From the moſt able, to him that can but ſpell: There you are number’d. We had rather you were weighd. Eſpecially, when the fate of all Bookes depends vpon your capacities : and not of your heads alone, but of your purſes. Well! It is now publique, & you wil ſtand for your priuiledges wee know : to read, and cenſure. Do ſo, but buy it firſt.
from the Introduction to the First Folio edition of Shakespeare’s Works, 1623.
The last time I went to the dentist, I heard those three magic words: just a clean.
But it was not always this way. On the contrary, I was once told I needed no fewer than six fillings. And practically the first time I visited a dentist without needing fillings, it was time for… a root canal.
I credit P.G. Wodehouse with the change in my fortunes. (And flossing. Always floss.)
I had a dream about a year and a half ago, a vivid and exciting dream, full of plot and action. I scrawled it down on waking, and then hastily typed up my scrawled notes before I forgot what they said and became unable to read them. That was the sixteenth of November, 2017 (an otherwise fairly uneventful day in world affairs).
About three months later, the dream drew me away from what I was supposed to be doing, and I started rolling the idea around, probing the ever-interesting question of What Happened Next? Why has he got that orange thing round his neck? Is that his granny? And what’s that girl with the heavy fringe glowering about?