Those Single-track Military Minds Never Think To

It Was Too Important A Matter, This Talking To People, And Listening To Them, To Do It Lightly Or Often.

The Lone Ranger Of Vampires. Did That Make Me Tonto?

My Books Happen. They Tend To Blast In From Nowhere, Seize Me By The Throat, And Howl 'write Me! Write Me Now!' But They Rarely Stand Still Long Enough For Me To See What And Who They Are, Before They Hurtle Away Again. And So I Spend A Lot Of Time Running After Them, Like A Thrown Rider After An Escaped Horse, Saying 'wait For Me! Wait For Me!' And Waving My Notebook In The Air.

The Bus Timetable Sites Are All Run By An Inbred Cabal Of Malicious Gnomes. Who Don’t Speak English. And Who Don’t Count Very Well Either. Or Tell Time. And They Certainly Can’t Read Maps.

Roses Are For Love. Not Silly Sweet-hearts' Love But The Love That Makes You And Keeps You Whole, Love That Gets You Through The Worst Your Life'll Give You And That Pours Out Of You When You're Given The Best Instead.