I have found, over the last few years, that my ability to read has declined. Not, I should explain, my ability to understand text, but my capacity to follow a narrative thread, exacerbated by non-sleeping infants, post-Covid brain fog. In addition to unconventional working hours, all of this ability has degraded to the extent that I would put a novel down, not manage to pick it up again for a week, and then have no knowledge of what I’d previously read.
In the search of something my fried brain could still enjoy, I picked up a slim paperback from a pile of Oxfam finds: a novel by the Belgian writer Georges Simenon, featuring Parisian detective Jules Maigret. Opening it, a leaflet fluttered to the ground, featuring a checklist of all…
