We've moved along a little. It seems my writing hasn't.
I've been informed by London that my prose is too 'purple', too Brideshead Revisited (I wish - if I could construct a single measly sentence that Evelyn Waugh would deign to nod his head at I would straight out faint), but if it's too 'purple' for West Finchley tastes, then fine, I'll take a shot at Hemingway and Fitzgerald. Nothing like setting the bar stupidly high.
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