The Man Who Ate The 747 is a cute little book. It is a romance which is neither Danielle Steele doorstep thick, or branded via Mills & Boon. Romance fiction has a bad name, and yet historically the romance was a more than respectable genre. Ben Sherwood’s novel probably escapes obvious pigeonholing by virtue of being written by a man. Ah, the enlightened 21st century.

The book feels a touch off though, for no reason of its writers devising. The tale concerns a loveless researcher for the Guinness Book Of Records. Now you might say that he is loveless because he is a right wing, racist reactionary scum, but the book is not about Norris McWhirter. Nor does The Man Who Ate The 747 mention the word Guinness. Instead it constantly refers to The Book in hushed tones that this Christmas stocking staple possible does not deserve. Obviously trademark issues have intervened, but it does make the sweet tale of courtship via ingesting aviation appears to take place in a parallel universe.