There’s something about hospital walls; though only made of bricks and plaster, when you’re inside them the noise, the reality of the teeming city beyond, disappears; it’s just outside the door, but it might as well be a magical land far, far away.

Gerry?' Laurel had to strain to hear thought the noise on the other end of the line. 'Gerry? Where are you?' 'London. A phone booth on Fleet Street.' 'The city still has working phone booths?' 'It would appear so. Unless this is the Tardis, in which case I'm in serious trouble.

So much in life came down to timing.

We're all unique, just never in the ways we imagine.

She says there are stories everywhere and that people who wait for the right one to come along before setting pen to paper end up with very empty pages.

Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?

Children don’t require of their parents a past and they find something faintly unbelievable, almost embarrassing, in parental claims to a prior existence.