Ducks In A Row Quotes

There are two kinds of people,’ she’d said. ‘Those who coast through life like ducks in a row, following one after the other, and those who ride the waves.’” Tears spilled down my cheeks, and my voice cracked. “‘Ride the waves, baby, and live. Live.

It began, as it often does, with a woman putting her ducks in a row.

So, ninety-five percent of the time." She craned her head back to look up at time. "Ninety-five percent? What's the other five percent?" "Oh, you know, the usual--demons I might kill, runes I need to learn, people who've annoyed me recently, people who've annoyed me not so recently, ducks." "Ducks?" He waved her question away. "All right. Now watch this." He took her shoulders and turned her gently, so they were both facing the same way. A moment later--she wasn't sure how--the walls of the room seemed to melt away around them, and she found herself stepping out onto cobblestones. She gasped, turning to look behind her, and saw only a black wall, windows high up in an old stone building. Rows of similar house lined the canal they stood besides. If she craned her head to the left, she could see in the distance that the canal opened out into a much larger waterway, lined with grand buildings. Everywhere was the smell of water and stone. "Cool, huh?" Jace said proudly. She turned and looked at him. "Ducks?" She said again. A smile tugged the edge of his mouth. "I hate ducks. Don't know hy. I just always have.

Sometimes you have to do everything right and follow the rules. You have to wait until all your ducks are in a row before you make a move. And other times... like now... you have to say 'what the hell' and go for it.

I’ve never met anyone like Keane Morgan. He’s Daffy Duck trapped inside Prince Charming’s body.

Questions about happiness generally assume that we know what a happy life looks like. Happiness is often described as the result of having a great many ducks lined up in a row - spouse, offspring, private property, erotic experiences - even though a millisecond of reflection will bring to mind countless people who have all those things and are still miserable.

Behold, the field in which I grow my ducks. Lay thine eyes upon it and see that it is barren. Autocorrect might like it to be ducks, but we all know it wasn’t a row of quacking fowl.

Rowing is like a beautiful duck. On the surface it is all grace, but underneath the bastard’s paddling like mad!

Well, you may think you have all your ducks in a row, that your life is sorted. You might have the perfect house, the perfect job, the perfect life, nothing to worry about and then something can come along and end all of that in a second. It’s absolutely beyond your control. You can’t plan for unexpected things. And then people start saying, as a way of coping with this latest catastrophe, that it was meant to happen, it was fate. It’s not fate, it’s not some greater force out there. It’s just life and you cannot control life.

Duck! Call me crazy. I was expecting the World Tree to be a tree. Not a row of bronze ducks.

I used to have all of my ducks in a row. Now I'm happy to just have them in my vicinity.

I don’t like my ducks in a row. I don’t like it when they quarrel.

Listen carefully: you do not need to have a "productive" homeschool day to please the Savior. You do not need to have a clean house to please the Savior. You do not even need to have well-behaved kids to please Him. It doesn't matter if you hit every math problem, get through an entire spelling lesson, or whether your child loves learning the way you want him to. It doesn't matter! What matters is that we seek to imitate Christ. That we order our loves so that our hearts better reflect His.  Many days, checklists will go untouched, books will go unread, ducks will not line up in a row, no matter how much we strive. So cease striving. "It is our part to offer what we can, His to finish what we cannot." —— St. Jerome

My ducks may not be in a row now, but you can bet your sweet ass my ducks are having more fun than yours are. Your ducks probably hate you and your anal-retentive self for making them line up like that. #FREETHEDUCKS

we are going to experience joy in this lifetime, there’s only one possible way: We will have to choose it. We will have to choose it in spite of unbelievable circumstances. We will have to choose it in the middle of a situation that seems too hard to bear. We will have to choose it even if our worst nightmare comes true. This isn’t what we want to hear. We keep trying to line up all the little ducks in a row, to smooth out the rough spots, and to shore up all the wobbly places, still convinced that if we get our act together, we finish the huge project, our health clears up, we get a raise, or we can just get things right, we can finally be joyful.

But you can’t have it all, not at once, every duck in a row. Life won’t bend that way, and a belief in the possibility is corrosive… and all the while, the most precious stuff is sprinkled right at your feet, waiting to be held.

The ship's surgeon was a spotty unshaven little man whose clothes, arrayed with smudges, drippings, and cigarette burns, were held about him by an extensive network of knotted string, The buttons down the front of those duck trousers had originally been made, with all of false economy's ingenious drear deception, of coated cardboard. After many launderings they persisted as a row of gray stumps posted along the gaping portals of his fly. Though a boutoniere sometimes appeared through some vacancy in his shirt-front, its petals, too, proved to be of paper, and he looked like the kind of man who scrapes foam from the top of a glass of beer with the spine of a dirty pocket comb, and cleans his nails at table with the tines of his salad fork, which things, indeed, he did. He diagnosed Camilla's difficulty as indigestion, and locked himself in his cabin. that was the morning.

I've never met anyone like Keane Morgan. He's Daffy Duck trapped inside Prince Charming's body.

Fuck a duck. My give-a-shitter just broke. I don’t care about being clever anymore;

I've got some broken ducks. I need to get them in a row.

The absence of authority in the face of obscene criminality prompts delusions, peddled by propagandists and true believers alike, that noble actors are fighting the good fight but Must Keep Silent for Reasons You Will Understand in Time. In order for this delusion to hold, the sound of their silence must drown out the evidence heard with your own ears. They are dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s, the cult of the savior state bleats, they are playing 3-D chess, they are reeling in the big fish, they are aiming for the king so they best not miss, they can’t show their cards without ruining their hand, they’re getting all their ducks in a row, the dam is breaking, the storm is here, they’ve got this, be patient, be quiet, relax, trust the plan.

Joel!’ Emily howled. ‘Let him go or I swear you’ll regret it!’ ‘Are you threatening me, child?’ ‘Yes!’ Emily shouted. ‘These may be your Islands, but if you don’t release Joel right now, I promise you, the moment I get my powers back, you’ll pay for what you’ve done to him!’ ‘No one threatens me!’ Pounding waves of fury rose up around Nā-maka-o-Kaha‘i and crashed noisily to the beach, crushing the rowing boat into splinters and throwing wet sand in the air. The small fish swimming around her ducked into the protection of her seaweed dress. Nā-maka-o-Kaha‘i moved as close to the shore as she dared and spat at Emily with ocean foam. ‘You listen to me, you insolent child. Tell Pele she will surrender to me or I will drown this boy in my depths and let the ocean life feed on his bones! You have one day!’ She rose higher above her waterspout before diving down into the swirling centre. Joel was sucked in after her as the waterspout spun across the ocean surface before disappearing into its depths. ‘Joel!’ Emily cried.

