there's a lot of things I could say to make you understand
I thought I liked Ben Elton. I thought I liked him from his writing for various "Blackadder" projects. I thought I liked him, but then I started reading Blast From the Past, and now I'm somewhat unsure. It's probably that I like Richard Curtis. I mean, Love Actually. Eh? Eh?
Anyway, it's not that this book is bad, but it's not all that great. The writing isn't what I expected. It's nice from time to time, though.
"Of course I haven't told anybody," said Polly. "I know the rules. I love you…"
Polly waited, as countless women had waited before her, for the echo of that phrase, and, like the vast majority of those women, she was eventually forced to ask for it.
"Well?"
"Well what?" said Jack, lighting another two cigarettes.
"Well, do you love me too?"
Jack rolled his eyes ceilingward. "Of course I love you, Polly, for Christ's sake."
"Well, say it properly, then."
"I just did!"
"No, you didn't. I made you. Say it nicely."
"OK, OK!"
Jack assumed an expression of quiet sincerity. "I love you, Polly. I really love you."
There was a pause.
"But really really? Do you really love me? I mean really."
This is, of course, the reason why so many men don't like to get into the "I love you" conversation, because it is open-ended. Very quickly degenerating into the "How much do you love me?" conversation, the "I don't believe you mean it" conversation, and finally the dreaded "Yes, and I'm sure you said the same thing to that bitch you were going out with when I first met you" conversation.
"Yes, Polly. I really really love you," Jack said in a tone that suggested he would have said he loved baboon shit on toast if it would keep the peace.
"Good," said Polly. "Because if I thought you were lying I think I'd kill myself…"
The room was now almost pitch black save for the glowing ends of their cigarettes.
"Or you."
Anyway, it's not that this book is bad, but it's not all that great. The writing isn't what I expected. It's nice from time to time, though.
"Of course I haven't told anybody," said Polly. "I know the rules. I love you…"
Polly waited, as countless women had waited before her, for the echo of that phrase, and, like the vast majority of those women, she was eventually forced to ask for it.
"Well?"
"Well what?" said Jack, lighting another two cigarettes.
"Well, do you love me too?"
Jack rolled his eyes ceilingward. "Of course I love you, Polly, for Christ's sake."
"Well, say it properly, then."
"I just did!"
"No, you didn't. I made you. Say it nicely."
"OK, OK!"
Jack assumed an expression of quiet sincerity. "I love you, Polly. I really love you."
There was a pause.
"But really really? Do you really love me? I mean really."
This is, of course, the reason why so many men don't like to get into the "I love you" conversation, because it is open-ended. Very quickly degenerating into the "How much do you love me?" conversation, the "I don't believe you mean it" conversation, and finally the dreaded "Yes, and I'm sure you said the same thing to that bitch you were going out with when I first met you" conversation.
"Yes, Polly. I really really love you," Jack said in a tone that suggested he would have said he loved baboon shit on toast if it would keep the peace.
"Good," said Polly. "Because if I thought you were lying I think I'd kill myself…"
The room was now almost pitch black save for the glowing ends of their cigarettes.
"Or you."