The baby romped on my lap like a short stout salmon.
There are not enough poems in praise of bed.
The fatal flaw of gravity; when you are down, everything falls down on you.
noise is a pollution.
We are also rather concerned about our moorhen who went mad while we were in Italy and began to build a nest in a tree. ... she walks about in the tree, looking as uneasy yet persevering as a district visitor in a brothel.
She was heavier than he expected - women always are.