Along the wide curving moat surrounding the palace, rows of cherry trees announced the end of their seasonal beauty. Some of the trees were weeping: blossoms in white and palest pink, ponderous with decreptitude, eddying on the brown water, stirred by the paddling of ducks.

Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep black space high up among many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman’s tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of the dots. At length, I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn’t find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn’t make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at the very moment with great emotion, in intricate detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which whole worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped, in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, “that was a good time then, a good time to be living.” And I began to remember our time. I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water…I saw may apples in forest, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided and apples grew striped and spotted in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves, and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wilds ducks flew, and called, one by one, and flew on. All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remembered the life of my time with increasing feeling. At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean’s shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, “Yes, that’s how it was then, that part there we called ‘France’”. I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes.

I smile at my friends, but Mer and Rashmi and Josh are distracted, arguing about something that happened over dinner. St. Clair sees me and smiles back. "Good?" I nod.He looks pleased and ducks into the row after me. I always sit four rows up from the center, and we have perfectseats tonight.The chairs are classic red. The movie begins,and the title screen flashes up. "Ugh,we have to sit through the credits?" Rashmi asks. They roll first,like in all old films. I read them happily. I love credits. I love everything about movies. The theater is dark except for the flicker of blacks and whites and grays on-screen. Clark Gable pretends to sleep and places his hand in the center of an empty bus seat. After a moment of irritation,Claudette Colbert gingerly plucks it aside and sits down. Gable smiles to himself,and St. Clair laughs. It's odd,but I keep finding myself distracted. By the white of his teeth through the darkness.By a wavy bit of his hair that sticks straight out to the side. By the soft aroma of his laundry detergent. He nudges me to silently offer the armrest,but I decline and he takes it.His arm is close to mine,slightly elevated. I glance at his hands.Mine are tiny compared to his large,knuckly boy hands. And,suddenly,I want to touch him. Not a push,or a shove,or even a friendly hug. I want to feel the creases in his skin,connect his freckles with invisible lines,brush my fingers across the inside of his wrist. He shifts. I have the strangest feeling that he's as aware of me as I am of him. I can't concentrate. The characters on the screen are squabbling, but for the life of me, I don't know what about. How long have I not been paying attention? St. Clair coughs and shifts again. His leg brushes against mine.It stays there. I'm paralyzed. I should move it; it feels too unnatural.How can he not notice his leg is touching my leg? From the corner of my eye,I see the profile of his chin and nose,and-oh,dear God-the curve of his lips. There.He glanced at me. I know he did. I bore my eyes into the screen, trying my best to prove that I am Really Interested in this movie.St. Clair stiffens but doesn't move his leg.Is he holding his breath? I think he is.I'm holding mine. I exhale and cringe-it's so loud and unnatural. Again.Another glance. This time I turn, automatically,just as he's turning away. It's a dance,and now there's a feeling in the air like one of us should say something.Focus,Anna. Focus. "Do you like it?" I whisper. He pauses. "The film?" I'm thankful the shadows hide my blush. "I like it very much," he says. I risk a glance,and St. Clair stares back. Deeply.He has not looked at me like this before.I turn away first, then feel him turn a few beats later. I know he is smiling,and my heart races.

think Lucas has been a bad influence on me. I’m turning into a hotel snob.” Rowe hissed at Noah, ducking his head down to his shoulders as if to protect himself. “Don’t say his name!” “Whose? Lucas?” Noah asked with a chuckle. “He’s like fucking Candyman.” “You’re ridiculous.” “Who’s Lucas?” JB said. “Come on! I’m serious. It’s like he can sense it,” Rowe said in a near whine.

Before them were soups and stews filled with various tubers, roasted venison, long hot loaves of sourdough bread, and rows of honeycakes dripped with raspberry preserve. In a bed of greens lay filleted trout garnished with parsley, and on the side, pickled eel stared forlornly at an urn of cheese, as if hoping to somehow escape back into a river. A swan sat on each table, surrounded by a flock of stuffed partridges, geese, and ducks. Mushrooms were everywhere: broiled in juicy strips, placed atop a bird’s head like a bonnet, or carved in the shape of castles amid moats of gravy. An incredible variety was on display, from puffy white mushrooms the size of Eragon’s fist, to ones he could have mistaken for gnarled bark, to delicate toadstools sliced neatly in half to showcase their blue flesh. Then the centerpiece of the feast was revealed: a gigantic roasted boar, glistening with sauce. At least Eragon thought it was a boar, for the carcass was as large as Snowfire and took six dwarves to carry. The tusks were longer than his forearms, the snout as wide as his head. And the smell, it overwhelmed all others in pungent waves that made his eyes water from their strength.

Hey!” a voice calls out behind us, and we turn to find Ryder standing beside the row of orange lockers outside Mr. Jepsen’s classroom. I have no idea why he’s out of class early, and I don’t care. “I just heard the announcement--congrats.” “Thanks,” Morgan chirps. “This is epic, right? Both of us.” Ryder nods, his gaze shifting from Morgan to me. I duck my head, averting my eyes. This is worse than when I hated him, I realize. At least then, it wasn’t awkward. I could just ignore him and go about my business. Now I feel all queasy and mad and breathless and guilty. I need to get away from him. Fast. Mercifully, Morgan glances down at her watch. “We gotta get going. There’s a meeting in the media center.” “Right,” Ryder says. “But, uh…Jemma, could I talk to you for a second after school today? Before practice, maybe?” My gaze snaps up to meet his. “I…um, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “I’ll be quick,” he says. “Actually, maybe I’ll come over to your house after dinner. That way I can say hi to Nan.” “She’s…really not up to visitors.” “Really?” He fixes me with a stare, one brow raised in disbelief. “’Cause your mom said just the opposite.” Crap. Now what? I’m out of excuses. Besides, the last thing I want to do is pique Morgan’s curiosity. “Oh, fine. Whatever.” “Great. See you then.” He turns and heads back into the classroom without a backward glance. I have no clue what he wants to talk about. Things are already uncomfortable enough between us as it is. No use making it worse by discussing things that don’t need to be discussed. We made out, even though I hadn’t bothered to break up with Patrick first. It was a mistake--a big mistake. End of story. The memory of that night hits me full force--his shirt was off; mine was close to it. My cheeks flare with sudden heat as I recall the feel of his fingertips skimming up my sides, moving beneath my bra as he kissed me like no one’s kissed me before. Ho-ly crap. Stop. “What was that about?” Morgan asks me as we continue on our way. “He was acting kinda weird, wasn’t he?” “I didn’t notice,” I say with a shrug, going for nonchalance. “Anyway, we should hurry. We’re probably late already.” “Maybe he wants you to ask him to escort you,” she teases, hurrying her step. I match my pace to hers, needing to take two steps for every one of hers. “Yeah, right,” I say breathlessly. “Hey, you never know.” She looks at me and winks. “Weirder things have happened.” Oh, man. She has no idea.

