by James Reeve (Unity Press £25, 320 pp)
James Reeve belongs to that rare breed of artists who can write. Not that you will learn anything about his painting methods in this book, but it is a delightfully entertaining, if often shocking, memoir, an escapist antidote to our lockdown times.
The cover features his dazzling painting of Marrakesh: in the background are the snow-capped Atlas mountains, in the middle distance a palm oasis with grazing camels, snake charmers and carrion-eating vultures and, in the foreground, two English spinsters taking an evening walk in the desert bedecked with fur stoles and wide-brimmed straw hats.