I thought what I wrote yesterday was about a writer I admire called Rachel R. White, but it was actually about me and how I have always over-glamorised the Dostoyevskian/Nabokovian/Chekhovian/RUSSIAN beauty of desolation.

Don’t tell me the moon is shining: show me the glint of light on broken glass.

Anton Chekhov

It was clearly (in retrospect) a ‘Pull your socks up kid, you ain’t no broken princess’ lecture to myself hidden behind a sarcastic literary diatribe. Aiming my bitter pretension at someone else. Or maybe even imagining I was her?

Grow up, little.