I’ve had this sitting on my shelf for some time and it may be the recently released Netflix adaptation that made me pick it up again. It’s the story of a gambler, passing himself off as an English lord, losing money in the casinos of Macau.

Some books you re-start and wonder why you ever put them down, only to get to the point you reached and remember. That was the case here, where it was another entry in the canon of shitty-man-has-woman-dote-on-him-for-no-good-reason. I always find that a bit annoying, but pushed on through here.

I’m honestly not that interested in gambling. I count myself fortunate that whatever fascination people seem to have with losing money, I don’t share. Of all my vices, that’s not one of them. But the idea of luck and superstition have a certain appeal and when the book explores these, I found it a bit more engaging.

As always with page-to-screen adaptations, I would be interested to see what changes in transition. Colin Farrell has turned out to be an actor whose work I find interesting. I’d previously dismissed him, having seen him in iRobot and the poster for the sacrilegious Total Recall remake. But having seen In Bruges, my opinion came around. I really enjoyed the Apple TV series Sugar and although I wasn’t convinced at first about the necessity of The Penguin series, it turned out to be pretty good. Anyway, this isn’t supposed to be about Colin Farrell, but rather the book.

Because if there’s one main takeaway I have from reading The Ballad of a Small Player, it’s that I love little hardbacks. The dust jacket for this one got lost somewhere along the way and it’s just a perfect little red volume, pleasing in its size, weight and tactility.