Today I have been shamefully indolent, reclining languidly over a pouffe for hours, indulging elaborate fantasies of myself as a wealthy and polished 18th century gentleman, and eating Cheesy Wotsits.
This morning the postman delivered a copy of an Alan Titchmarsh novel, which I had apparently purchased via an online auction site some days ago, though I have no memory of doing so.
I attempted to read the first sentence, but found his prose so ungainly and incompetent that I was left with no option but to commit the volume to the flames.
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