In Just My Type, Simon Garfield flits about from one topic to the next like a nervous hummingbird, without settling long enough to give any a proper telling. Instead, he regales us with witticisms (“And then there are tattoos: nothing says Menace quite like a word written in Old English”), snotty put-downs (“And calligraphy is virtually gone, a craft Prince Charles is said to be keen on, hanging on grimly behind glass on the qualification certificates of quantity surveyors and chiropractors”), and imperious (if dubious) pronouncements (“Cooper Black looks best from afar”).