I have no phobias. Phobias are irrational. My fears are rational and CAREFULLY CULTIVATED, like roses.

I looked at the stained-glass image of the lamb in the window above me, but that only reminded me that lambs are famous for being led to slaughter, or sometimes hanging out with lions in ill-advised relationships.

It was fine," I said stiffly. "We played Mouse Trap." "Is that what they're calling it these days?" she asked, throwing me a terrible grin. "I have to go give Rachel a quick bath. Feel free to make yourself some cocoa or whatever you like!" She stopped short of adding "...future child-bride of my only son.

Go see old virgins! Now ask a strange boy out, you shy, Retarded thing!

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.

Writing is one of the few careers for which you essentially train yourself, the other two major ones being juggling and pickpocketing.

She introduced herself to my parents with one of her mighty, bunny-crushing handshakes. (I'd never seen Claudia crush a bunny, to be fair, but that's the approximate level of pressure.)