I’m currently reading a novel written and set in the US in late 40s. I should probably say 1940s in case someone reads this in 30 years time.
There’s a reference to someone living in a flat. Not an apartment, a flat.
The main character also, on one occasion, dined on fish and chips. Not fries.
I found it interesting.
I’m not finished the book yet, so who knows what remains to be discovered.
A few weeks ago, I ordered new glasses. They’re made to order, so I expected to wait a few weeks.
I was surprised when they arrived early last week, sooner than I’d expected. On opening the package, I discovered why I’d received such an excellent service. The lenses hadn’t been fitted.
As instructed, I posted the frames direct to the lab the following day. And received them back today. Again, pretty good service.
Although the lenses appear to be for my reading prescription rather than the distance lenses I’d ordered. I’ve asked whether I should return the frames to the lab. And whether the second pair I’d subsequently ordered will have the correct lenses.
A mix up with the timing of my second in command’s course dates meant I needed to book transport home tomorrow (she now needs to stay until Wednesday, but I have work stuff that day).
So I stole a book.
A man’s book.
A gem from 1968.
My new reading material has arrived.
It’s a second edition, from 1955, the year the book was released, 20 years after the author’s death.
It was actually written in the 20s, but wasn’t published in his lifetime, or for a couple of decades later, since it didn’t reflect well on the RAF.
I’ve only skimmed a few pages, but it’s very well written, with an unusual style.