Book reviewing is a queer business. Amateur reviewers, often anonymous and sometimes with an axe to grind or lofty literary pretentions, can damn with faint praise or go nuclear with their toxic pen. Naturally, no book appeals to everyone. Bad reviews are an occupational hazard. Even the top of the heap get mixed critiques. Someone once wrote that Captain Corelli’s Mandolin was “...the worst book I’ve ever read.” It might not be everyone’s cup of tea but the worst book ever? Hardly. Clearly, the reviewer wasn’t that well read. Was Louis de Bernières bothered? Not with Hollywood knocking down the door, I suspect. The best a writer can do is rise above the din, turn the other cheek and keep their own counsel. It doesn’t do to spit back even when sorely provoked by those who seek you out. I’ve been fortunate. On the whole, reviews for Perking the Pansies have been excellent, and not just from my nearest and dearest whom I emotionally blackmailed. Rogue reviewers? Reminds me why dogs lick themselves – because they can.