As you can see below, I am reading the Mortdecai books. Stupendous writing. Why was I not informed of this before? It's a "slow read" but not for the usual reasons: it's slow because I keep having to pause to read clumps of sentences out loud to the cat, G. K. Chesterton (who seems to appreciate them too, if only in his own way.) Gorgeous. Kind of wish I could be K. Bonfiglioli, except for the already being dead part. I'm sure he eventually figured out how to pronounce his own name, so that's alright.
The book was a gift from someone who said the narrator reminded her of me, which I suppose I ought to take as a slander, or at least as an admonishment and goad to do better; but as it happens, I don't.
(I haven't seen the recent film and my understanding is that's all to the good.)