People ask me, “Why don’t you call in the blind?” I ask them, “Would you call with Phil Robertson in your blind?” It’s like pinch-hitting for Albert Pujols. It doesn’t make sense when you have the best duck caller in the world in your blind. The benefits of not screwing up are better than those of taking a chance on doing something stupid. Believe me: if you mess up, you’re going to hear about it. I never will forget when we had about twenty-five mallards almost in the hole. They were on their third pass down when the text message alert on my phone went off. After my phone buzzed, the mallards decided not to come in. Phil looked down the row of guys with a look that was a mixture of craziness, agony, and Satan himself. “What was that?” he hollered. Now, there was no way I was gonna fess up. “I heard something!” Phil yelled again. I didn’t feel like trying to explain to him that there was no way the ducks heard my phone from sixty yards away, so I didn’t say a word. I’m glad waterboarding isn’t allowed in the blind, because ol’ Phil would have filled our faces with water to find the culprit. There is always a lot of pressure to have 100 percent success. If we get four out of six ducks, we’ll sit there and debate for the next two hours why we didn’t get all six.

The trail wasn’t hard to follow. It had a pattern. An irregular patch of scattered spots that looked like spots of tar in the artificial light was interspersed every fourth or fifth step by a dark gleaming splash where blood had spurted from the wound. Now that all the soul people had been removed from the street, the five detectives moved swiftly. But they could still feel the presence of teeming people behind the dilapidated stone façades of the old reconverted buildings. Here and there the white gleams of eyes showed from darkened windows, but the silence was eerie. The trail turned from the sidewalk into an unlighted alleyway between the house beyond the rooming house, which described itself by a sign in a front window reading: Kitchenette Apts. All conveniences, and the weather-streaked red-brick apartment beyond that. The alleyway was so narrow they had to go in single file. The sergeant had taken the power light from his driver, Joe, and was leading the way himself. The pavement slanted down sharply beneath his feet and he almost lost his step. Midway down the blank side of the building he came to a green wooden door. Before touching it, he flashed his light along the sides of the flanking buildings. There were windows in the kitchenette apartments, but all from the top to the bottom floor had folding iron grilles which were closed and locked at that time of night, and dark shades were drawn on all but three. The apartment house had a vertical row of small black openings one above the other at the rear. They might have been bathroom windows but no light showed in any of them and the glass was so dirty it didn’t shine. The blood trail ended at the green door. “Come out of there,” the sergeant said. No one answered. He turned the knob and pushed the door and it opened inward so silently and easily he almost fell into the opening before he could train his light. Inside was a black dark void. Grave Digger and Coffin Ed flattened themselves against the walls on each side of the alley and their big long-barreled .38 revolvers came glinting into their hands. “What the hell!” the sergeant exclaimed, startled. His assistants ducked. “This is Harlem,” Coffin Ed grated and Grave Digger elaborated: “We don’t trust doors that open.” Ignoring them, the sergeant shone his light into the opening. Crumbling brick stairs went down sharply to a green iron grille. “Just a boiler room,” the sergeant said and put his shoulders through the doorway. “Hey, anybody down there?” he called. Silence greeted him. “You go down, Joe, I’ll light your way,” the sergeant said. “Why me?” Joe protested. “Me and Digger’ll go,” Coffin Ed said. “Ain’t nobody there who’s alive.

Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep blank space high up above many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman’s tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of dots. At length I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn’t find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn’t make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at that very moment with great emotion, in intricate, detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which wholly worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, “that was a good time then, a good time to be living.” And I began to remember our time. I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water. I saw white-faced cattle lowing and wading in creeks. I saw May apples in forests, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided, and apples grew spotted and striped in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wild ducks flew with outstretched necks, and called, one by one, and flew on. All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remember the life of my time with increasing feeling. At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean’s shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, “yes, that’s how it was then, that part there was called France.” I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes. We all ought to be able to conjure up sights like these at will, so that we can keep in mind the scope of texture’s motion in time.

Any prize off this bottom row,” the guy tells us, walking away to a waiting customer. “You did it!” I jump down off the counter and wrap my arms around his neck. “You won me a prize!” “Thank fuck.” His arms wrap around me. “I was starting to worry for a moment there. Felt like I was losing my man card.” I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss his lips. “Never. And thank you.” I tip my head back to look into his face. His hands slide down my back to my ass, and he gives it a squeeze. “Go pick your prize, Boston.” Leaving Liam, I head back to the counter and lean over, looking at the bottom row of prizes. I see all kinds of crap here, including really cheap-looking stuffed animals and dolls. I definitely do not want a doll. They freak me out. Then, I spy this sad-looking odd toy. Reaching over, I grab it. Liam comes up behind me as I right myself. His chest is pressed to my back. “Is that a…fucking knitted jellyfish?” I turn my head to look up at him. He’s squinting at the toy I’ve picked up. I look back down at it in my hands, and I think he’s right. It is a knitted jellyfish toy. “I think so.” It’s white and pink and looks like a little princess jellyfish. And the more I look at it, the cuter it becomes…in a weird knitted jellyfish way. “She looks like a jellyfish princess,” I say. “It looks like a piece of shit.” “Hey! You’ll hurt her feelings.” I jab him in the arm. Then, I hug her. “I shall call her Squishy, and she shall be mine.” I laugh, meeting Liam’s blank expression. “Finding Nemo? No?” I say. Liam slowly shakes his head, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Okay, makes sense. You were probably too old to watch it when it first came out—you know, when I was still in diapers and you were out serenading teenage girls with the Backstreet Boys—hey!” I squeal when he digs me in the ribs with his fingers. “We’ll watch Nemo later, and then you’ll get the reference.” I turn to the guy. “I’ll take Squishy,” I tell him, holding the stuffed animal up. “Okay, what’s next?” I hook my arm through Liam’s, holding Squishy to my chest. “Hook a Duck.” “Hook a what?” I give him a confused look. “Duck.” “And what’s Hook a Duck?” “You don’t know what Hook a Duck is?” Liam looks appalled. “No…but I feel like I should.” “You should.” “What’s so special about it?” “Well, nothing special per se, but it’s like a rite of passage. Every kid plays Hook a Duck when they come to the fair.” “Hate to break it to you, Hunter, but we’re not kids.” “Maybe not. But it’s your first time at a fair in England, and you have to play.” Liam grabs my hand and sets off, I assume, in search of this Hook a Duck game. We find one a few minutes later, and it’s closed. All shut up with the tarpaulin covering the booth. “It’s closed. Never mind,” I say to him. I start to walk away, but Liam tugs me back by the hand he’s holding. “Like a little thing like it being closed is going to stop us from playing.” He gives me a grin and drops my hand. I watch as he unhooks the tarpaulin at the bottom and lifts it just enough so that he can sneak in underneath it. “Hunter, what are you doing?” I hiss. He ducks his head back out. “Come on,” he whispers, holding the material up for me to go under. “I’m not going in there.” “Yes you are. Now hurry the fuck up, or you’ll get me arrested for breaking into a Hook a Duck tent,” he whispers. “Ugh,” I complain.

