Herself said she wanted to read my embryonic book.
I said it wasn’t ready.
She said I must have written something and she’d like to read that.
Now nothing in this house is ever straightforward. She said she wanted to read it but she didn’t want to read it. Apparently she wanted me to read it out loud to her.
I have enough problems reading my own shit as I tend to be hyper critical. However my criticisms pale into insignificance compared to Herself. I didn’t relish reading my stuff out loud knowing that I would be interrupted every few seconds by “that’s shite” or “that’s rubbish”. I had to do a drop of lateral thinking.
I did a scratch around the Interwebs and found a programme that promised to read my magnum opus out loud. I found one, installed it and ran it. To my amazement it worked. The bloke “reading” the book has a very flat American voice but he seems to get the hang of it. I translated the whole thing into an audio file and dumped it on the little box connected to the television in Herself’s room.
I fired it up and left her to it.
It’s quite strange sitting here, hearing this weird voice reading out my shit in another room.
I had stressed in no uncertain terms that the stuff I had written was a rough draft and needed massive editing. She got as far as chapter three before announcing that it sounds like a rough draft and badly needs a lot of editing.