I Run Six-to-eight Miles A Day, Plus

In Books, Day Breaks, And Night Falls. In Life, Night Rises From The Ground. The Day Hangs On For As Long As It Can, Bright And Eager, Absolutely And Positively The Last Guest To Leave The Party, While The Ground Darkens, Oozing Night Around Your Ankles, Swallowing For Ever That Dropped Contact Lens, Making You Miss That Low Catch In The Gully On The Last Ball Of The Last Over.

It's A Basic Truth Of The Human Condition That Everybody Lies. The Only Variable Is About What.

I Was Shown Into A Room. A Red Room. Red Wallpaper, Red Curtains, Red Carpet. They Said It Was A Sitting-room, But I Don’t Know Why They’d Decided To Confine Its Purpose Just To Sitting. Obviously, Sitting Was One Of The Things You Could Do In A Room This Size; But You Could Also Stage Operas, Hold Cycling Races, And Have An Absolutely Cracking Game Of Frisbee, All At The Same Time, Without Having To Move Any Of The Furniture. It Could Rain In A Room This Big.

Clive Dunn, As I Understand It, Retired To The South Of Spain, Where He Worked Extensively In Watercolours. I Don't Own Any Of Clive Dunn's Watercolours. I Loved Him In 'dad's Army,' Loved Him. But Not Enough To Actually Seek Out His Watercolour Work.

There's An Undeniable Pleasure In Stepping Into An Open-top Sports Car Driven By A Beautiful Woman. It Feels Like You're Climbing Into A Metaphor.