The Hermit was known to be pretty sniffy about disciples who returned in failure. There was a wall of the institute layered with their skins- an ingenious display that encouraged vigor in his students, as well as nicely keeping out the drafts.

Pardon me, Highness, a women waits whithout." "Whithout what?

He was transfixed at the sight of the lords and ladies of his realm running about like demented chickens.

Check out that one at the end. He's taken the form of a footstool. Weird...but somehow I like his style." "That is a footstool.

The afrit batted his eyelashes with a ostentatious lack of concern. "Indeed? Have you a name?" "A name?" I cried. "I have MANY names! I am Bartimaeus! I am Sakhr al-Jinni! I am N'gorso the Mighty and the Serpent of Silver Plumes!" I paused dramatically. The young man looked blank. "Nope never heard of you. Now if you'll just-

Fiftey years isn't too bad. With luck you might see it happen when your a sweet,old granny,dandling big fat babies on your knee. Actully"-he held up a hand,interrupting Kitty's cry of protest-"no,that's wrong. My projection is incorrect." "Good." "You'll never be a sweet old granny. Let's say,'sad,lonely old biddy' instead.

Getting that first draft out is a horribly hard grind, but that (perversely) is where the joy of it lies.