Everybody knows the title, but if you've never read this enchanting book, do it now. It's forty years old, and the East Africa Huxley conjures up with such startling clarity that you end up checking the floor uneasily for snakes and jiggas (don't ask - but if they get in under your toenails and lay their wretched eggs, don't blame me) may be gone for ever. But the characters with whom she peoples her story are ageless and timeless - the motherly ex-pat who longs for roast beef amid heat so extreme it's actually visible; the resentful, superior locals; the eccentric, deaf hotel-keeper known only as Major Breeches, thanks to a sartorial misunderstanding with a one-time guest. Huxley's Kenya was no Utopia - dreadful things were done by white to black, and black to black, too, but when she takes people to task she does it mildly, reminding us that none of us is in a position to judge; and her sense of childlike wonder is magical.
