“What do you think you’re doing?”

On the plus side, there were no rioters in sight but on the minus side this was probably because everywhere I looked was on fire.

Despite my mum being from a small village in the middle of a forest, I’m not a country person. I don’t like my bacon sandwich to be curiously snuffling at my fingers. But sometimes being police means holding your breath and fondling a pig.

A physical expression of formae. Or at least have got close enough to explain all those legendary swordsmen and their inexplicable desire to roost on the tops of bamboo trees.

He was calling it an atonic seizure because, even if he didn’t know why it had happened, it was important to give it a cool name.

Every male in the world thinks he’s an excellent driver. Every copper who’s ever had to pick an eyeball out of a puddle knows that most of them are kidding themselves.

The study of the victim is called victimology because everything sounds better with and ology tacked on the end.

This is your brain on magic.

If you find yourself talking to the police, my advice is to stay calm but look guilty; it’s your safest bet.

My dad once told me that the secret to a happy life was never to start something with a girl unless you were willing to follow wherever it led. It’s the best piece of advice he has ever given me, and probably the reason I was born.

I gave the prescribed Metropolitan Police “first greeting”. “Oi!” I said “What do you think you’re doing?

Holy paranormal activity, Nightingale – to the Jag mobile.

The worst part is staying in the room after you’ve broken the news, so that you’re forced to be there when someone’s life disintegrates around them. Some people say it doesn’t bother them – such people are not to be trusted.

It’s a police mantra that all members of the public are guilty of something, but some members of the public are more guilty than others.

And once they start to think about the consequences, they almost always calm down. Unless they’re drunk, of course. Or stoned. Or aged between fourteen and twenty-one. Or Glaswegian.

The clever people at CERN are smashing particles together in the hope that Doctor Who will turn up and tell them to stop

In the winter she curls up around a good book and dreams away the cold.