Actually, I haven’t done any this week. Chapter 17 is next.
March 10, 2009
February 17, 2009
By this time, I have completed the next four posts, which covers up to chapter 14.
February 5, 2009
And I was lying there, a bit used up, when the door opened and the butler manifested himself.
“I have brought your breakfast, sir.”
This had the effect of bucking me up still more, for breakfast in bed is always breakfast in bed, until he went out and reappeared with the tray, and I perceived that all it contained was milk, some stuff that looked like sawdust, and a further consignment of those blighted prunes.
February 3, 2009
“If you ever want another horned toad, you get it from the gardener with the squint and the wart on his nose. He’s always around the place. Just tell him it’s for putting in Miss Brinkmeyer’s bed, and he won’t charge you anything.”
January 31, 2009
“It would have been the easiest of tasks to bring her a red apple. You could have done it on your head. Instead of which,” I said bitterly, “you go about the place putting Mexican horned toads in her bed.”
January 29, 2009
“A ghastly imp’s in there. It poked its head over the back of my chair – absolutely cheek by jowl – and said: ‘Eggy, old top, I’ve come for you, Eggy!'”
January 27, 2009
January 24, 2009
“Haven’t you ever heard of Sister Lora Luella Stott?
“No. Who is she?”
“She is the woman who is leading California out of the swamp of alcohol.”
“Is there a swamp of alcohol in these parts? What an amazing country America is. Talk about every modern convenience. Do you mean you can simply go there and lap?”
January 22, 2009
With a terrific effort I would wrench my mind away from ice-cream, and – bingo! – in a flash I would be thinking of doughnuts.
I ought to have told myself, I reflected, that you never know when you may not be going to be turned into a kid of twelve, and that, such an occurrence being always on the cards, it is simply loony not to have a little something handy in the ice-box.
January 20, 2009
We Havershots are men of action, even when we have been turned into kids with golden curls smelling, I now perceived, of a rather offensive brand of brilliantine.