People went through life like well handled jugs, collecting chips and scrapes and stains from wear and tear, from holding and pouring life.

I don't like novels that tie everything up in a plot-y way. I always think that's not really true of life, particularly of people in power.

The man had added to his body in a way that was brave and timeless and beyond adornment.

Those partial to drink were hiding faults and dishonesty. They were sloppy souls, even the ones with pleasant manners and fine noses.

At night, in the garden, it occurs to you that it might have been your heart that left you as you reached the capital. Your heart might not have travelled well, closed up in its cavity, quivering and gnawing at the bars of your ribcage during the commute. It might be tracking north now, along edgelands, past spoil-heaps and stands of pylons, under motorway passes, back to the higher ground. Back to him.

There are stories told to him only at this time of year. Fantastic, magical stories, the old Hollier in the woods finding only three red berries, which peel back in the night to reveal gifts of frankincense, gold and myrrh, Christmas in hot deserts, dust-blown countries, the necklace of tears, and the story of the robin.

I'll tell you this, lad: A tattoo says more of a fellow looking at it than it can do of the man who's got it on his back.