Literary loafer

I used to read as many as four library books within a week. I used to “devour” books (mainly murder mysteries and preferably written by Australians or Englishmen). Writing was my profession, and words were my obsession for many years.
As a child I used to marvel at my father’s obvious need to read and noisily edit the morning newspaper, to listen to radio news and complain loudly about bad grammar and errors in pronunciation. I suppose I inherited his respect for our version of the language that, some believe, is about all that separates us from the apes.
Well, our language is vastly different now than it was when my Dad was around, and I don’t think he’d be impressed. But, despite that, I don’t think any of us have the right to really complain.
Very few school teachers have known more than the basic rules of English grammar for years and years, so why should their students? The old girl (gra’ma) is well past her glory days anyway. It’s “communication” that’s important, not theories and fancy rules from the past – and why not?
Life is faster, pressures are greater, and “efficiency” is the watchword for almost every activity.
I have, therefore, become a “literary loafer.”
One book per week is enough for me now – enough for my straining eyes at least, even though I skip more of the boring bits than ever as I try to finish the job in a day, as in the past.
I know what they’re saying in the papers and on the air, and I only wince “just a bit” at the graceless way so many of them say it.
All I need is books in larger type!