I may be at a loose end.

And if I am, doesn't anyone fancy a day out, maybe to Leeds Castle or Brighton, next weekend?

Schoolboy humour at it's finest.

Staying with the literary theme of last week, I was thinking over the weekend about another author whom I consider overrated, namely GK Chesterton. Chesterton is one of those authors with an agenda which he attempts to use his writing to inform you of and ultimately convert you to his point of view and I reckon you have to be a pretty good author to carry this off without coming across as preachy and so alienating me as an reader. Not many authors are good enough to both push an agenda and tell a cracking story at the same time and whilst Chesterton has some good ideas, he certainly isn't a good enough writer to acheive his aims.
As an author there are two agendas which he pushes; firstly is the superiority of Catholicism over other religious and philosophical viewpoints. This agenda led to the creation of the supremely irritating Father Brown, the impossibly good and wise priestly detective who solves thefts and murders by finding out who isn't Catholic and then demonstrating through reason that they must have done it. Needless to say, the smug, eminently-punchable Brown is always right, the know-it-all little git.
Chesterton's second agenda is one of his era: writing in the 1920's he was an anti-imperial advocate and believed that the structures of Empire were inherently corrupt. This is the basis of his book The man who knew too much, in which appalling crimes by high ranking public figures are covered up 'for the good of the Empire'. Living, as we do, in an era wherein John Prescott can have made public a twenty-year record of sexual harrassment and not lose his job or the benefits thereof this attitude on the part of Chesterton just seems charmingly dated and naive. I'd only recommend The man who knew too much if you're having difficulty sleeping.

If Chesterton did write a good book, it is his The Club of Queer Trades. In this book, the young Charles Swinbourne and his friend, the detective Basil Grant, investigate a succession of odd events and people only to find that there is not only a perfectly innocent explaination for each thing, but also that each is the result of someone pursuing an extremely odd but legitimate livelihood, such as an Estate Agent for treehouses or a man who arranges games akin to those played by Michael Douglas in The Game.
In the decades since the book was written, the meaning of the word 'Queer' has changed somewhat, which can lead to some humourous misunderstandings about what one is reading on the bus. With this in mind, I'm half tempted to propose a sequel to Chesterton. I'd think about calling it The Trade of Queer Clubs.

Swinbourne sat opposite Basil Grant with an air of despondency. "I simply cannot make head nor tail of it", he said. "I cannot for the life of me imagine what the fellow does for a living."
Grant passed him a drink. "Perhaps you ought to go through your clues. What do you know about the man?"
Swinbourne nodded. It seemed a good idea. "Well, I know he was in the Navy during the last war."
"How do you know that?"
"He told me he'd sent a lot of seamen to the bottom. And a lot of sailors had come to a sticky end at his hands."
"Hmn. And? What else?"
"I know he isn't in one of the professions. I'm told he can't use the front door when he pays social visits."
"He uses the tradesman's entrance, then?"
"Yes, I suppose you might say that. Beyond that? I'm at a loss."
"Well", replied Basil. "Perhaps I can help. Background checks suggest that he worked in the wrapping department of Thorntons last Christmas, putting sugar candies into parcels."
"Hmn. I wonder what one might call that particular line of work?"
"I wouldn't know, I'm sure."
"Well, that's certainly interesting."
"So, does that give you any clues what the fellow does for a living?"
Swinbourne shook his head. "Frankly, old friend, I'm buggered if I know."