It’s true to say that whether you enjoy a book or not, or even whether you finish it, can often be as much about the mood you were in at the time as it is about the literary, or otherwise, merits of the book in question. Rivers of London by Ben Aaronovitch has been sitting on my bookshelves since 2014 when we had a brief sojourn back to Blighty in an expensive experiment to prove that we’d rather be in Canada after all. Anyway, back to the book in question. It had been recommended by practically everyone I know back in the UK, and that was enough for me to seek it out, and at the time I think it was also a way of connecting back with the UK after years away because Rivers of London is by its nature a very British book. With that in mind and given that our attempt to fit back into British life was not altogether a success, in retrospect it’s perhaps no surprise that I didn’t get on with the book. I mean, I really didn’t get on with it. I started it, but while it was a perfectly ok...