It had been weeks since all the flatmates had sat down together for a meal. Communication was breaking down. Written notes had begun to appear all over the house; please don′t touch this food, I bought it especially for Hermione[…].
The script employed malapropism to great effect.
I remember that image so clearly, how my first thought was that it looked like a tiny above ground pool and a small squadron of pink men lying on their backs, tanning. “I was caught red-handed. Well . . . pink-handed.
Veale looked up from behind his paperwork with the unfussable equanimity of a kung fu master. 'Shut the door, please, Murray.'
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