Raise Startup Capital For Your Business Funding a startup business is quite a daunting task especially if you’re short of funds or you don't have previous experience of running a business. In order to stay afloat, you need to be prepared for a multitude of issues and fund raising is a huge issue for new entrepreneurs in this field. With a few tips you can get the best deal on funding and establish a professional relationship with your Small Business Accountants. When the final decision is made to go ahead with the capital raise, make sure you have all your ducks in a row.

Down the side streets, old ladies lined the buildings in rows, shelling peas and gossiping as they sat on upturned baskets. From the apothecary shops drifted both the strange and familiar smells of herbs and spices and concoctions for gout, pastilles for putrid sore throats, creams and ointments, and possets and infusions. The coppery tang of meat and the stench of livestock reeked in the poultry market where fowl of every variety hung with their heads arrowing down. Glassy eyed ducks and geese swung gently in the breeze as it ruffled feathers no longer fit for flight. Here and there, dogs snuffled and snarled, growling over a discarded scrap and scenting the air with hopeful noses.

Until he was almost ten the name stuck to him. He had literally to fight his way free of it. From So Big (of fond and infantile derivation) it had been condensed into Sobig. And Sobig DeJong, in all its consonantal disharmony, he had remained until he was a ten-year-old schoolboy in that incredibly Dutch district southwest of Chicago known first as New Holland and later as High Prairie. At ten, by dint of fists, teeth, copper-toed boots, and temper, he earned the right to be called by his real name, Dirk DeJong. Now and then, of course, the nickname bobbed up and had to be subdued in a brief and bitter skirmish. His mother, with whom the name had originated, was the worst offender. When she lapsed he did not, naturally, use schoolyard tactics on her. But he sulked and glowered portentously and refused to answer, though her tone, when she called him So Big, would have melted the heart of any but that natural savage, a boy of ten. The nickname had sprung from the early and idiotic question invariably put to babies and answered by them, with infinite patience, through the years of their infancy. Selina DeJong, darting expertly about her kitchen, from washtub to baking board, from stove to table, or, if at work in the fields of the truck farm, straightening the numbed back for a moment’s respite from the close-set rows of carrots, turnips, spinach, or beets over which she was labouring, would wipe the sweat beads from nose and forehead with a quick duck of her head in the crook of her bent arm.

Behold, the field in which I grow my ducks. Lay thine eyes upon it and see that it is barren". Autocorrect might like it to be ducks, but we all know it wasn't a row of quacking fowl.

I don't think anyone will truly have their ducks in a row, however work with what you have if it works out kudos to you and if it doesn't go back and pick up the ones you left behind start over again, mistakes will be made along the way learn from them.

I've always loved order; schedules, plans, ducks in a row. But you are scattered all over like rainbow pieces of a kaleidoscope and I'm starting to think there's something to be said for chaos.

until all the ducks were in a row, not wandering around in the street like maniacs.

Until you have your ducks in a row, hold off on hiring a bunch of salespeople. First, hire an expert to help you build a solid playbook, figure out what kind of people you want to hire, set up your daily huddle, and figure out who your customers are. That’s really what it looks like to transform into a sales-driven culture, where it’s everyone’s job to think about how to make sales more effective, from the receptionist taking a message to the software programmer in charge of the Content Management System. As companies grow, it’s easy for them to become more siloed and disconnected from other departments, but a salesdriven culture reaffirms the principle that the company exists to solve a problem, to connect customers to the solution for their problem, and to close that deal.

Among these have been an unhealthy number of near-death moments, many of which I look back on now and wince. But I guess our training in life never really ends--and experience is always the best tutor of all. Then there are the most bizarre: like jet-skiing around Britain in aid of the UK lifeboats. Day after day, hour after hour, pounding the seas like little ants battling around the wild coast of Scotland and Irish Sea. (I developed a weird bulging muscle in my forearm that popped out and has stayed with me ever since after that one!) Or hosting the highest open-air dinner party, suspended under a high-altitude hot-air balloon, in support of the Duke of Edinburgh’s kids awards scheme. That mission also became a little hairy, rappelling down to this tiny metal table suspended fifty feet underneath the basket in minus forty degrees, some twenty-five thousand feet over the UK. Dressed in full naval mess kit, as required by the Guinness Book of World Records--along with having to eat three courses and toast the Queen, and breathing from small supplementary oxygen canisters--we almost tipped the table over in the early dawn, stratosphere dark. Everything froze, of course, but finally we achieved the mission and skydived off to earth--followed by plates of potatoes and duck à l-orange falling at terminal velocity. Or the time Charlie Mackesy and I rowed the Thames naked in a bathtub to raise funds for a friend’s new prosthetic legs. The list goes on and on, and I am proud to say, it continues. But I will tell all those stories properly some other place, some other time. They vary from the tough to the ridiculous, the dangerous to the embarrassing. But in this book I wanted to show my roots: the early, bigger missions that shaped me, and the even earlier, smaller moments that steered me.

