![]() ![]() ![]() In this story, modern Australia gets ‘zooflu’, a fast-spreading virus, easily diagnosed by pink eyeballs. Same old Jean with her impulsive, destructive behaviour. ![]() But somehow, and I’m not sure how, by about half way through the book I’m totally on her side. Jean works as a guide in a wildlife sanctuary in Northern Australia run by her daughter-in-law (the son’s legged it), not bright enough to pass her ranger qualifications so she drives the train, cracks bad jokes for the tourists, imagining what the animals would say if they could talk back to her. Jean’s love for her six-year-old granddaughter is her one redeeming feature, though I wouldn’t trust her to look after any child of mine. He’s ‘hairy and stringy, skin stretched over his big belly’ with a jealous boyfriend on the side. Her colleague Andy is one, she calls him when she wants booze or sex. She’s a rough bit of work: a hard drinking, chain smoking, promiscuous, internet-troll of a grandmother who makes bad choices. ![]() Don’t read the blurb about ‘talking animals’-this is not Dr Dolittle- read the excited hype from right across the review spectrum and watch the awards list grow. And me someone who has avoided fantasy for decades. ![]()
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