From the New Statesman: "soap-operaish predictability... tawdry prose.... not only is [Shone's] novel patronising, it is emotionally redundant, inaccurate and, worst of all, unamusing".
He thinks all that was easy?
I am, of course, going to be taking a leaf out of Sylvester Stallone's book: I will cauterise the wound with a piece of still-smoking shrapnel, then climb into the branches of the nearest tree where I will sew myself back up again, using a segment of my own gut, before loping off into the forest with a cold hard flame of vengeance in my eyes and a hunting knife strapped to my thigh.
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