Random Jottings

The girl had style. She once went to a Fancy Dress Party as a small plastic container of shampoo. You should have seen the way she sashayed into the room.

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The heavy got heavy. He needed information. He grabbed the man by the lapels and threw him down on to a bean-bag, which burst. The man spilled the beans.

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MISPRINT IN MILITARY BULLETIN: The camp was erected with commendable speed, though the latrines inevitably remained something of a makeshit arrangement.

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A double bed is one in which
Every time you move a-
Bout you feel an angry twitch
And lose a bit more duvet.

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I love it when in an old book you come across a phrase to which the passage of time has added a new meaning. It’s like all those Jane Austen characters who keep ‘exposing themselves’. Recently, in Allan Quatermaine by Rider Haggard, I found this comment on the benefits of a good night’s sleep: ‘It’s like going to bed one man and getting up another.’

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Newspaper ad: COSMETIC SURGERY SPECIAL ON CHINS − TWO FOR ONE OFFER.

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We prepared the Greek salad earlier. By the time our guests arrived, it was a feta compli.

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Cast your bread upon the waters, and it will come back soggy.

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No one but a fool ever crossed Enid Blyton. She knew where the Noddies were buried.

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ACTOR: I’ve just been cast as William Tell. It is a Swiss role.

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He had been meek all his life, and went on waiting quietly for the day when he would inherit the earth.

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I’ve suddenly realised that ‘hutzpah’ rhymes with ‘footspa’. Is it worth writing a whole musical to get in that one rhyme?

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It‘s a bit like my idea for an alcoholic‘s version of Through The Looking Glass. I couldn’t get any further than ‘“Curaçao and Curaçao,” said Alice.’

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Then there’s the fact that the hotel chain ‘Mövenpick’ sounds uncannily like the name of the English author of Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake. But opportunities for the right context to arrive in which one could dazzle people with that particular pun could be few and far between.

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Depression is like picking at your own scabs and then chewing what you’ve picked off.

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For no very good reason, I was trying to think of a fictional name for one of the new wave of Scandinavian Noir crime writers. I came up with Turgid Glümsdottir.

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EPITAPH ON AN AIR HOSTESS

Here lies a girl whose duties were
(Before Death’s Pilot summoned her)
Sidling up and down the aisle
With plastic trays and plastic smile
And serving, with each plastic meal,
Her plastic-packaged sex appeal.
But now her final flight’s begun.
Her eternal safety belt’s undone
And, as her drinks were, so is she.
Now, forever, duty free.

Mrs Pargeter's Principle

A cozy featuring the return of Mrs Pargeter For Mrs Pargeter, it is a matter of principle that she should complete any of her late husband's unfinished business. Amongst the many bequests he made to her, perhaps the most valuable is his little black book, in which he listed all the people who ever worked for him, with details of their particular skill sets. This means that whenever Mrs P has a crime to solve she can readily contact someone with the relevant expertise to help in her enquiries. Attending the funeral of the rich and respected Sir Normington Winthrop, because his is one of the names in the little black book, Mrs Pargeter sets out to discover the connection between Sir Normington and her late husband. Her investigations will draw her into a shady world of gun-runners, shifty politicians - and a kidnapped vicar.

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