A mistake in the kitchen one day, and while the rest of the household sup on the golden broth of a cockerel, out comes a bowl of thin, snottery gruel for Mhairi.

Hoping to jolt her out of her deep meditation, he sprightly added, Believe me, Ma, when you get horny, you'll know it. You might be verklempt, but you'll know what to do, he maintained. / Rayn Wickett, a shocked Lizzy rebounded, watch your tongue. I'm still your mother, or have you forgotten that?

Exactly the same technique may still be seen whenever we come upon 'f—' or 'f***' in print; every reader supplies the missing 'uck', but the Whitehousian proprieties are observed.

‘You must be moped to death in this dull place; and next week is Hobson Jobson. Can’t you throw some dust any how, in the eyes of the cat, and meet me and Philip somewhere, and so get away to the Tamacha.’