“Back on the ferry, I sip some vodka on the rocks and have a chat with God.Me: (desperately) What the *&%$# am I going to do?God:Me: (surprised) Really? After all those Sundays of being a back up singer for Jesus, you got nothing to say?God:Me: (humbly) Help me out here.”

“Am I doing what I really want to be doing? Absolutely not, yet I haven't ruled out that I'll get back into the mess. But after having my ass kicked day in and day out for ten years, it's about time that I have some life left in me.”

“What are you doing Saturday or Sunday? I’m free this weekend. But come Monday I go back to being a slave.”

“Because you know that's all I needs, all I wants, is for you to try to run, to turn your back on me and run. I know you aint going to. Because all you got to beat is me. I got to beat old Carothers. Get your pistol.""No," the other said. "Go home. Get out of here. Tonight I will come to your house-----""After this?" Lucas said. "Me and you, in the same country, breathing the same air even? No matter what you could say, what you could even prove so I would have to believe it, after this? Get your pistol.”

“They are closing the mine in two weeks, they say. Six days a week bumping down in the gondola, pecking out the rocks and hauling them back up, doing it again the next day for twenty-seven years, one cave-in, three thin raises, and a failed strike. Where am I going to go every day, what am I going to do with all that sunshine?”

“I am back in London in a couple of days and looking forward to Sunday. Here is what we are doing. 1. Going to see my favourite mad transgender folk singer at the Roundhouse. 2. Then I am going to feed you tapas in a little place by Mornington Crescent. 3. Then we will go home in opposite directions and I will stare at my silent phone for weeks, wondering what happened. Or we will go for a dirty hump on Primrose Hill. Or maybe we will just have an awkward kiss/hug loaded with the promise of more next time.  ”