Rollerblading is a piece of piss if you know how to roller-skate.

On a rickety low cart, drawn by a decrepit pony, was a large wooden packing-case on which some well-meaning hand had drawn, in black paint which still gleamed wetly in the sun, a rude cross.

The reason she got to him quicker than I did is because Mooring did not turn me aloose as quick as Cox turned her aloose.

Whether you're reading this as an escape from the buzz of events or found it discarded on a chair somewhere (press F to pay respects), let me take this opportunity to give you a warm welcome to Southampton.