Matthew Oxenhay unwillingly attends his own 60th birthday party, drinks too much and delivers a bilious speech in front of his pleasant wife, blameless children and boss. Then, having been let go by said boss a few weeks later, he starts greeting his embarrassed colleagues outside his City office at the start and end of each day, whiling away the hours in between in coffee shops. Powell’s second novel could almost be a comedy of a bumbling Englishman; instead, it’s a dark tale about the decisions we make and where they leave us. Over the years, Oxenhay has moved from 60s radical to a frustrated life in the suburbs, in which alcohol, lies and disappointment have congealed to form a shell that keeps the world at a safe distance. “We invented sex and music, and freedom and peace,” he mourns, “and all sorts of things that turned out to be unpatentable.” When an old flame appears, he drives out to the Devon-Somerset borders dreaming of escape. Powell’s account of decline and doubt feels thoroughly authentic, and this is a claustrophobic, compelling book, although it never quite has the spark or poetry to soar.
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