As we lead ever-more loaded lives, we are learning the art of brevity. To post a message on Twitter or Facebook you are restricted to the amount of characters in each post, which makes you think how to make the most impact out of the fewest words. We can text and e-mail quick messages so we can communicate more efficiently and effectively.

So why on earth is it that novelists don’t get this? I’ve just finished a 940 page novel called Sacred Games about a Bombay gangster. I have a habit of reading books through to the end and whilst this was in many ways a great book, it would have been brilliant if it was half the size. The author regularly rambles off in what at the time I thought was probably a meaningless direction but felt compelled to follow in case the rambling was in fact integral to the tale.

Now that I have completed it, I realise that no, they were far from integral and they were just indulgencies on the part of the author which readers like me feel time-cheated on. I remember when Ben Okri won the Booker Prize for The Famished Road I thought I should find out what the fuss was about. 550 odd pages later, I wanted to strangle him for wasting my time.

I once had a visitor to my flat who looked at my book collection and asked if I had in fact read them all. “Unfortunately I have” I said. So from now on I only read short books and longer ones with the strict condition that I won’t feel guilty about abandoning them if they’re not up to scratch.

I’m off with my nephews today to see the new Shrek film. One of the reasons I’m looking forward to it is because it’s 90 minutes long.