Whilst I can appreciate the occasional detail, Mr Mezzanine’s obsession with the minutiae is frankly arduous. Whilst we all experience a constant supply of fleeting thoughts and digressions, I find it the Height of Vanity that someone coulda / woulda / shoulda (isn’t there a song about that?) written down their stream of consciousness for the ‘enjoyment’ of others. Although I identified with the odd irritation or sentiment, I am not ‘at one’ with examining the grubby little cobwebby corners of someone else’s thinktank; his is the consciously unconscious level of subconscious that interesting, interested people do not even bother to access, not yet indulge. And as a Brit, I was peeved by the unrelenting Yankishness. I was told once (by ‘once’, I mean regularly throughout my entire teenage years) that only boring people say that things are boring (this was not what they said, but what they actually said does not apply. Poetic license. But that’s okay, because you weren’t there, were you?). But this, my friend, was boring. With a capital b. A 'B', if you will. If that makes me boring, or even Boring, then so be it. The booklet has been repeatedly secreted in various hiding places (by my charming housemate, who was trying to alleviate my suffering), until I finally took the bull by the bullet (or bit the horns (unwise)) and done it. I thought, nay hoped, that it might have a tantalising dénouement. But no. Nothing. No storyline. No nothing. Just meditations on shoe strings and straws. I found the footnotes laborious and ridiculously protracted. I don’t care about staplers. Absolutely, categorically disinterested. One star.