Harvest Of Time
by Alastair Reynolds, the first Doctor Who
novel I've read since the Eighties (Edit: bar one that whas given away with a magazine and that I didn't do much more than skim through). The words just fly by with this one. It's not too taxing on the brain, a bona fide summer read. It seems to capture the Jon Pertwee era of the show quite well, and feels like nothing if not Reynolds' take on Terrance Dicks' old Target novelisations.
Prior to that was GK Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday
. This short novel from 1908 is a spy caper with a high farce quotient and is laugh-out-old funny in places. Other than its somewhat quaint worldview, it feels modern enough, if somewhat surreal; the last lap goes a bit Steed-and-Mrs-Peel.