We were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors," she told him once. "I was paper and she was rock so I lived and she died.

I think that we vote, not to get the best party in, but to keep the worst party out.

It's too late. Seventeen-year-olds don't need fathers. Oh god. I'm thirty-four years old and I need a father. I can't even begin to think what my daughter needs.

And if I get a little chemically imbalanced in the head, like we all know I tend to get sometimes, and I don't want my parents or brother knowing, Will's like, 'We'll deal with it.' He's never said, 'I'll fix it up.' He just says, 'You're not up to going back to uni to finish your Honours this year? Big deal. There's next year. We'll deal with it.'" She nods. "That's what he does well.

We're so different. You're an intellectual. I'm an idiot." "Don't say that," I yelled. "You're not an idiot, you stupid idiot.

He nods. "My mum has one just the same and you have no idea how disturbing it is that it's turning me on.

He came third in the state for woodwork,” Francesca explains. “We actually had to be proud of him for a whole week. Tough times.