You know you’re reading the worst Christie novel ever when you start wishing you were reading The Big Four or Passenger to Frankfurt instead, which I previously regarded as her absolute worst mysteries. It was hard to imagine that any other book of hers could usurp the top spot on the rubbish heap, but this messy, confused and terminally dull novel managed it.
Interstate travel in Australia is still a gamble, so we explored a new corner of Victoria instead, this small holiday and fishing town near the border with New South Wales.
We don’t know who our daddy was,
Don’t know, and we don’t care.
But everyone who sees us says
He must have had red hair!