I am sitting in Yo Sushi, getting to the end, and I’m crying into my tuna maki.
I am completely in love with Mr Darcy.
Seriously, Lydia is awful.
“Write to me very often, my dear.”
“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to me. They will have nothing else to do.”
Regency-era smug marrieds.
Suddenly I realise why all women love Mr Darcy.
“Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one?”
Maybe I do have a blackened turnip of a heart, maybe I’m missing something, or maybe I just have PMT, but this book is seriously getting on my tits.
Why? Why should I care about any of these people? Elizabeth’s Little Miss bloody Perfect and Darcy’s such a bellend it hurts. No one is doing anything of any consequence and they all just sit talking shit, or in awkward silence.
It’s like an overlong regency-era episode of ‘Made in Chelsea’.