I'm back already because I have finished my books. Already. I finished Dear Fatty last night because I got two thirds of the way through it and realised that if I didn't finish it in one sitting I never would finish it at all. Dawn French has lived an interesting life and she knows how to talk about it in an interesting way. But I found the 'series of letters to friends and relatives' thing didn't really work for me. I kept forgetting who it was that she was addressing in any given letter and feeling annoyed because I felt unincluded. It simply felt like a bizarre love match between prying into someone's personal correspondence and reading a proper book of memoirs. Parts of it were boring; most of it was warm and interesting. Buuuut - I wanted more about Vicar of Dibley! I know, I know, it's such a cliche - the one role that will follow the poor actor about forever, haunting them inescapably... but I was interested. My curiosity and desire for Dibley anecdotes still remains unsated.

Alan Alda's memoirs read more like a normal autobiography. Which was refreshing - and he managed to hit that balance between human honesty and storytelling, without becoming impersonal or spending too much time despondently navel gazing a la Sean Astin. I enjoyed his sense of humour and the personality that infused the pages - he involves the reader in his story very effectively. Aaand he talked about being in M*A*S*H*! So he beats Dawn French a little bit.
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