Another book I’ve longed to see the back of. Notes From A Stupid, Invisible, Yawn Fest Of An Exhibition. Stephen Fry was wrong! I don’t know where he got ‘pure perfection’ from (probably pulled it out of his ass or off one of those Darwinian Apple trees he lives under ... lucky apples) The only character worth anything doesn't appear until the last few pages. It’s a boring story with boring people doing boring things. Read it if you will.