I can't think how to begin reviewing Julian Barnes' slender and perfect novel without letting slip something that might inadvertently spoil it for others. So all I'm going to say is that the spare elegance of his writing takes my breath away. It is about memory and time and the tricks they play on us and the gaucheness of youth and the ineptness of middleage. Only 150pp long but it needs to be read slowly in a quiet room.

I was miffed when Sebastian Barry wasn't even shortlisted for the Booker. Now I think that maybe the best man won. But if I'd been a judge, it would have been very hard to choose between them.