rest of the narrative, and it takes a while to work out what they are for, exactly, but it’s nice to read Bradley’s nod to the real history. The hardback end papers are of his artwork. His daguerrotype picture, the only one we have, is included at the end.)

Maybe I was tired of stories, telling them and hearing them. I thought the dream was to be post-: post-modern, post-captain, post-racial. Everyone wanted me to talk about Cambodia and I had nothing to teach them about Cambodia. If you learn something about Cambodia from this account, that’s on you. […]

When I first joined the Ministry and they’d pressed me through HR, a woman ran her finger down the column with my family history. ‘What was it like growing up with that?’ she asked. She meant it all: Pol Pot Noodle jokes on first dates, my aunt’s crying jags, a stupa with no ashes, Gary Glitter, Agent Orange, we loved Angkor Wat, regime change, not knowing where the bodies were, Princess Diana, landmines, the passport in my mother’s drawer, my mother’s nightmares, fucking chink, you don’t look it, dragon ladies, fucking paki, Tuol Sleng was a school, Saloth Sar was a teacher, my grandfather’s medals, the firing squad, my uncle’s trembling hands, it’s on my bucket list, Brother Number One, I’ve got a thing for Latinas, the killing fields, The Killing Fields (1984), Angelina Jolie, do you mean Cameroonian? Do you mean Vietnamese? Will you say your name again for me?

I considered.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘What was it like growing up without it?’

— Kaliane Bradley, The Ministry Of Time, page 182.

Next, history and progress – two subjects stuck together here as a theme.

I didn’t understand that my value system – my great inheritance – was a system, rather than a far point on a neutral, empirical line that represented progress. Things were easier for me than for my mother […] Was this not progress?

— Kaliane Bradley, The Ministry Of Time, page 117.

That history and progress are here and are together is not surprising – many paragraphs deal with a historical figure learning how to do such things as use a kettle or a washing machine, and the narrator is forced to think this way when living with him and also when considering the ministry. This feeds into the threads on climate change – 30 degrees centigrade is a cool day all things considered.

Lastly, there is some interesting intertextuality here with the 1939 novel by Geoffrey Household, Rogue Male. Graham rather likes it. A thriller set in London and dealing with London and dictators and secret police and gunshots, while I haven’t read it myself to comment on it fully, there seems enough commonality between Rogue Male and The Ministry Of Time that readers of the older work will enjoy the mentions in the newer. (I think there may be plot elements that are more similar than the Wikipedia article on Household’s novel makes out.)

The Ministry Of Time is a feat. It’s utterly unique in its writing and very different to other time travel stories, including time travel romances. This review hasn’t done it justice, and trust me, I’ve tried – if you haven’t read it yet then look out because your ‘best of 2024’ list is about to have a new entry at the 11th hour.

Publisher: Sceptre (Hachette)
Pages: 343
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-399-72634-4
First Published: 7th May 2024
Date Reviewed: 2nd October 2024

I started reading Fourth Wing several days ago and… it’s been a surprise. I had cottoned on that the whole Empyrean series was about dragons but was expecting a ‘regular’ romantasy and… it’s dark. It’s very dark. Darker, in many ways, than The Hunger Games, with its violence or threats of such on every other page compared to Collins’ novels which have some time away from it.

The first chapter of Rebecca Yarros’ book left me considering opting for another book. I think it’s excellent, if a bit too much in some respects (excessive swearing and mentions of casual sex numerous and lusty enough to put an erotic romance to shame) but nevertheless… these constant ellipses are a written metaphor for the constant shock on my face.

It is absolutely… horrible. I don’t think it’s meant to shock, exactly – though it certainly does – it’s more that’s it’s just absolutely unapologetically dog eat dog. I wonder if it had to be so specifically horrible, so specifically cruel to not only teenagers (‘only’!) but to teenagers from very poor and unprivileged backgrounds, some who clearly have no other choice but to sign up to train as riders of notably cruel dragons, which involves them first having to walk across a tiny parapet way up in the sky above a valley in the wind and rain.

I should probably be more descriptive.

