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’.