Ruby Hamilton

If Celia Dale​ is a nasty writer, then her nastiness, like Roald Dahl’s, is partly cosmetic: no boil goes unenlarged, no paunch unemphasised. Her novels (thirteen in total, often described as works of domestic crime fiction or ‘suburban horror’) display a fondness for all creatures sallow and bowlegged: a menagerie of bedraggled birds, wet fish and disgusting old walruses....