The Hitch by Sara Levine
I spent much of the end of 2025 and start of 2026 moaning about people who ought to know about funny books claiming that unfunny books were actually funny. Evidently, this means that in my arrogance, I consider myself to be someone who can accurately identify a funny book. Let’s put that to the test: The Hitch is a funny book. Read it. If you find it funny, I’m right. If you don’t, I may be wrong. Or, more likely, you have some kind of humour deficiency and should consider becoming a judge for awards of comic fiction.
Rose Cutler is a snob, an obsessive, a know-it-all, a pedant, a social justice warrior, and a terrible boss. She’s read the studies and done the research, so naturally her opinion is worth more than yours. She owns a multi-million-dollar artisanal yoghurt business and loathes the dairy industry. She’s repressed, uptight, self-righteous and superior. In short, she’s magnificent.
Convinced that she would make a significantly better guardian for her beloved 6-year-old nephew, Nathan, than his own parents, and that her sister-in-law is to blame for the slow retraction of available auntie-Rose time, Rose is thrilled by the chance to look after Nathan for a whole week while his parents are in Mexico. She starts a design binder. She puts together an in-depth vegan meal plan. Eager to show Nathan the error of his parents’ bland addiction to white walls, she spends ‘hours of unrestrained surfing’ to discover ‘a British paint company offering a color named Wevet, which means spiderweb in Dorset. Almost white with a hint of grey.’ She buys an antique porcelain chess set.
Unfortunately, things go south when Rose’s newfoundland, Walter, murders a corgi at the park. Not because the little boy is traumatised by witnessing a brutal dog-death, but because the Corgi’s soul doesn’t want to move beyond and instead takes up residence inside Nathan. Even the most meticulously planned vegan lasagne needs to take a back seat when you’ve only got a few days to exorcise a potentially malevolent dog spirit from inside your nephew.
The premise, as you can tell, is mad. And brilliant. The writing is sharp, and the book bursts with lines that are deadpan and hilarious. Levine develops a character that any sane person would hate to spend an hour with in real life, but who becomes utterly compelling and brilliant company on the page.
Sadly, Levine is unable to resist the modern mania for giving funny books serious endings (because it seems today’s writer fears being deemed ‘light’ above all other considerations), but thanks to having made us care so deeply about Rose, she sticks the landing well enough to make it forgivable.
