Roger McGough's latest collection of poems turns a sardonic if quietly celebratory eye on the vagaries of life's awkward age - the bit between birth and death. He is, you suspect, a poet who sees life as serious, but best approached in a whimsical frame of mind. That outlook undergirds verse on subjects as diverse as Meccano and death, love in a bus queue and the bitterness of Enid Blyton's husband, usurped in her affections by her literary creations. Some of McGough's odes (especially "To contact lenses") reach the heights of laugh-out-loud absurdity, and even his more playful offerings ("Not to mention the reader's") amuse, for the most part, rather than irritate. And if some of his ideas are a bit derivative (his seven poems in the voice of famous women's husbands owe a clear debt to Carol Ann Duffy's "The World's Wife"), he gives them his own inimitable stamp - the faintly bewildered tone of Mr Blyton, a man in the presence of something greater than himself that he only dimly comprehends, is a delight.
Yes, the tone occasionally dives into the sententious or the sentimental - the latter in poems like "Eternal Rest" - but not for long: two pages later comes along the discomfiting, cold-eyed stoicism of "I Am Not Sleeping". A rewarding and varied collection, then, if not the most devastatingly original or profound - but pretty much what you expect from one of the nation's favourite lighter poets.