When, oh when, are cantankerous and controlling old men, rich beyond reason, going to learn not to advertise an imminent change in their wills when surrounded by their not-so-loving families?
Of course they end up dead whenever they do that.
OF COURSE THEY DO.
Not that it’s always the motive. But it often seems to be, at least for much of the book. It’s just stupid. Stop doing it, cantankerous and controlling old men!
The motive of this one actually took me by complete surprise, as did the culprit, and wow, Christie was a genius. Despite its title, however, the book is not especially Christmassy, and poor Poirot doesn’t get to do much in the way of decking halls or dashing through snow, but then, he’d probably much prefer to solve a murder than indulge in such frivolity.
He really is a holiday miracle.
SCORECARD
TBR DAY 242: Hercule Poirot’s Christmas (Poirot #20) by Agatha Christie
GENRE: Cosy Mystery, Mystery, Poirot
PUBLISHED: 1938
TIME ON THE TBR: ~5 years.
PURCHASED FROM: Vintage shop.
KEEP: Yes.
It’s Valentine’s Day, and Charlie D’s guest on his late night talk show is his boss Misty, a former escort who’s rich husband bought her the station as a wedding present. The topic is satisfaction, and there is much discussion of how intimacy goes beyond the physical. But meanwhile, a vicious organization spearheaded by Charlie’s right wing colleague is targeting sex workers, Jack the Ripper-style, and makes sure Charlie D knows all about it.
I have a love-hate relationship with the TV show Archer. On the one hand, it is often hilarious, this cartoon about a foul-mouthed, casually cruel and selfish spy who works for a dubious private espionage organization and is an alcoholic and womanizer and has more Mommy Issues than that guy from Psycho.
I can’t remember the last time I got so far into a book before being forced to stop reading it. I actually got to the 75% mark of this one, and then a plot development so stupid, so utterly without reason or justification or sense, took place so suddenly that I was just like… nope. Not doing it anymore. 
Barbara Pym is an author I have long heard compared to Jane Austen, and it was due to this that I have been collecting her works whenever I happen upon them any time over the past decade or more. But have I read any of them yet? No. Pshaw. Why would I have done that?
I got this book for my birthday this year, and it could not be more perfect for me. (Thanks, Tara!) Cartoonist Debbie Tung perfectly illustrates exactly how it feels to be a total bibliophile, and for me it was just page after page of understanding and agreement as I nodded along, smiling in recognition as I found myself within its pages.
If this volume of nonsense verse had been penned by almost anyone else, it would probably have been dismissed as sophomoric and rather pointless. But since it was written (and, it must be added, illustrated) by once-visionary director Tim Burton it received praise such as this:
This book is so very many things, and while it is ostensibly a children’s book, it is much, much more than that.
Lily and Cade hate each other. There are various reasons. They do not matter.
How do these Poirot books just keep getting better? There were so many twists and turns in this mystery that my head is spinning just trying to put it all together.