Just Because We're Sisters Under

Midnight, And The Clock Strikes. It Is Christmas Day, The Werewolves Birthday, The Door Of The Solstice Still Wide Enough Open To Let Them All Slink Through.

It Is Far Easier For A Woman To Lead A Blameless Life Than It Is For A Man; All She Has To Do Is To Avoid Sexual Intercourse Like The Plague.

Home Is Where The Heart Is And Hence A Movable Feast.

We Must All Make Do With The Rags Of Love We Find Flapping On The Scarecrow Of Humanity.

We Do Not Go To Bed In Single Pairs; Even If We Choose Not To Refer To Them, We Still Drag There With Us The Cultural Impedimenta Of Our Social Class, Our Parents' Lives, Our Bank Balances, Our Sexual And Emotional Expectations, Our Whole Biographies-all The Bits And Pieces Of Our Unique Existences.