Shelving Stupid White Men

More moving books around. Last year I organised them into categories: novels in the conservatory, books about writing in the study, to-be-read in the bedroom and so on. As I move books from the landing I come across Michael Moore's Stupid White Men. It's been on the shelf for books I don't really have a category for. I weigh the book up in my hand, trying to think where it should go. Reference, probably, downstairs in the dining room, but it's not going to sit comfortably with The Shock of the New or The Timetables of History.

There's been a bit of a flurry around the Crime Writers Awards: someone referred to romantic novelists as being back-stabbing bitches, or so it's been reported. I've been told that the original remark was made about fifteen years ago and the CWA regularly trot it out. No one's quite sure why - perhaps they think a little professional rivalry might drum up some publicity, but it seems unimaginative, like expecting all romantic novelists to dress like Barbara Cartland.

After a few moments of consideration, I decide to shelve Stupid White Men along with the crime and thrillers. I don't suppose that this will be its permanent home but it seems to fit in quite nicely for now.