I read Hellgoing last week and fell in love with Lynn Coady.

I’d been procrastinating about reading it because (a) short stories aren’t my favourite and (b) it’s called Hellgoing, and I wasn’t in a going-to-hell frame of mind. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. There’s nothing hellish about the book, except in an anxiety-ridden, “why am I in this handbasket?” sort of way.

People keep telling me I’ll like gardening better as I get older, which has proven completely untrue. However, maybe I am liking short stories more. I certainly loved these ones. Especially the one that coincidentally mentions Creston.

Most of all, I love Lynn Coady’s ability to focus a page on what seems like a mundane moment, and reveal it as hilarious or heart-crushing. Or both.

I’m reading her novel The Antagonist now, and the entire book is already worth it because of one paragraph about drunk guys and outdoor sofas.