The beginning of the book in question sees a young woman called Violet having to enlist as a cadet for the ‘Rider Quadrant’ of her educational facility, Basgiath (it’s like the worse Hogwarts ever in terms of danger). She has spent her life applying herself to studies that will enable her to be a Scribe at the Worst Hogwarts Ever, but her mother decides 6 months before the Scribe training would begin that, as she herself is a commander of the Riders who fight the Bad Guys with whom the country has been at war for time immeasurable, her daughter must also be a Rider. Her oldest daughter is a Rider, and it seems (we don’t yet know enough) that her late son was one, too. In making this decision, the mother dismisses her late husband’s library-littered education of his youngest daughter.

If this doesn’t make the mother sound bad enough – throwing her daughter into a vastly different training with 6 months to prepare when everyone else has had years to prepare – the training involves a sign up day that involves walking across a parapet in the wind and rain where the prospective trainee may well fall off to their death. If they make it to the other side they still aren’t safe because aside from the small individual squads they are placed in, any trainee can kill them at any time – it’s in the metaphorical rule book. Again, these trainees have been studying for years, so parent of the year here is callously setting her daughter up to be killed because she can’t handle her daughter not being a Rider like she is. Or at least that’s the reason given at this point.

This post is not actually about Mother Dearest, although I’d certainly say she’s complicit in what happens next.

No, this post is about the parapet. Having left her mother’s office having failed to convince her mother to let her become a Scribe (her Rider sister tried to stop it happening, too, and failed), Violet goes to join the line of candidates moving up the stairs to the start of the parapet they have to cross. Violet’s sister, Mira (so many characters are called Mira recently!) has given her some leather gear that can hide the small daggers that Violet is thankfully skilled at using, as well as a pair of boots with rubber soles to stop her slipping on the parapet. These shoes become an element in themselves – Violet notices how many candidates have the same slippery-soled boots as she would have continued wearing if her sister hadn’t stepped in. And when Violet finds herself talking to the girl in front of her, she makes the girl switch one of her boots with hers so that now both of them stand a chance, even if Violet has numerically reduced her chances by fifty percent. (‘Violet is a good person’, says Yarros, via subtext.)

The person ahead of the girl – who is called Rhiannon – is a boy, Dylan, whose parents Violet spotted crying their eyes out and having to tear themselves away from his side. Dylan’s from an obviously lower socioeconomic background and his rucksack is overweight (Mira repacked Violet’s for her and chucked a lot of stuff away). Joy of joys, the rucksacks must be carried across the parapet too.

So we now have two potential friends for Violet, or allies, as Mira warns – never make friends – in Rhiannon and Dylan. Well, not Dylan, as it turns out. He takes to the parapet, starts walking across, and in the wind and rain and with his cheaper slippery boots… he slips. But then he grabs hold of the parapet with his hands, dangling off the edge – he’s saved! Rhiannon tells him to pull himself up. He can’t. He falls. He’s dead.

It’s much worse in the book itself.

It’s fair to say that Yarros set Dylan up to look like a main character to make the impact of his short appearance in our reading lives more impactful. You get to know a remarkable amount about Dylan and his family and you feel for him as he steps onto the parapet. And you look forward to the later chapters where Violet and Rhiannon and Dylan will hopefully all be flying in the wars and… yeah, that’s not going to happen.

It is horrible. Yet it can’t be said that it isn’t well done. Yarros did, after all, make you feel for Dylan as much as you would a favourite main character – his character development within a small number of pages is very good. And the setting and high stakes increase it. Within these small number of pages, she sets the tone for the entire Empyrean series.

And ultimately, for all that I’ve ranted here, the reason I felt the need to write about the chapter is because while it is awfully horrible, it is also very successful. You instantly feel a lot for Violet and Rhiannon, even if Violet is somewhat the stereotypical average underdog main character. You also know, now, if you didn’t already (and why would you? it’s called a romantasy for goodness’ sake) that you’re in for a difficult if breathtaking read. You find out straight away that Yarros favours immersive, film-like, scenes, with detailing that makes it all too easy to picture.