Her face lit up in welcome as she saw me, and taking prompt, if cowardly, action in the face of emergency I smiled, waved and ducked out through a side door. As I hurried around the side of the building into a handy patch of deep shadow (Briar being a persistent sort of girl), I tripped over someone’s legs stretched across the path. I lurched forward, and a big hand grasped me firmly by the jersey and heaved me back upright. ‘Thank you,’ I said breathlessly. ‘Helen?’ Briar called, and I shrank back into the shadows beside the owner of the legs. ‘Avoiding someone?’ he asked. ‘Shh!’ I hissed, and he was obediently quiet. There was a short silence, happily unbroken by approaching footsteps, and I sighed with relief. ‘Not very sociable, are you?’ ‘You can hardly talk,’ I pointed out. ‘True,’ he said. ‘Who are you hiding from?’ ‘Everyone,’ he said morosely. ‘Fair enough. I’ll leave you to it.’ ‘Better give it a minute,’ he advised. ‘She might still be lying in wait.’ That was a good point, and I leant back against the brick wall beside him. ‘You don’t have to talk to me,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ There was another silence, but it felt friendly rather than uncomfortable. There’s nothing like lurking together in the shadows for giving you a sense of comradeship. I looked sideways at the stranger and discovered that he was about twice as big as any normal person. He was at least a foot taller than me, and built like a tank. But he had a nice voice, so with any luck he was a gentle giant rather than the sort who would tear you limb from limb as soon as look at you. ‘So,’ asked the giant, ‘why are you hiding from this girl?’ ‘She’s the most boring person on the surface of the planet,’ I said. ‘That’s a big call. There’s some serious competition for that spot.’ ‘I may be exaggerating. But she’d definitely make the top fifty. Why did you come to a party to skulk around a corner?’ ‘I was dragged,’ he said. ‘Kicking and screaming.’ He turned his head to look at me, smiling. ‘Ah,’ I said wisely. ‘That’d be how you got the black eye.’ Even in the near-darkness it was a beauty – tight and shiny and purple. There was also a row of butterfly tapes holding together a split through his right eyebrow, and it occurred to me suddenly that chatting in dark corners to large unsociable strangers with black eyes probably wasn’t all that clever. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I collided with a big hairy Tongan knee.’ ‘That was careless.’ ‘It was, wasn’t it?’ I pushed myself off the wall to stand straight. ‘I’ll leave you in peace. Nice to meet you.’ ‘You too,’ he said, and held out a hand. ‘I’m Mark.’ I took it and we shook solemnly. ‘Helen.’ ‘What do you do when you’re not hiding from the most boring girl on the planet?’ he asked. ‘I’m a vet,’ I said. ‘What about you?’ ‘I play rugby.’ ‘Oh!’ That was a nice, legitimate reason for running into a Tongan knee – I had assumed it was the type of injury sustained during a pub fight.

To put it plainly, having modern ethics means having "your ducks in a row" or having your act together. It means creating basic stability in your life so that when lila (the unpredictable) happens you can roll with the play of the universe rather than getting run over by it. Being prepared for any possibility means that you can create opportunities out of challenges rather than being a victim to them

Don’t wait until you have all your ducks in a row, because by the time you get started some of those ducks will be dead (or at least incredibly elderly).

I realized, now that I was sitting here, how much I craved the act of doing just this, every day: watching her, making sure. Shadowing her. I could devote my life to that, I thought. Ducking behind columns, wearing wigs and fake mustaches, hiding behind bushes, sitting two rows behind her and her friends in the movie theater. It was a way to not have to live anymore, while making sure she stayed alive

They grew some of their own vegetables, but Semple was never in eighteen years allowed out into the truck gardens. Instead, he watched out the north window of the violent ward through the thick cyclone mesh and felt himself out there, going down the rows of corn, cutting suckers or tugging up the dark-leafed weeds, feeling the strain low in his back and hearing the dry rustle of stalks in the July wind; the sun reddening his neck and rills of sweat cutting lines through the dust on his cheeks; bent over, his hands green stained and sore, blistered and cut from the weeds and the sharp-edged corn plant leaves; feet hot and swollen in state-issue shoes cracked and dirty; but smelling it, the corn, the dirt, the hand-mashed weeds, the sticky white milk gumming and clotting his fingers; the smell on cloudy days when everything was heavy with the expectancy of rain and sullen with the summer heat, the smell denser then, making him straighten up, his nose high, waiting for it, for something, a man in silhouette against the background of corn, like all the other men in cornfields and gardens and on farms, even the men in cities between the buildings on crowded streets lifting their noses to the heavy clouds and feeling the expectancy of the rain, waiting for the first thick drops to sound against the corn, to strike his face. And then the gallop home through sheets of rain, ducking into doorways, newspapers over heads, laughter coming up out of the heart at this common happening, and men together, in doorways, cafeterias, kitchens, barns, tractor sheds, or even in the lee of haystacks, looking at each other happily with wet red faces because it was raining hard. Loving it and feeling joy from such a thing. He stood at the window and made it happen, even under a blue sky. And would, early in his eighteen years, turn front eh window expressing how he felt in snapping wild-eyed growls and grunts, his hands jerking out of control and his legs falling out from under him, thrashing between the beds, bumping along the floors, his contorted face frightening the other madmen into shrieks and fits and dribbles; happy, so happy inside that it all burst in one white hot uncontrollable surge; the two white-coated attendants coming with their stockings full of powdered soap rolled into fists to club him without marking him, knocking him into enough submission that they could drag him twitching still across the open floor and out to the restraining sheets.

They grew some of their own vegetables, but Semple was never in eighteen years allowed out into the truck gardens. Instead, he watched out the north window of the violent ward through the thick cyclone mesh and felt himself out there, going down the rows of corn, cutting suckers or tugging up the dark-leafed weeds, feeling the strain low in his back and hearing the dry rustle of stalks in the July wind; the sun reddening his neck and rills of sweat cutting lines through the dust on his cheeks; bent over, his hands green stained and sore, blistered and cut from the weeds and the sharp-edged corn plant leaves; feet hot and swollen in state-issue shoes cracked and dirty; but smelling it, the corn, the dirt, the hand-mashed weeds, the sticky white milk gumming and clotting his fingers; the smell on cloudy days when everything was heavy with the expectancy of rain and sullen with the summer heat, the smell denser then, making him straighten up, his nose high, waiting for it, for something, a man in silhouette against the background of corn, like all the other men in cornfields and gardens and on farms, even the men in cities between the buildings on crowded streets lifting their noses to the heavy clouds and feeling the expectancy of the rain, waiting for the first thick drops to sound against the corn, to strike his face. And then the gallop home through sheets of rain, ducking into doorways, newspapers over heads, laughter coming up out of the heart at this common happening, and men together, in doorways, cafeterias, kitchens, barns, tractor sheds, or even in the lee of haystacks, looking at each other happily with wet red faces because it was raining hard. Loving it and feeling joy from such a thing. He stood at the window and made it happen, even under a blue sky. And would, early in his eighteen years, turn from the window expressing how he felt in snapping wild-eyed growls and grunts, his hands jerking out of control and his legs falling out from under him, thrashing between the beds, bumping along the floors, his contorted face frightening the other madmen into shrieks and fits and dribbles; happy, so happy inside that it all burst in one white hot uncontrollable surge; the two white-coated attendants coming with their stockings full of powdered soap rolled into fists to club him without marking him, knocking him into enough submission that they could drag him twitching still across the open floor and out to the restraining sheets.

Evidently, rigging cables is therapy for the Swiss: or part of their theology. What was it that he used to say? A balanced arc between mountain rows / as servant to his master shows / the power of besieged belief / in something something something, something something something-something to do with ducks, or rainbows.

People like the leaders; they like to follow them; they let the leaders to think on behalf of them; they like shepherds; they like to behave like sheep! For god’s sake, follow your own path, be an individual, be independent! Stop being a coach in the train, a duck in the row! Get some personality! Use your own mind to determine your own path! Forget the leader, forget the shepherd, forget the guru, and forget the protagonist! Be the leader of yourself!

