BogMail

Normally, he would not have blamed him for avoiding the latter because the jackets of s

ales, in the sickly yellow waistcoat he wore on weekdays, was perched on a high stool behind the bar, reading the racing results to Old Crubog.

grown lovingly in the sandy soil by the estuary and as smooth to the touch as sea-scoured beach pebbles. The man who was not moved to eat the jackets of such potatoes was nothing if not a scoundrel.

In the warmth of her whisperings he found poetry, even a sense of afflatus.

The rule we follow in London is no fewer than the Graces and no more than the Muses.’

after all she’s mine in a way she can never be yours.

His or hers, I’ll be the one who’ll feel it.

Sometimes it smells like a field of rotting cabbage and sometimes like sweaty feet

I came to steal a pear,

Though the Canon might conceivably shoot you on the run, he’d never stoop low enough to shoot a sitting duck.’