Dylan was unprepared, like Violet and, shoe-wise, at least, like Rhiannon. Rhiannon makes it across as does, inevitably, our shrinking Violet.

And Yarros has you completely snared because you want to look away but can’t. And the new trainees will be dealing with death around every corner, and dragons that are not like those in other stories – these dragons bond to humans because they must, and they are not fond of humans. (In a later chapter, a petrified new student makes a bolt for it and gets turned into ashes.)

Fourth Wing is not going to be what I thought it was – I thoughts Wings referred to a building, and I thought it was going to be lower fantasy. But Yarros has indeed snared me. I will read this fantasy cough horror with a completely new readiness…

Have you read this book?

Sorting through another’s life.

Through a second person narrative we learn about Dr Tarek. In the 1960s when Tarek was a child, everyone said he’d grow up to be a doctor like his father, so in deference to that, he did. Working in Egypt in the area of Cairo full of those originally from other countries, Tarek gets married (finally – his sister gave him awful advice the first time he met Mira), and, later, starts a clinic in a district marked by poverty. He meets Ali, who begs Tarek to see his, Ali’s, mother because he believes she’s ill. After becoming a regular at the family’s dinner table, Tarek promises Ali’s mother that he’ll look after her son, but when Tarek falls in love with Ali that looking after becomes something far from the socially acceptable doctor and assistant friendship. Tarek leaves Egypt for Canada. Our narrator knows a lot but they’re trying to piece more together. Who is this narrator and what do they want with Tarek and his story?

What I Know About You is Chacour’s debut novel about the absence of family members and the effect it has. Translated into English from the French by Pablo Strauss, and having won French literary prizes in the early double figures, the novel offers a look at life for LGBT people in 20th century Egypt, an introduction to westerners of a particular way of life in a poverty-stricken district of Cairo, and a second person narrator two has a mysterious quest and potential axe to grind.

Addressing the writing first, that most controversial of perspectives, it is one of Chacour’s main focuses. The author has spoken in interviews about placement of sentences where it concerns keeping the reader on the page and, in parallel, getting them to turn over the page in haste¹. Then you have the use of the nursery rhyme Mary Mary Quite Contrary, where the narrator uses different descriptors for Tarek’s wife, Mira².

The book also makes use of first and third person in addition to the second, and there are patches of letters (they are short). These persons allow Chacour to fully explore the character at the heart of the book, Tarek, to do what many second person authors do not and include the subject in a more objective manner, which gives Tarek more of a voice. (Although the first person is not lent to Tarek, he does get a third person narrative far away from the second person narrator. Interestingly, the first person is reserved for the narrator of the second person – yes, there’s a reason Chacour is winning all those prizes, the structure is fascinating.)

The characters, as a feature, are necessarily difficult to write about due to the second person narrative. The narrator being the only person we know, truly, is probably most ripe for comment – they are, as expected, continually mysterious until that time they choose to reveal themselves and when they do reveal themselves it is very much to Tarek and not to us. The narrator doesn’t care about us; the narrator does not consider us at all because their words are for Tarek only, at no point are we addressed in any way. We, the readers – the end readers, if you will – are technically eavesdropping, which is a fascinating aspect all by itself.

What can be said apart from the mystery, is that the narrator is as good a writer as their puppeteer, Chacour (there is an element of theatre in the book by the way of its inspiration, Romeo And Juliet). The narrator is measured, considered, and feels a need to construct a story out of the few points they know to be true.

As to what we know about the other characters, we do get ‘closer’ perspectives of some of them where the present day, or near-present day is concerned, otherwise there is, again, some potential make-believe. So, to speak of the make-believe, they are well-drawn – where our narrator can’t tell all, Chacour’s readers will be able to read between the lines somewhat. The standout, I think, is the housekeeper, Fatheya, who is treated poorly by her main employer (Tarek’s mother), but is a wonderful aid to others.

In terms of story and location, the book moves between Egypt in the 20th century with Tarek, Egypt in the 21st century, and some wonderful third person snapshots in Montreal. To speak further of the sections in Montreal would spoil the book, but the sections in 20th century Egypt can be discussed further.

