I saw War Horse at the National last night, and it's a keeper; see it, if you can.  And take the advice given to me:  Don't look at press photos and don't read the programme until the interval.  I let the appearance of the horses themselves be a complete surprise, and it was a genuine jaw-dropper. 

It's not a perfect show.  Michael Morpurgo's writing always feels a bit Presbyterian to me, like sitting in a chilly room even when the story's interesting.  But on the plus side, he doesn't flinch away from ugliness, and when War Horse ends, you might be surprised to find your eyes all wet.

Even better, the fine, fine young folk singer Tim van Eyken has a singing chorus role all to himself, and there's a puppet goose that steals the show.  Anyone who bashes the National (like those who bewilderingly bash the BBC and who treat winning the Olympics as if it was a diagnosis of nose cancer) are clearly people who never go.

Still enjoying Mortals by Norman Rush, though he takes an unfortunate philosophical turn in the chapter The Apostles of Reason.  I'm a pretty savvy guy, but it's the most boring 35 pages I've skimmed in years.