No names, no pack drill as they used to say in the army, but Gert was shocked to her bootstraps to read sentences like this in a book that has received some praise:
The longer she read about eating buffalo over an open fire the stronger M. felt dissatisfied with her breakfast of toast and jam.
It felt like a guilty pleasure to enjoy it so much, and M knew he was being marketed to, but no more than the inner-city suburb he had left behind in S. that sold ideas of vibrant unconventionality…
Though one of the states in Australia, Tasmania’s island locale made its landscape distinct from the mainland.
On the covered verandah at the front of the house stood a firewood box that M hefted his suitcase on top of so he could rummage through his clothes for a coat…
An exhausting and demanding process that he was now thoroughly tired of and frustrated by its devaluing rewards.
His companion, however, was happily nodding his head to the rhythmic swing of Middle-Eastern jazz as he also greedily devoured the moreish meal.
Like a well-fed cat killing a bird for sport, was her quarry now devoid of all attraction now the hunt was over?
This is just awful, awful writing. How could it get past an editor at one of Australia’s best publishers?
Ah! Gert feels better now she’s got that off her chest.