Here I Sit, Alone At 60, Bald

It Was The Kind Of Library He Had Only Read About In Books.

We Have Fish And Chips, Which W. And I Fetch From The Shop In Settle Market-place. Some Local Boys Come In And There Is A Bit Of Chat Between Them And The Fish-fryer About Whether The Kestrel Under The Counter Is For Sale. Only When I Mention It To W. Does He Explain Kestrel Is Now A Lager. I Imagine The Future Is Going To Contain An Increasing Number Of Incidents Like This, Culminating With A Man In A White Coat Saying To One Kindly, "and Now Can You Tell Me The Name Of The Prime Minister?"

It's The One Species I Wouldn't Mind Seeing Vanish From The Face Of The Earth. I Wish They Were Like The White Rhinosix Of Them Left In The Serengeti National Park, And All Males.

I'm All In Favour Of Free Expression Provided It's Kept Rigidly Under Control.

The Breed Never Dies. Sapper, Buchan, Dornford Yates, Practitioners In That School Of Snobbery Withviolence That Runs Like A Thread Of Good-class Tweed Through Twentieth-century Literature.