Dreadful. This is without a doubt the most boring, self regarding, exploitative, pretentious 'novel' I've ever started and never finished, unable to stomach the portentous chasms between paragraphs, twee faux realism, trips to the offie, pee in the toilet bowl, blah, complete with class war, humble teachers, posh grandad officer types talking in clipped accents, the plasterer, ex Northern Ireland havoc, painter and decorator, even the Yorkshire Dales, in which I happen to live.
This 'creative writer' holds boring old, good-enough-for-Conrad conventions, like quotation marks and coherence in narrative in lofty disregard and has nothing to put in its place, certainly not content. I blame Bukovski. If this is the traditionally-published, hailed, British novel, heaven help us all. Major writer? Oh, please.
Why are Booker, Man Booker, Orange, the whole sad parade so desperately unreadable? Fortunately, there is another shore, the self-published work of art, of which there are myriad. Thank God for KDP, Smashwords . . .