Felicity Kendal has resisted the predictable and frothy luvvy autobiog and written a wonderfully resonant memoir of her extraordinary Indian childhood instead. As her father Geoffrey lies in a coma in a London clinic, Felicity sits by his wasted body and remembers the brilliant, mesmerising, volatile, insufferable man who strode, collossus-like, through her childhood and adolescence. Her story unfolds as she moves back and forth between the past and the present, making sense of her journey between the two, and coming to terms with both. As well as painting a classic portrait of the relationship between the father and the daughter, she also beautifully captures the complex tones of India in the dying days of the Raj. This book is magnificent.
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