Men don't ask other men if they're getting home OK, they just assume that beneath the frail, weak exterior lurks a muscle-building kung fu master fearless of ever being mugged.

You want to know a secret?""Always.""My real name is Dave.""I see.""This doesn't seem to amuse you.""I met Jeremy the troll a few nights ago.""Seriously?""Seriously. Also known as the Mighty Raaaarrggh! Although...I can sorta see why you changed the name. 'Dave' isn't knwon for its mysterious, mystic sexiness.

So...I suggest you try and get control over your more unusual nature, see if you can't coax those claws away, and I'll try very, very hard not to throw up over what's left of your shoes. How does that sound?

The exorcist had a slightly Australian tinge to his voice, and the laid-back, whatever-comes-next attitude of a man who had suddenly realised two degrees short of a sunstroke that exorcism was the perfect career choice he'd never been offered in school.

The van stank of cabbage and cornered like a drunken elephant. It would do.

Whoever had said in the guidebooks that the bum bag was a sensible device against theft had lied; no single item of dressware ever invented cried out "mug me" more than a pouch of zip-up plastic suspended by your groin.

I got dressed. You can't be Midnight Mayor in your underpants.