Lasley supposedly interviewed more than 100 men for this book, though you would hardly know that from reading it. That's because this book isn’t about masculinity and men, it’s about her and how she dealt with a failed relationship by dancing, drinking, doing drugsand occasionally listening to some men talk about their work in the most superficial of terms. Lasley is a good writer, which is perhaps why this bait-and-switch feels particularly frustrating. One star deducted for the rather odd ending chapters where she loses direction somewhat. She should have ended at Aberdeen airport.

I have a problem with authority. Did I have a bad relationship with my father? No. Wait a minute. Yes! Sort of. My mum and dad split up when I was ten. I didn’t speak to him for seven years. At the outset, we are told that the book was planned to be about men without women. We see this in a way that scratches the surface. It the way that they won't let a 'lass' buy a drink, that they pile into the rec room when a girl is wearing hot pants, that they can't talk to an attractive woman without trying to pull her. It is however only men with a herd mentality, only the 'Boro' lads on tour'; occasionally there are moments when there are break throughs in the interviews and a moment of crystal clarity presents itself but only in these isolated moments do we see how men are away from each other. Lasley's own isolated situation feels similar to being marooned on one of those rigs: She's cut off from her London life and having an all-consuming affair with one of the very first guys she interviews. Ironically, in acting on her ambition to delve deep into the masculine culture of the oil rig workers, Lasley herself winds up, for a time, living the traditional suspended life of a mistress. Drug testing has long been a reality for manual workers. In fact, Shaun Bailey cited these workers when he wrote a piece defending the policy. I remember people in Aberdeen saying oil companies were testing workers at the heliport before they went offshore. The industry was contracting, and finding people in breach of contract is cheaper than laying them off.

When I showered in the morning, I wrote Caden’s initials, then mine, in the condensation on the glass. CD. TL. Then I drew a circle around them, so they were bound together. After the meal, my mother stood up and gave a short speech. She touched on my father’s condition, the reasons for his absence. I stared into my glass and thought about my parents. My father wasn’t perfect, by any means, but he had been a good husband to my mum: decent, dependable, kind. Now, she had to keep up her end of the compact, the guarantee that underwrites every marriage. That was what partnership was. A Recommended Read from: Vogue * USA Today * The Los Angeles Times * Publishers Weekly * The Week * Alma * Lit Hub This is the real difference between working- and middle-class cocaine users, as far as I can see. The middle classes have a greater margin for error. They don’t have to submit to drug tests at work. Their lives are set up in such a way that they can keep their drug use private. Until they choose not to. Then they can monetise their mistakes, expurgating sin through confession, because they also dominate the arts. Lasley] has the skill, a Joan Didion kind of skill, of inflecting non-fiction material subjectively, a habit of assessing situations via her nervous system. . . . Sea State has all the presentness of fiction, as well as the exactitude of the non-fiction novel and the gleam of confession. [Lasley] conjures an industry and a place, but much more than that, she shows us the men themselves, and their relation to her, a mysterious tale of love and fear.”

Lasley fends off a lot of propositions and hears a lot of vivid stories, many of them about accidents and the lax safety protection for workers offshore. Not only is the oil rig itself "a pressure cooker," one worker tells Lasley, but "the human element felt explosive. A hundred men of varying temperaments, trapped together in a steel box, miles from land, from any sign of civilization." A breathtakingly bold, honest and original book, I didn't want it to end." — Decca Aitkenhead, author of All at SeaI think of this story often. It seems to sum up the place, its self-annihilating spirit. Living here comes with a heavy toxic load. What’s one more substance, in the scheme of things? One night, I watch my colleague chop lines on the counter after closing. He looks sad. He has a history of depression. He says this job makes it worse. Sea State marks the arrival of a gifted and exciting new voice’ Jon McGregor, author of Reservoir 13 I’m obsessed by class’: Lasley despairs of London’s identity politics. Photograph: Richard Saker/The Observer

Sea State’s writing alone is worth the admission price’ Financial Times Tabitha Lasley left her job, her relationship and London, and headed to Aberdeen to meet offshore oil rig workers.

After the fall, he remained bed-bound and never walked again. My sister went to see him on her way to the church. I waited in the car, fighting the irrational belief he had somehow done this on purpose. Of course, no one develops vascular dementia deliberately. Even so, he had managed to rearrange the dynamic of the day so that the bride was travelling to pay her respects to him, rather than the other way round. Covertly, I scanned the congregation for my boyfriend. I had asked my sister to make him an usher, to compensate for the fact that my ex had been invited to the wedding. It hadn’t worked; he was still angry. He rarely lost his temper in public, but I knew the signs a tantrum was in the post: compression around his temples, a muscle going in his jaw. There was no statutory limit on how long he might nurse this particular grievance. But sooner or later, the bill would come in.