Chacour has a few focuses here, as noted before – the LGBT experience and poverty in the Mokattem district, as well as glimpses into the Levantine community of Cairo and a backdrop of political change. The latter is quick to sum up: the president changes, and there is the Six Day War, which Chacour weaves around his fiction so that certain events in his book coincide with the reality. These features are commented on on occasion by the narrator. The Levantine community of people who immigrated (or whose parents immigrated) to Egypt from surrounding countries adds flavour to the set of characters, providing a different perspective and contrast with which to comment on general goings on.

The first two focuses mentioned – now mentioned three times (I’ll stop here!) require their own paragraphs. The look at the LGBT experience is present in some way, shape, or form throughout, as the main character becomes a member of the community, if only at the periphery (to our knowledge, at least), and then Chacour inserts descriptions of the ways same-sex relationships were viewed at the time in various parts of the novel, including long before the actual defining relationship takes place. There is a nod to how same-sex relationships could be conducted, too – it is necessarily brief, owing to the decisions made and plot points involved, but it’s very well done. A defining section of the novel brings evidence to all the commentary that has come before, and shows the reason such commentary has been so consistently included.

The look at Mokattem is important in terms of character and also in terms of the information it imparts. Mokattem is a district in the greater Cairo area populated by very poor families living in makeshift houses, however they have a particular way of life that was quite successful in the 20th century and is being lost to technological progress in the 21st. People there collect rubbish from all around and successfully recycle the vast majority of it, beating the recycling percentages of a great many countries (approximately 80% of rubbish is recycled). What cannot be recycled does unfortunately remain in heaps and hills within the district. Chacour balances well the good and the bad, showing the work ethic and positive environmental impact, while also the effects of the waste on the land and in the community as a whole.

What I Know About You is super – a work of fiction written with tremendous attention to literary detail, to historical description and comprehension for the reader, and with an ever-present page-turning factor as the narrator stays in the metaphorical shadows for as long as they can bear to. Not one to be forgotten any time soon, the book offers a multi-aspect experience that is enjoyable both in general and on a literary level. And if it goes on to continue winning prizes, this reviewer will not be surprised.

I was sent this book in order to interview the author.

Publisher: Gallic Books (Belgravia)
Pages: 242
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-913-54785-1
First Published: 24th August 2023; 19th September 2024 in English
Date Reviewed: 30th September 2024

Original language: French
Original title: Ce que je sais de toi (What I Know About You)
Translated by: Pablo Strauss

Footnotes

¹ Chacour has spoken about it on a few occassions, including this time, a video interview with Radio Canada.
² It should be noted that this device is in fact the translator’s – in my interview with Chacour, episode 114, which will be published early next year, Chacour speaks of the ways the French text in this regard is different.

Episode 107: Jessica Bull (Miss Austen Investigates)

Charlie and Jessica Bull (Miss Austen Investigates) discuss Jane Austen! The mysteries in her books, what and how she read, her likely views on slavery, her forgotten brother, the proposals of marriage she received (there were many!), and her life in her birthplace of Steventon.

If you’re unable to use the media player above, this page has various other options for listening as well as the transcript.

This is a very quick post to say that from January, my podcast will be called Author’s Afterword. It’ll be the same content as always, just with a far better name.

I’ve never felt all that happy with the name ‘The Worm Hole Podcast’ – it completely fits as an entity of this blog but whereas this blog has been successful enough being called The Worm Hole, and blogs can get away with being more vaguely named, podcasts cannot.

When I say I never felt happy, it was that I knew that, away from the blog, the name made no sense, and indeed most other podcasts with ‘wormhole’ in the title, albeit without the space, are about astronomy, pun not intended. There are also just so many of them, mine rarely shows up in search.

It took a lot of thinking to arrive at the new name; many months and many names left out of the running upon finding out they were already in use or that there were podcasts with very similar names. I’m happy it took a while though – Author’s Afterword is, hands down, my favourite of the lot.

I’m excited about the change. I feel happy saying the name.

The first episode with the new title will be episode 113 with Edward Carey on Monday 13th January.