There was a coursing club, of which my husband was slip-steward and a most devoted adherent to the sport.

Then fine clothes were only for “Kings and Courtiers;” but now it would make “a horse break his crupper with laughing to see Joan Fiddle Faddle, whose portion amounts to two groats and two pence, decked up with ribbons and flowers as fine as a Bartholomew Baby!

Precisely because the tenor and mood of the male liberation efforts so far have been one of self-accusation, self-hate, and a repetition of feminist assertions, I believe it is doomed to failure in its present form.

After listening to Cliff Osmond, a huge, 225-pound actor, rehearse a song he was to sing as part of his role in Kiss Me, Stupid, Billy observed, not unkindly, You have Van Gogh's ear for music.