The title of Ian McEwan’s previous novel, Saturday, awoke in at least one reader the faintly awful thought that, like Stock- hausen at the same point of inspiration, he might have six sequels up his sleeve. One envisaged half-a-dozen 24-hour North London epics, all narrated in that frightful historic present and running in sequence through the more high-minded professions — Tuesday, about the tribulations of a Primrose Hill dentist.

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