“Perhaps I was being picky, but I really didn’t think being able to spell orgasm without being spotted a vowel was asking too much.”

“I hate it when this happens. You meet someone you think is nice enough and they turn out to be a raging bigot. It’s so much easier to hate racists when they fulfil my expectation of being all-round arseholes.”

“...sometimes we can’t enjoy the bloom of a rose because we’re too busy crying over being pricked by the thorn.”

“You're staring at me.""I am not. I'm just... thinking. Without blinking.”

“Surgeons don’t cut you open for fun. They would probably rather be playing rugby or getting very drunk and accusing each other of being gay. That is what they like doing best. They will only cut you open if they really have to. If you decide you don’t want to be operated on, they will be only too happy to have one less patient on their ever-growing waiting lists. Very few surgeons are good at the touchy-feely sensitive stuff, but then us touchy-feely GPs would be rubbish at fixing a broken pelvis or repairing a burst aorta. You should see the mess I make trying to carve a roast chicken! We each have our skills and if it were me that was in need of an operation, I would happily put up with a slightly insensitive posh rugby boy if I knew that he was a good surgeon and could put me back together again.”

“As long as we're both alive and our hearts are still beating, there's still a chance. I won't go down without a fight, and I know you won't either. That gives us a chance.”

“What’s your name?” I ask again. “Chris,” he says. “Chris Young.” I exhale dramatically, blowing my bangs out of my eyes. “I can take you,” I reply. “But if you try anything, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. Seriously.” He almost smiles. “Yes, ma’am.”