So don’t then; maybe we should consider dropping the journal’s togglability.

Here, too . . . are a kindly priest, a mysterious hermit, a good-hearted mother, a love-smitten young noblewoman, flashing swordplay, and taverns and palaces teeming with cooks and bakers and servants and idlers and criminals, all brought to vivid life by a well-chosen dozen-member cast of quick-change artists.

One can only hope that their fanaticism will come to a peaceful end and who knows we may have quran thumping evangelists (seems like this net is already full of them) which is still better than the sword thumping fanatics!

“Well, let's hope you're right, darling. In the meantime,” said Kipper, “if I don't get that whisky-and-soda soon, I shall disintegrate. Would you mind if I went in search of it, Mrs Travers?” “It's the very thing I was about to suggest myself. Dash along and drink your fill, my unhappy young stag at eve.” “I'm feeling rather like a restorative, too,” said Bobbie. “Me also,” I said, swept along on the tide of the popular movement. “Though I would advise,” I said, when we were outside, “making it port. More authority. We'll look in on Swordfish. He will provide.” We found Pop Glossop in his pantry polishing silver, and put in our order. He seemed a little surprised at the inrush of such a multitude, but on learning that our tongues were hanging out obliged with a bottle of the best …