Book: Saturday by Ian McEwan

Any book that deals with mortality, poetry, the blues, parenthood and the war on terror should know that if it's doing it's job properly it doesn't need to jump around for the readers attention. For the most part this tale of day in the life aging neurologist Henry Perowne does this, treating the big subjects with a subtle touch and a narrative of ambling pace that allows you to smell the flowers and inhabit Perowne's body.

The march against the Iraq war is seen from the perspective of someone trying to drive across London to play squash and the musing on family life are pulled into the context of an impending evening get together. However it seems like McEwan paniced at some point as he feels the need to through in a needless set-piece of gangland violence to spice things up. It jolts the reader out of medidation and back into the world of convention narrative, unfortunately ruining an otherwise strong novel.