I made the mistake of binge-reading these, so that Kate Atkinson’s style – which I enjoy in her other novels – soon turned into tiresome tics and tricks. I think it was the self-referential knowingness that grated: a series of detective stories which are practically made for television: interweaving of short scenes, every character (it seemed) with a backstory of childhood trauma, and a parodic reliance on coincidence to keep the plot spinning. Along with (pot and kettle here, obvs) her use of parentheses and the constant asides as other voices butt into interior monologues.

There’s much to enjoy, of course. The wit, the settings, the recreation of past decades, the final plot twists. I just shouldn’t have binged.