[Lizzie Bennington to a reporter who has asked for her opinion about Jack Archer's celebrated thighs.] __hen you come back from a set down and bring the match to a final set tiebreak and are a point away from winning the match, only to have what looks like an extremely fit player call a time out because of a cramp and then watch that player sit back and casually converse and laugh while you do your best to keep your mental focus and your body moving so you don__ grow cold and cramp yourself, I hardly think you__ concern yourself with his burgeoning manhood, let alone his thighs!

He was working that charm right now on the trainer who kneeled before him and touched his thigh as though it were the thigh of David, Michelangelo__ glorious statue come to life right here on court.

There are no guarantees with love,_ her father said, reading her mind. __ou can__ hold some of it back, like a deposit, so you can get your money back if something goes wrong. You have to give yourself wholeheartedly, whatever the cost.

Coralie Casey was the kind of woman calories were made for; that dewy peaches-and-cream complexion, glossy cherry lips, the succulence of her body beneath that orange, silky dress. A cornucopia of curves, you could say, except it was probably better not to think about horns of plenty.

Outside, the sunlight had turned pale lemon, but the studio remained cool. The white walls and white-tiled splashback behind the sink were made more clinical by the metal tables which looked as if they__ originally been intended for use in an operating theatre. Even though they were laid out with brushes and paints rather than forceps and retractors, the effect was equally daunting; both sets of tools could open you up in strange and unexpected ways.

He__ been a bit grumpy since Potato Day.__he heard Gethin choke back a laugh.__e set up an all-day workshop on all things potato after reading up about successful winter events at other nurseries,_ she went on, unable to hide her own amusement. __t was a terrible failure. Hardly anyone turned up apart from our poet, Wilfie, who wrote a Potat-Ode to celebrate the occasion.