You can't stay the night: my parents are a bit Flintstonian.

The off-ramp handbrake spin-'n'-sprint, the salt-truck joust, the 10-meter pothole puddle jump — all were good ideas rejected because of logistical problems or the likelihood that we would be sued.

The taste was of sweetened silt and arabica beans that hadn't been gently roasted so much as charred to death in their very own auto-da-fé.

The cave was populated by albino scorpions, blind salamanders, and other troglodytes.