Growing up, my favourites were the Witches (examining the scalp of every woman I meet) and TheTwits (gave me anxiety attacks every time I was offered tomato spaghetti for fear that I am actually eating worms). Eventually, I graduated to histwisted short stories like Lamb to the Slaughter, which thrilled and terrified me in equal measure.
Today, I thought about how I probably only have 300 more books to go before I die (assuming that I live to be a 100, and that I read on average 4 books a year), and got very cross because I was at work looking at excel spreadsheets. Well, I guess it's time to toss out all the icky finance stuff.
The Wormy Spaghetti, aka the my biggest fucking nightmare as a child.
His granddaughter, Sophie Dahl, wrote about him here. The man calls his cigarettes gaspers. Swoon.
“There are many different kinds of bravery. There’s the bravery of thinking of others before one’s self. Now, your father has never brandished a sword nor fired a pistol, thank heavens. But he has made many sacrifices for his family, and put away many dreams.”
“Where did he put them?”
“He put them in a drawer. And sometimes, late at night, we take them out and admire them. But it gets harder and harder to close the drawer… He does. And that is why he is brave.”
— Conversation between Mrs. Darling and Michael, Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie
I have imposed on myself a month of no alcohol (MONA for short) During this period of extremely trying time, I apologise to anybody who meets me for the first time because I am likely to be absolutely un-charming.