IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of an undergraduate student to turn upside down and shake by the ankles until she sees sense.
What is sense, and how do you see it? Suspended by the ankles and shaken it looks like a decent shout. I made a very feeble attempt to defend the style and tone of my writing thus far (stop it…!), but not very deep down I knew it all made sense. Ha, made sense. It wasn’t really to do with sense though (or sensibility – enough already). It was to do with reassurance and, do you know what, a bit of a gauntlet.
Carapace, carapace, carapace.
So, now, it’s me. Or should that be I? I am writing now, not Kathleen as laaady taking tea in a salon, and not Kathleen constrained and restrained by percentages and double guessing and taking the midde line. It’s Kathleen gloves off, hands dirty, attempting to peel away prosaic prose and offer up the sacrificial innards.
Ciao for now.
Is there still a reward for sightings of the Russian Royal family?