So I was reading Alistair McLean and being annoyed at the absurd level of detail in the descriptions of things. The protagonist can't just drink wine, the vintage has to be specified from the wineyard and year down to the faintest notes of aroma. He can't just drive a car, or even a Porsche, or a Porsche 911 or even a customized 1988 Porsche 911, oh no. The exact customizations have to be specified along with what workshop did them. Every. One.
Moving along, the protagonist doesn't just wear a lether jacket. It's a 1967 vintage medium brown calf leather Balmain with a belgian cut and a beige suede collar, and it has been customized by Clarkwell Chapman & Wexham's in London to contain a carefully concealed pocket for his Colt M1911A1 - which took half a chapter to describe by the way, with all its customizations.
At least his 1897 Patek Philippe wrist watch is mint condition...
And then I noticed the glaring omissions. We don't get to know what type of engine pulled that freight train, what kind of cars were in it or even what gauge the railway was or the type of sleepers! And the protagonist lives in - and I quote - "a house".
I would like to have the author sit and read this book to me so I can interrupt him and demand a consistent level of detail.
"Not so fast!" I would say. "Back to that guard dog. What breed was it? What colouration? Was it an American or European standard line? What kennel was it from, who was its sire and by what dam? DO YOUR GOD DAMN RESEARCH!"