The result was partly my own fault - I didn't properly read the description of the book (the name of which I shall not mention), and in consequence I thought that I was getting a humorous memoir about the perils of working life. What I had actually signed up to review was something called a 'Rhyme Book'. I have never heard of this kind of book before, and I hold a deep suspicion that the category (surely more properly: a book of rhymes?) is a marketing invention and nothing more. As it turns out, the book (only twenty-something pages long including titles etc., and therefore merely a pamphlet as far as I'm concerned) is a small collection of several short verses, ranging from two to seven lines, coupled with some very - um - basic illustrations. This, for me, is problematic - firstly because it's not at all what I was looking forward to read - an issue for which I take full responsibility - and secondly because the darned thing has an effect upon me not unlike being given a present made from some dried leaves, a dead mouse and some antique lace.
It's just not 'me' at all.
I'm not in the business of besmirching another person's work just because it isn't my cup of tea, although my instinct is indeed to break out the besmirching pen and ink. It's better, I think, to avoid any reviewing comment at all (as I was requested to do upon the book's Amazon page) because I won't write a dishonest review either. The upshot of all this is that I'm feeling rather crestfallen (I love that word) now, because I was genuinely looking forward to reading someone else's work - and hopefully learning something from it - and subsequently being able to write a review of it. Sadly, I've fallen at the first fence.
The interesting thing about this experience is the gentle hype which accompanied the recommendation to review the work. Regardless of my missing the category completely (I admit that I homed in on the 'humor' element), this was 'sold' to me as something funny and wonderful by an experienced writer. I feel a little like the cartoon 'Dilbert', standing alone in a room with my mouth no bigger than a dot, while I try to come to terms with the contrast between anticipation and reality (and at this juncture I shall skilfully avoid any sexual innuendo....DOH!).
Altogether now: "Hmmm..."