The Only Time I Ever Iron The

Stars On Our Door, Stars In Our Eyes, Stars Exploding In The Bits Of Our Brains Where The Common Sense Should Have Been

[t]ea, That Uniquely English Meal, That Unnecessary Collation At Which No Stimulants--neither Alcohol Nor Meat--are Served, That Comforting Repast Of Which To Partake Is As Good As Second Childhood.

How Far Does A Pretence Of Feeling, Maintained With Absolute Conviction, Become Authentic?

Anxiety Is The Beginning Of Conscience, Which Is The Parent Of The Soul But Is Not Compatible With Innocence.

Nostalgia, The Vice Of The Aged.