David Llewellyn

“Ianto Jones was at his station behind the run-down Tourist Information Centre that served at a front to the clandestine goings on in Torchwood. His bare feet were on his desk, his tie slumped like a crestfallen snake next to an open pizza box, the top two buttons of his shirt undone."Taking it easy, I see?" said Jack, stepping out through the security door that led into the Hub itself. "Well at least someone has the right idea. Whatcha doing there, Sport?""Sport?" said Ianto. "Not sure I like 'Sport' as a term of endearment. 'Sexy is good, if unimaginative. 'Pumpkin' is a bit much, but 'Sport'? No. You'll have to think of another one."Okay, Tiger Pants. Whatcha doing?"Ianto laughed."I..." he said, pausing to swallow a mouthful of pizza, "am having a James Bondathon.""A what?""A James Bondathon. I'm watching my favourite James Bond films in chronological order.""You're a Bond fan?""Oh yes. He's the archetypal male fantasy, isn't he? The man all women want to have, and all men want to be.""Are you sure it's not the other way around?”

“I remember a time when bookshops smelled of books and not coffee.”

“Everything has the quality of a dream when you choose to disconnect yourself from daily interaction with other people, and so, like a dream, you come to question the validity of what you see and hear.”