A gentleman named W. Shakespeare scored a blob in the Worcestershire v. Lancashire match. We understand that he got out because the ball pitched on a damned spot.

I felt the sick certainty that the thing had antennae, a sense unknown to human beings—a guidance system like the sonar of a bat, the instinct of a Capistrano swallow, the built-in controls of an SAM missile.

The chimney corner was full of cobwebs.

“Is a chork chopsticks crossed with a fork?” “Uh-huh. And it's not at all weird that you asked.”