God, hes left as on aur oun.
Quirks.
On the one hand, I don’t imagine it’s all that common to hear people talking about slipstreaming their stories and think you’re going to stumble over the poor piece of fiction with fifteen other naked men at the back of Wilson’s bakery. —Oh, that poor Danny Slepstrini…
On the other, I can’t be the only person in the world with a mad mad crush on Miranda Richardson’s imperiously petulant Queen from the Elizabethan Blackadder. Can I?
Commenting is closed for this article.
