'And he looks fit. Strong. I worry about you here alone. There are some real boofheads in this building.' 'Harmless boofheads. Anyway, I'm safer with boofheads down the hall than some religious nut-job muscle man in the flat with me.'

Some time during the summer I produced, by request, a ballad for a Girl Guides’ Pageant on the subject of Drake’s Cannon-Ball, a local legend. It was (also by request) in the stanza of ‘Young Lochinvar’, and occupied me three days. The requestress was in raptures, but then she doesn’t know a trochee from an iambus (nor, for that matter – like de la Mare – do I).

There's parts of Mexico they'd take you straight to the hoosegow for just whistlin that.

If you go out in the desert for long without water, the thirst can drive you mad.