You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to change their name. No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask.
Excerpt: Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Doing? It’s Saturday, I’ve been outside cleaning out my flower pots, mulching and bedding them down for the winter to come. Only problem, it’s 75 degrees and the roses are still blooming and it’s almost November…