'Well,' she said, 'you can take your job and you can stuff it, because...' She stopped dead. 'My God,' she whispered, 'I've been wanting to say that to somebody all my life, and now I actually have. Whee!' She pulled herself together, straightened her back and picked up her handbag. 'Sorry,' she said, 'but I'm through.'

And it doesn't work, does it? Your hair is too coarse to flop like a wild Tay salmon or a swatch of Savile Row suiting, your hair bristles, like a bog brush, like a suburban doormat.

O Timothy, keep that which is committed to thy trust, avoiding vain and profane babblings, and oppositions of science falsely so called: Which some professing have erred concerning the faith. Grace be with thee. Amen.

Bichel asked chippers several thought-provoking questions about potato procurement, storage and handling.