The Art of the Arse

Just about everything was different.  It was a different day, at a different time, in a different place.  But for all that was different, we immediately got into the writing groove and set to work on the tricky bit of the big thing. It might be that it doesn't really matter where we write, or at what time, or in whatever language.  Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose, as they say somewhere different.  I have absolutely no idea what it means, but it sounds good.

Advanced Post-Structuralist Scriptwriting Theory with Elvis Presley

When it reaches Bristol, the River Avon courses through the deep Avon Gorge, spanned by Brunel's wonderous Clifton Suspension Bridge, and then snakes its way seductively through the great city.  Along the riverbanks, harbours, locks, and beaches there live thousands of creatures, from ducks, gulls and other seabirds, and rare dragonflies and hundreds of other insects, to voles and badgers and squirrels and mice, foxes, beavers and bats.  And every week as I casually stroll along the river to our usual meeting place, every single bloody one of these bastard creatures tries to kill me.

The secret sex lives of skeletons

Naomi was telling me about her days at University.  In Biology class, Naomi led a cabal of michief-makers who would routinely muck around with the full size human anatomical model skeletons, positioning them into rude or silly poses.  It was a waiting game to see how long it would take the lecturer to notice, possibly when they became very suspicious of all the sniggering.  As the term progressed, the skeleton poses would get more and more outlandish (props such as cigars, wigs, or vegetables might be introduced), and the sniggering would get louder and longer. The lecturers, of course, have over the long years learned to expect a certain amount of ribbing.  Education is a wonderful thing.