They were small, brightly coloured, happy little creatures who secreted some of the nastiest toxins in the world, which is why the job of looking after the large vivarium where they happily passed their days was given to first-year students, on the basis that if they got things wrong there wouldn't be too much education wasted.

Watching a dog try to chew a large piece of toffee is a pastime fit for gods. Mr. Fusspot's mixed ancestry had given him a dexterity of jaw that was truly awesome. He somersaulted happily around the floor, making faces like a rubber gargoyle in a washing machine.

And what had he wanted? He'd never sat down to think about it. But mostly, he wanted yesterday to be different from today.

Just because something is a metaphor doesn't mean it can't be real.

He looked up at them, a scruffy Napoleon with his laces trailing, exiled to a rose-trellised Elba.

There's always a story. It's all stories, really. The sun coming up every day is a story. Everything's got a story in it. Change the story, change the world.

My character - and for that matter my worst habits - could only be described by someone else. You can't open a box with the crowbar inside it.