I don't know if there is actually more rain here in England, or if it was just that the rain seemed to be so deliberately annoying. Every drop hit the window with a peevish "Am I bothering you? Does this make you cold and wet? Oh, sorry.

Rory: "People are being serious." Jazza: "There's a serial killer out there. Of course people are being serious." Rory: "Yeah, but what are the chances?" Jazza: "I bet all of the victims thought that." Rory: "But still, what are the chances?" Jazza: "Well, I imagine they are several million to one." Jerome: "Not that high. You're only dealing with a small part of London. And while there might be a million or more people in that area, the Ripper is probably focusing on women, because all of the original victims were women. So halve that--" Jazza: "You really need another hobby.

Being an author means, almost by definition, that you make up characters and then complicate their lives. That's it, really. You make up characters and give them problem after problem after problem.

You could wear the same outfit every single day and no guy - who isn't gay - will notice.

All right. Normal rules apply." "Right." The man walked off, leaving us. "What are the normal rules?" I asked. "He walks away and has a tea break and doesn't ask any questions.

It could have been like a fairy tale. But fairy tales aren't real. Things don't work like that. There's a price for everything.

Lies are a tremendous karmic setback. Keep it up and you'll come back in the next life as something without a spine. You're not fine. And you don't have to be fine.