Nicola Sturgeon is in her Holyrood office, a Joan Eardley painting on the wall behind her and Paul Austerâs daunting slab of a novel 4 3 2 1 on her desk. Plucked from my own book shelves, it is part-prop, part-symbol of my inadequacy. Its pristine condition betrays that I have hardly opened it. For more than a year it has taunted me with its enormous bulk. A couple of times, I have lifted it down with good intent, then replaced it, unable to commit to its 866 pages. |