"Delighted by the removal of this second obstacle, they hurried towards the summit as fast as they could, until at last they glimpsed the..."
Between pages you muse about the day. A bizarre 4-2 reverse up in the North East leaves you sick to the stomach if you dwell 'pon it. And it's Sunday. Must I go through this same shit again, week 'pon bloody life draining week?
"Daddy, turn the page.", she says.
You realise you've lost focus. Even though it's only J.K. Fucking Rowling you're obliged to make an effort. For the children ... the babies. So you continue:
"...fountain, glittering like crystal in a bower of flowers and trees".
Your eyes close momentarily. The prose ... the prose it's ... so ... fucking ... turgid. How did she get away with it? You flick ahead to find the end of the chapter. Three more pages. It might as well be three hundred...
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