Ah, twitterpation: that state of ephemeral bliss we all have such an awkward relationship with.

The Master's footsteps were neither unlistened to nor unlistened for.

My old computer finally gave up the ghost the other day.

The hovel stood in the centre of what had once been a vegetable garden, but was now a patch of rank weeds. Surrounding this, almost like a zareba, was an irregular ring of gorse and brambles, an unclaimed vestige of the original common.