I have given up on J M Coetzee’s Summertime. Halfway through it I wondered why I was bothering to read it when I could be reading something else. Perhaps it’s just me. I’m having trouble concentrating because I have a nasty nerve pain under a crowned tooth, one of those big ones at the side and I’m trying to get an emergency appointment. So it might not be Coetzee’s fault but that of my miscreant molar. I am about to read John le Carré’s latest. I shall tackle it with an open mind, having been mildly disappointed with his last two novels. I suppose there just aren’t enough spies to write about these days. If Coetzee and le Carré can’t do it for me then I’d better get back to the Beano.