![]() ![]() Deeper interest lies in the troubling memory of a prior pregnancy, aborted after advice about a possible genetic disorder. His recollections fizz with tell-all voltage: even Karl Ove Knausgaard might have blushed to write of his wife’s fingers “discreetly rolling linty pills of toilet paper out of his ass hair”, in a passage on how marriage makes sex “mundanely intimate”. One minute, there’s drool cooling on his chest as he’s rocking his newborn to sleep the next, his floors are booby-trapped with Lego and he’s boiling with rage at the more agile kids who leave his son for dust on an Easter egg hunt. ![]() Moving briskly from one milestone to the next, from C-section birth to first overnight school trip, the crystalline narrative makes the point that children grow up fast, even if it rarely seems that way to a protagonist mired in marital tit-for-tat over night-time feeds and dawn starts. ![]()
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