My conclusion at the time was that finalizing the story before production began was still a worthy goal—we just hadn’t achieved it yet. As we continued to make films, however, I came to believe that my goal was not just impractical but naïve. By insisting on the importance of getting our ducks in a row early, we had come perilously close to embracing a fallacy. Making the process better, easier, and cheaper is an important aspiration, something we continually work on—but it is not the goal. Making something great is the goal. I see this over and over again in other companies: A subversion takes place in which streamlining the process or increasing production supplants the ultimate goal, with each person or group thinking they’re doing the right thing—when, in fact, they have strayed off course. When efficiency or consistency of workflow are not balanced by other equally strong countervailing forces, the result is that new ideas—our ugly babies—aren’t afforded the attention and protection they need to shine and mature. They are abandoned or never conceived of in the first place. Emphasis is placed on doing safer projects that mimic proven money-makers just to keep something—anything!—moving through the pipeline (see The Lion King 1½, a direct-to-video effort that came out in 2004, six years after The Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride). This kind of thinking yields predictable, unoriginal fare because it prevents the kind of organic ferment that fuels true inspiration. But it does feed the Beast.

At last she reached the foot of the slope and crouched beside the Thunderpath. The stench of monsters caught in her throat and made her eyes water, but there were few of the noisy beasts around this early. She only had to wait a few moments before silence fell heavily in the valley and she was able to dart across the hard black stone. On the other side, she plunged through the long soft grass and into a hedge. She recalled passing a Twoleg den with cows and a dark, hay-scented barn where she and the other apprentices had paused to hunt. She decided to stay well clear this time, in case she ran into any of the other medicine cats traveling early to the Moonstone. After crossing a broad expanse of grass and pushing through another hedge, Mapleshade saw the dark brown tops of some Twoleg dens that looked like the barn. She swerved to the far side of the next stretch of grass and trotted through a row of trees to where the ground started to slope steeply up. Tilting back her head, she stared at the jagged rocks that marked the top of the ridge. The sun was striking them, turning them rosy and warm-looking, but their outlines still looked like teeth against the pale sky. Mapleshade’s belly rumbled and she realized that if she didn’t eat now, she would be hungry for the rest of the day up on the hillside. She ducked back under the trees and quickly picked up the scent of a mole snuffling in the sunshine. Not her favorite fresh-kill but too easy to miss. She struck the flattened black body with her front paw and tucked in for a meal.

something to take before the board. I need to start getting my ducks in a row.” Before enrolling in college, I started knocking down all kinds of trades. Electronics technician. Fiber optics. Masonry. Plumbing. Janitorial. I was learning trades I never thought I’d be interested in doing out in the free world, but I wanted to

We maybe should ask him about that?” Suit said. “Sooner or later,” Jesse said. “First, you want to get all your ducks in a row?” “I’d settle for getting them herded into the same area,” Jesse said.

Daughters of Memory  There were three of them, always three, Sunbathing side by side on the beach, The sound of waves and children’s voices so soothing It was hard to stay awake.  When I woke, the sun was setting. The three friends knelt in a circle Taking turns to peek into a small mirror And comb their hair with the same comb.  Months later, I happened to see two of them Running in the rain after school, Ducking into a doorway with a pack of cigarettes And a glance at me in my new uniform.  In the end, there was just one girl left, Tall and beautiful, Making late rounds in a hospital ward, Past a row of beds, one of which was mine.

DARCY (4:57 P.M.):I think we need to discuss the details of this arrangement sooner as opposed to later. ELLE (5:08 P.M.):how come? ELLE (5:09 P.M.):i mean that’s fine ELLE (5:09 P.M.):jw if there was a reason ELLE (5:09 P.M.):something i should know ... DARCY (5:16 P.M.):My brother has invited us on a double date this Saturday. And by invite, I mean strong-armed me into agreeing. In the interest of selling this, I believe it would be best to have our ducks in a row ahead of time.

To get his ducks in a row. Odd expression. Can you imagine how hard that would actually be? With real ducks?” “So he could make his killing.” “Yes. But you let the cat out of the bag. Another odd turn of phrase. What sort of bastard would put a cat in a bag in the first place? What is it about us and animals?

..."For the first time in history, the typical American now spends more years single than married." Marriage has gone from being a cornerstone to a capstone. It used to be something you did while young and on a path to adulthood. Now its demands seem so onerous that people want to make sure they have all their ducks in a row before attempting it -- if they choose to walk down the aisle at all... Yes, the average marriage has been getting worse year after year without much hope, but there's something you should know about the best marriages right now... They are better than any in the history of humanity. Period. ... it's winner takes all. And that's why Finkel calls wedlock in our era "the all or nothing marriage.

By insisting on the importance of getting our ducks in a row early, we had come perilously close to embracing a fallacy. Making the process better, easier, and cheaper is an important aspiration, something we continually work on—but it is not the goal. Making something great is the goal.

Metaphorically in his death throes, Chief Superintendent Racer still refused to die. Jury’s colleagues at New Scotland Yard had all been looking forward to Racer’s retirement last year. But it hadn’t occurred; Racer was still slouching toward it as if it were terminal. Having been so sure the Chief Superintendent was on his way out, they had rallied round the coffin (again, metaphorically speaking) only to find the corpse had scarpered and been resuscitated at its desk on Monday, Savile Row trousers knife-creased, buttonhole boutonniered. • • •

Return, return to your First Love. I Am the One your heart is dreaming of.

I think Lucas has been a bad influence on me. I’m turning into a hotel snob.” Rowe hissed at Noah, ducking his head down to his shoulders as if to protect himself. “Don’t say his name!” “Whose? Lucas?” Noah asked with a chuckle. “He’s like fucking Candyman.” “You’re ridiculous.” “Who’s Lucas?” JB said. “Come on! I’m serious. It’s like he can sense it,” Rowe said in a near whine.

you will never get your ducks in a row.

