Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Have I made any mistakes? I'm not sure if I have used "pretence" correctly, or if it is suitable for my sentence, but I couldn't remember any better word. This is just an exercise.
It had been many years since Clive had been at a party and, when his friend Boris called him and asked him if he would like to come to his birthday party, Clive was dithering. He didn't like crowds and the pretence of being kind, jolly and chatty. He had no desire to talk with some strangers and hear them boasting about their successes in all kinds of fields, their expensive houses, cars, wives, lovers or children. He was tired of human beings, tired of men and women no matter their sexual or religious orientation. They were all predictable and, when he met them, after a while they didn't need to say a word. Clive knew what their next sentences were going to be and where discussions were going to lead. He was on the verge of telling a white lie to avoid hurting Boris, but then how could you turn down a man you had known for decades? After he said yes, he sensed relief in Boris's voice. "Honestly, I believed you would declined," he said.
Clive opened the wardrobe and looked at his suits and jackets. Most of them he had not worn for decades. They smelt of moth repellent and damp and they were evoking memories from good and bad times. This dark blue suit he wore when he won his first literary prise for his novel, thirty years ago, and the brown coat he donned when visiting his wife dying from cancer in hospital. "Christina," he groaned as he touched the soft cloth of the coat.
It had been many years since Clive had been at a party and, when his friend Boris called him and asked him if he would like to come to his birthday party, Clive was dithering. He didn't like crowds and the pretence of being kind, jolly and chatty. He had no desire to talk with some strangers and hear them boasting about their successes in all kinds of fields, their expensive houses, cars, wives, lovers or children. He was tired of human beings, tired of men and women no matter their sexual or religious orientation. They were all predictable and, when he met them, after a while they didn't need to say a word. Clive knew what their next sentences were going to be and where discussions were going to lead. He was on the verge of telling a white lie to avoid hurting Boris, but then how could you turn down a man you had known for decades? After he said yes, he sensed relief in Boris's voice. "Honestly, I believed you would declined," he said.
Clive opened the wardrobe and looked at his suits and jackets. Most of them he had not worn for decades. They smelt of moth repellent and damp and they were evoking memories from good and bad times. This dark blue suit he wore when he won his first literary prise for his novel, thirty years ago, and the brown coat he donned when visiting his wife dying from cancer in hospital. "Christina," he groaned as he touched the soft cloth of the coat.
