Perhaps host and guest is really the happiest relation for father and son.

We can trace almost all the disasters of English history to the influence of Wales.

He lay back for a little in his bed thinking about the smells of food . . . of the intoxicating breath of bakeries and dullness of buns. . . . He planned dinners, of enchanting aromatic foods . . . endless dinners, in which one could alternate flavour with flavour from sunset to dawn without satiety, while one breathed great draughts of the bouquet of old brandy.

Beavers bred in captivity, inhabiting a concrete pool, will, if given the timber, fatuously go through all the motions of damming an ancestral stream.

Anyone could write a novel given six weeks, pen paper, and no telephone or wife.

Every Englishman abroad, until it is proved to the contrary, likes to consider himself a traveller and not a tourist.

If politicians and scientists were lazier, how much happier we should all be