After reading WINNIE THE POOH, Dorothy Parker added a  terse comment to the New Yorker’s book review section she wrote under the pseudonym The Constant Reader,  “The tonstant weader fwowed up.” Although acutely aware that I am no Dorothy Parker,  I will use this page to list books  I find unreadable. This month, the honor goes to Jasper Fford’s ONE OF OUR THURSDAYS IS MISSING, which is  yet another novel apparently designed to bring its more pleasure to its  author than to its readers–please my review of Beth Kendrick’s THE BAKE OFF for the low version of this kind of work. It is possible that  academicians  fond of a convoluted stories that bristle with literary allusions might enjoy it. I found painfully studied, terribly affected and definitely not worth its cover price.