I was at Good Samaritan Hospital in Los Angeles for a radioactive iodine scan, this one at diagnostic levels—less radiation than the therapeutic levels I would eventually endure. I drank my first atomic cocktail: a vial of liquid radioactive iodine diluted in what seemed like gallons of water.

St Peter's cult, which dates from the earliest period in Brittany, is represented in the toponymy only in the radical form of his name, without hypocorism or mutation.

He has wittily redone a tardy epithalamium and some nursery rhymes (Three blind eunuchs), and deftly catches the cozy lawnfuls of plastic dwarfs and flamingos, outside the kenneled people.

Can they think me so broken, so debased / With corporal servitude, that my mind ever / Will condescend to such absurd commands?