Reading cosy crime at bedtime is better than any narcotic; a sure cure for insomnia.

But sometimes the level of cosiness irritates rather than calms.

Frustration with plot, characters or dialogue wakens rather than lulls, and sleep becomes a forlorn hope.

Maybe it is a case of “you can have too much of a good thing.”

Which is how I am starting to feel after a browse in the local chainstore bookshop.

There is so much cosy crime that one almost falls asleep mid-browse. A maze of literary Mogadon.

And this plethora of allegedly dream-inducing reading matter  also confuses with the copycat nature of so many of the covers.

They are a weird mix of fonts, a medley of upper and lower case initials usually scribed sloping up or sloping down but, like their contents, rarely on the level. All designed to confuse rather than differentiate..

The sub-genre of cosy crime has always been with us and brought much pleasure to a large cohort of avid readers. But now it has gone to extremes. It is reaching plague level.

Okay, “the meek shall inherit the earth” but do they have to swamp us in their all-enveloping damp doona of a nightcap?

It would be easy to blame much of it on the sudden emergence of Richard Osman as an author whose book sales are counted in millions.

Not all that long ago he was TV’s pleasant Mr Everywhere, a host and panellist whose humourous jibes raised the levity level of many a quiz or game show – especially Pointless, the long-running and immensely popular teatime brain teaser.  

Almost from nowhere, he suddenly became the much-feted author of his first novel, The Thursday Murder Club.

In quick succession this was followed by more of the same. Rat-a-tat-tat out they came, almost faster than a human could type so many words.

He has since argued against his books being labelled as “cosy crime” but I would suggest that it is lovers of this genre who are keeping him at the top of the best-seller lists around the globe.

And the number of his books appearing  in charity shops and discount stores suggest those who joined the initial rush to buy – largely stimulated by Osman’s TV persona – have decided one sampling is enough. 

Which brings us to The Last Word – not by Osman but by Elly Griffiths, an already well-established member of the UK’s crime-writing scene who has won or been short-listed for the various annual Dagger Awards and other prizes.

Her previous works (notably the Ruth Galloway series) have mostly been well-plotted mysteries, often featuring puzzles built around archeological digs or the discovery of religious icons. Blood is spilt, threats are made, danger lurks – all the ingredients of crime fiction’s core.

Plus the occasional love interest, a fascinating foreign location and a nice line in humorous asides.

But now she, too, has adopted the Osman format of having an oddball group of senior citizens think they can do a better job of solving crime than is done by the professionals.

And in so doing making a nuisance of themselves among the local plods. It’s an old and tried formula that has been the basis for many a comic caper of stage and film for several decades.

It all takes place on England’s south coast where Peter James and MJ Aldridge have long been thrilling us with much grittier police procedurals centred on detectives both confusingly named Grace.

Now, in total contrast, their patches are being trod by Griffiths’ well-meaning amateurs doggedly persuing a crime they seem to have dreamed up by reading the obituary columns of the local press.

The result, like that of the now over-exposed Osman, is  a light-hearted romp. A frippery that is good for filling gaps between more gripping reads. Something for summer reading by pool, beach or garden when surrounded by other distractions. 

Benedict, Edwin and Natalka – fervent watchers of Midsomer Murders and Antiques Roadshow – stumble across a murder or two in much the way they would trip over their doorsteps. A bothersome incident along the way that is soon forgotten or at best set aside for the time being..

The twisty tale is more about the cut and thrust between the would-be detectives and their nigging relationship with the professional crime fighters than about any actual crime.

Also in the diverting mix are quibbles among members of a writing group – and we all know how bitchy they can become. Wordy barbs fly hither and thither.

Sudden and suspicious deaths tend to take a back seat until the narrative throws up a sharp reminder, a sort of  “Hey, someone’s met a sticky end.” A dig in the ribs  of “wake up at the back there” to sonambulist readers.

It’s a bit like a Taylor Swift romance:  lots of fun while it lasts but soon time to move on to the next diversion. 

Which will no doubt be another cosy crime romp for the masses enamoured of the genre.
Perhaps something by Richard Coles or Tom Hindle and others of this ilk.
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But for this reader it will be something more edgy, grittier and closer to reality.

However, I am happy to let Griffiths have The Last Word. The cosy crowd will love it and have some laugh out loud moments along the way.