I nearly threw up several times skimming through 'Welcome to Mollywood' by Molly Parkin, mainly at the graphic anatomical sex descriptions, in particular an unsuccessful attempt at geriatric sex. Dear me. I then ploughed through the Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas by Gertrude Stein, with its many repetitions: Gertrude's style of writing, seemingly. The Alice B. Toklas cookbook was so much better written - but then it was written by Alice.
I then tackled Damage by the recently deceased Josephine Hart, followed by Sin,
then Oblivion, and am now reading The Truth About Love. These are very well written, and such good titles. Oh, I forgot to mention that I read various novels by Edward St Aubyn in between. Again well written, but somehow I was not keen.
My vile neighbour, arms akimbo, is 'talking' to a neighbour in a loud voice, very jarring, which can no doubt be heard for miles. Remind me to move house.
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