There is a certain degree of 'steampunkishness' that creeps into my books.

Class clowns become actors.

Truly competent Literary Detectives are as rare as truthful men, Mr. Tweed – you can see her potential as clearly as I can. Frightened of someone stealing your thunder, perhaps?

There was a picture of Don Hector on the wall and next to the television was a phonograph with a large collection of cylinders. I looked through them. They were a mixture of old favourites – Dark Side of the Moon, Rumours, Ziggy Stardust – mixed with jazz and a little Puccini.

Sometimes I wonder if the human race isn’t collectively as mad as a sack of door knobs.

Businessman, philanthropist, large egg.

Inspector Turner’s hope to marry a wealthy Mr. Right and leave the service stayed just that – a hope – as so often Mr. Right turned out to be either Mr. Liar, Mr. Drunk or Mr. Already Married.

I’ve got six months to sort out the hackers, get the Japanese knotweed under control and find an acceptable form of narcissus.

My temper began to rise – always a bad sign. I would probably end up doing something stupid.

In order to fail, first you have to try.