I really wanted to like this one. For once, a Christie novel starts with people of flesh and bone, people one can like, relate to, identify with, etc. And then there is Christie's own statement that while other books may have been day-at-the-office affairs, this one was a labour of love.
Well... I really didn't like it. Whatever charm and promise the first couple of chapters had in terms of character depiction, soon vanished into ordinary Christie coolness, the plot never seemed real, the philosophical undercurrents - that one can always justify a Christie novel by: those semi-explicit considerations about what is truth, human nature, knowledge, good, etc. - this time were non-existent or just uninteresting. Oh, and the murderer was completely made-up, and for the first time, I had guessed it almost from the start, which is not a good sign, since I'm notoriously bad at guessing.
Was it a waste of time? Well, the first chapter was great.