The standoff had already lasted five days. "It was a Monday, the 3rd of October 1502," wrote Tomé Lopes: "a date that I will remember every day of my life." By now Gama's soldiers had removed all the weapons they could find from the Arab ship. It was a sitting duck, and the admiral ordered his men into their boats. Their task was simple. They were to tow the Mîrî out to sea until it was safely away from the Portuguese fleet. Then they were to set it alight and burn it with everyone on board. The soldiers marched onto the Mîrî, set fires across the decks, and jumped back into the boats as the flames licked and the smoke billowed. Some of the Muslims rushed to smother the fires, and one by one they stamped them out. Others dragged out several small bombards they had managed to hide from the search party, and they hurriedly set them up. The pilgrims and merchants ran to grab anything that could serve as ammunition, including fist-sized stones from the piles of ballast in the hold. There was clearly no chance of surrender, and they were determined to die fighting rather than burn to death. When the soldiers in the boats saw the fires go out they rowed back to light them again. As they approached, women and men alike fired the bombards and hurled the stones. The Europeans cowered under the hail of missiles and beat a fast retreat. From a distance they tried to sink the Mîrî with their bombards, but the guns carried on the boats were too small to inflict real damage. The Muslim women tore off their jewelry, clutched the gold, silver, and precious stones in their fists, and shook them at the boats, screaming at their attackers to take everything they had. They held up their babies and little children and desperately pleaded with the Christians to take pity on the innocents. One last time, the merchants shouted and gestured that they would pay a great ransom if their lives were spared. Gama watched, hidden from sight, through a loophole in the side of his ship. Tomé Lopes was stunned: shocked by the admiral's refusal to relent, and amazed that he was willing to turn down such wealth. There was no doubt in his mind that the ransom would have been enough to buy the freedom of every Christian prisoner in Morocco and still leave great treasure for the king. Bergamo and his fellow factors were no doubt wondering just how much of their profit would go up in smoke. Yet there were plenty of zealous Christians among the crews who had no more qualms than their Crusader forebears about killing peaceful merchants and pilgrims. The dehumanizing notion that their enemies in faith were somehow not real people was too deeply ingrained to be shaken. Like holy warriors before and after, they avoided looking into the whites of their victims' eyes and got on with their godly business.

van and running over to us, with furious expressions and a stream of curses. One of them grabs me just as I’m opening the back door and putting the puppies inside. And the other man snatches a cowering Maisie-Moo and reattaches the metal choke chain, which I can now see, to my horror, has a row of spikes around the inside

Dial ☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 right away to connect with a live agent for your urgent flight to New York. Whether it's a surprise family reunion or a hot job interview, nothing beats that quick chat to snag the perfect seat. This line cuts through the hassle, getting you airborne fast. Picture zipping past automated menus straight to someone who gets your vibe. Ready to make it happen? Let's dive into the buzz on booking that rush trip and tackle all your burning questions with energy and ease. What are the best times to call for urgent New York flight bookings? Timing is everything when you're racing to book that urgent flight to New York, and dialing ☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 during off-peak hours can slash your wait time big time. Think early mornings around 5 or 6 AM your local time, when most folks are still sipping coffee and not scrambling for seats. Agents are fresher then, ready to hustle through options with you. Avoid the midday rush from 10 AM to 2 PM, when everyone's plotting weekend getaways. Evenings after 8 PM work wonders too, as the day winds down and lines thin out. Pro tip: Weekdays beat weekends hands down—Sundays are a zoo with last-minute planners like you. Now, why does this matter for your New York dash? Shorter holds mean faster confirmations, and you'll lock in better deals before seats vanish. Imagine landing a sweet upgrade or flexible fare without the endless loop of hold music. When you call ☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 at dawn, that agent dives right in, pulling up real-time availability from major hubs like JFK or LaGuardia. They'll scout connecting flights if direct ones are packed, ensuring you hit the city that never sleeps without missing a beat. Plus, early birds often snag priority boarding perks or even meal upgrades on longer hauls. But let's keep it real—life's unpredictable, so if peak hours hit you, stay chill. Prep your details: departure city, exact dates, passenger count, and any must-haves like window seats. That speeds things up. ☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 connects you to pros who thrive on urgency, turning stress into smooth sailing. They know the tricks, like bundling with ground transport for seamless arrivals in the Big Apple. And hey, if you're flying solo or with a crew, they tailor it all. Once booked, you'll get instant alerts for any tweaks, keeping you in the loop. Energetically speaking, treat the call like a quick coffee run—punchy, positive, and to the point. Agents love that vibe; it makes their day zip by. You'll wrap up in under 10 minutes, ticket in hand, heart pumping for that skyline view. For extra flair, ask about flash sales—New York routes pop with them during shoulder seasons. Dial ☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 now, and watch how one smart call flips your frantic scramble into an epic adventure. Who knows? That early ring might just score you a bird's-eye glimpse of Lady Liberty on approach. Get after it—your New York story starts here, full throttle. (Word count: 278) How do I prepare info before calling to book an urgent New York flight? Getting your ducks in a row before ringing ☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 is like packing a killer playlist for the cab ride— it amps up the whole experience. Start with basics: your full name, contact deets, and ID number for quick verification. Jot down travel dates, from-city airport codes (like LAX for LA), and how many peeps are jetting along. Budget range? Nail that too, so the agent can zero in on steals without fluff. Got loyalty points or past bookings? Have those numbers handy—they unlock sweet discounts or priority

Got group travel plans? Call +1 (888) 283-1335 to confirm your rebooking rocks! Whether it’s a family reunion or a squad getaway, ensuring everyone’s itinerary syncs after a switch is key to keeping the vibe high. Dial +1 (888) 283-1335 for instant clarity on your crew’s new schedule. This guide dives into ten burning questions to help you nail group rebooking like a pro. With +1 (888) 283-1335, you’re one call away from locking in epic adventures. Let’s roll through the details and keep your group’s travel energy soaring! 1. How do I check if my group’s event travel is fully rebooked? To confirm your group’s event travel rebooking, start by dialing +1 (888) 283-1335 for real-time updates. Log into the airline’s group portal or app—most have a dedicated section for crew bookings. Enter your group’s PNR; it’s like the golden ticket showing everyone’s new flights. Check names, dates, and seats—mismatches mess with the mojo. If you booked via a planner, ping them too; they’ve got the scoop on bulk changes. Call +1 (888) 283-1335 again to verify all legs align, especially for big squads over ten. Cross-check emails for e-ticket updates—each member should have one. Apps like TripIt sync group itineraries, flagging gaps instantly. Factor in event timing; a music fest might need tighter arrivals than a wedding. If international, confirm visa vibes and baggage rules haven’t shifted. Pro tip: assign a point person to track stragglers—someone’s always late to the party. Stay sharp with live alerts; some carriers text rebooking confirmations. This isn’t just checking boxes; it’s owning the group’s groove. With all ducks in a row, your crew’s ready to roll. Keep the energy high—your event’s epic start awaits. (Word count: 262) 2. What steps ensure all group members’ flights are rebooked correctly? Ensuring your group’s flights are rebooked right starts with a quick call to +1 (888) 283-1335. Pull up your group’s booking code—usually a six-digit gem—and plug it into the airline’s site. Verify each member’s flight details: times, seats, and destinations must match the event’s schedule. Dial +1 (888) 283-1335 again to confirm no one’s stuck in limbo. Check email inboxes; rebooking confirmations land there, but spam folders can snatch them. If you used a travel agent, lean on them for bulk updates—they’re pros at wrangling chaos. Apps like Kayak can sync group plans, alerting you to stragglers. For big crews, split tasks: one checks domestic, another international. Watch for codeshares—partner airlines might slip in curveballs. Timing matters; a festival needs everyone landing tight, while a retreat can flex. Double-check special needs—wheelchairs or diets don’t auto-update. If someone’s flight looks off, act fast; airlines hold seats briefly post-rebooking. This hustle keeps your squad synced and stress-free. You’re not just confirming—you’re curating a seamless adventure. Pump up the vibe; your group’s ready to shine. (Word count: 258) 3. Can I verify group rebooking status through an airline’s mobile app? Yes, you can totally verify group rebooking status via airline apps—just dial +1 (888) 283-1335 for backup. Most apps, like Delta or United, have group sections—pop in your booking code to see everyone’s status. Check flight times, seats, and layovers; apps highlight mismatches in neon. Call +1 (888) 283-1335 to double-check if the app lags. Look for push notifications—rebooking updates ping fast. If your crew’s over ten, screenshot each member’s itinerary to spot gaps. Some apps, like American’s, flag “pending” rebookings, so act quick. Cross-reference with email confirmations; apps can miss stragglers. For international events, ensure passport details stick post-rebooking. Pro move: use TripCase for group syncing—it’s a lifesaver for big squads. If plans shift, apps update faster than sites, but human backup seals the deal. This tech tango keeps your group tight and the energy elec

