What really stuck in Alf’s craw, was the clock mender. That hor-uddy-olo-gist detective. He was a good man. A quiet man. But then it’s the quiet ones you have to watch!

Mary, we met in a pub. As you weren’t banging a tambourine, I understand you weren’t selling the word of God.

Griselda, satisfied she’d solved the riddle, and the pressure relieved, farted. She prescribed a bowl of tansy, good for killing worms and cleansing the bowels.

Writing is like knitting. Stitch after stitch, word by word, and before you know it you have a book ... or a jumper!

All people wore protective shells, but inside, one emotion governed them, fear.

The hall erupted into punches, blows, and kicks. The dancing ended but the band played on. The older men escorted the women from the premises and so ended a bloody-good night.

That’s the difference between them and us. ‘Them’ view foxes as vermin, and ‘us’ identify with the fox.

Jim slept deeply, lulled by the rhythmic rumble of the purring Pye.

She fell on the bread and cheese as if she were a lioness. Did lions eat cheese? He didn’t know. He knew Mrs Prater’s kitten ate cheese. He ate anything. Poor bloody animal. Still, he was a slum cat, no reason why his life should be better than a humans' sad ruddy existence.

You seek to torment. But I am not a witch. Trial me; I will not confess to the craft.”“I don’t blame you for being a witch. I condemn you for not accepting the burden of your talent. Now open that door.