The 50s face was angry, the 60s face was well-fed, the 70s face was foxy. Perhaps it was the right expression: there was a lot to be wary about.

Lying in bed, I abandoned the facts again and was back in Ambrosia.

Life is a campus: in a Greenwich Village bookstore, looking for a New Yorker collection, I asked of an earnest-looking assistant where I might find the humour section. Peering over her granny glasses, she enquired, "Humour studies would that be, sir?"

I cannot bring myself to vote for a woman who has been voice-trained to speak to me as though my dog has just died.

The longer an event is anticipated-a milestone birthday, an eclipse, a new millennium-the more likely it is to be an anti-climax.

Should not the Society of Indexers be known as Indexers, Society of, The?

Never look to politicians to solve your problems, they will only create new ones.