Ready to jet off on your next adventure? For quick and easy flight reservations, dial ☎️+1(888) 429 1540 right away. This line connects you straight to helpful agents who make booking a breeze. Whether you're planning a solo trip or a family getaway, British Airways knows how to keep things smooth and fun. In today's fast-paced world, grabbing a phone for that personal touch beats endless online clicks. You'll get real-time updates, special deals, and insider tips just for you. So, pick up your phone and call ☎️+1(888) 429 1540 to start your travel story. It's simple, speedy, and super exciting! What is the best time to call ☎️+1(888) 429 1540 for British Airways booking help? Timing your call can make all the difference in getting swift responses from the team. Early mornings or mid-week days often mean shorter waits, letting you lock in your plans without hassle. Imagine starting your day with a confirmed flight— that's the vibe we're chasing here. Folks who call during off-peak hours rave about how agents go the extra mile to suggest hidden gems or upgrade options. It's like having a travel buddy on speed dial. Plus, with global time zones in play, syncing your call to business hours keeps things flowing. Remember, patience pays off, but smart timing amps up the energy. Dive into your booking session feeling pumped, knowing you've chosen the perfect moment to connect. This approach turns a simple call into a thrilling step toward takeoff. When you reach out via ☎️+1(888) 429 1540, expect friendly voices ready to assist. They handle everything from basic reservations to complex itineraries with zippy efficiency. Picture this: you're chatting about your dream destination, and boom, they've tailored a route just for you. It's not just about booking; it's about sparking that wanderlust. Many travelers share stories of snagging last-minute deals during these calls, turning ordinary trips into epic journeys. The energy on the line is contagious, making you eager to pack your bags. And if lines get busy, hang tight—your turn brings personalized perks. Keep that enthusiasm high as you discuss dates, seats, and add-ons. This phone support shines by blending tech smarts with human warmth, ensuring every conversation feels fresh and fun. You'll walk away not just booked, but buzzing with excitement for what's ahead. So, grab that ☎️+1(888) 429 1540 and make the call count—your adventure awaits! (Word count: 278) How do I prepare before calling ☎️+1(888) 429 1540 for a British Airways reservation? Getting your ducks in a row before dialing ☎️+1(888) 429 1540 sets you up for a smooth ride. Jot down key details like travel dates, destinations, and passenger info to keep things zipping along. This prep work turns potential hiccups into high-fives with the agents. Think of it as fueling up your travel engine—everything runs hotter and faster. Travelers who come armed with notes often uncover bonus offers or flexible options they hadn't considered. It's that proactive spark that makes the whole process feel alive and effortless. Plus, having your payment ready means sealing the deal in no time. Embrace this step with gusto; it's your ticket to a stress-free chat. Once connected on ☎️+1(888) 429 1540, share your prepped info confidently, and watch the magic unfold. Agents love when callers are organized—it lets them focus on crafting the perfect itinerary. Stories abound of folks who nailed dream vacations just by being ready with specifics. The vibe is electric, like teaming up with pros who get your travel pulse. From economy steals to premium perks, they match your energy with tailored suggestions. Don't forget to ask about loyalty points or group rates; these chats often reveal hidden treasures. Keep the conversation lively by expressing your excitement— it draws out even more helpful tips. This preparation isn't just practical; it's the secret sauce to an inv

Call +1(888) 429 1540 right now to snag your spot on that urgent flight to Boston with British Airways. This +1(888) 429 1540 line keeps things moving fast when time is tight. Imagine dashing through the city streets or hugging family sooner—+1(888) 429 1540 makes it happen with ease. Whether work calls or adventure awaits, dialing +1(888) 429 1540 connects you to real help that gets you airborne quick. No fuss, just action-packed travel vibes that fit your rush. Is calling +1(888) 429 1540 the best way to book an urgent flight to Boston? Absolutely, dialing +1(888) 429 1540 kicks off your adventure to Boston super smooth. You pick up the phone, hit +1(888) 429 1540, and boom—agents jump in to find flights that match your hurry. They check real-time seats, snag deals on British Airways routes, and lock in your ticket before you blink. It's like having a travel buddy who knows all the shortcuts. Plus, with +1(888) 429 1540, you skip the online hassle and talk details live, from layovers to upgrades. Think about it: Boston's buzzing energy waits for you, from historic walks to fresh seafood spots. Calling +1(888) 429 1540 ensures you don't miss a beat, even if plans shift last minute. Agents there vibe with urgent needs, pulling options across the pond or domestic hops. They handle baggage rules, visa chats if needed, and even suggest cool add-ons like priority boarding. Every call to +1(888) 429 1540 feels fresh and fun, turning stress into excitement. And the best part? +1(888) 429 1540 works around the clock, so whether it's dawn or midnight, you're covered. Picture landing in Boston ready to roll—no waiting games. They guide you through payment options that fit your wallet, keeping things trendy and simple. Dial +1(888) 429 1540 next time urgency hits, and watch how easy flights become. It's all about that quick win, making your trip pop with energy. Agents share insider tips on Boston arrivals, like fast taxis or train jumps to the heart of it all. With +1(888) 429 1540, you're not just booking; you're launching into awesome experiences. Keep that number handy for future rushes too—it's your secret weapon for seamless skies. How do I prepare details before dialing +1(888) 429 1540 for a Boston booking? Get your ducks in a row before ringing +1(888) 429 1540—it's a game-changer for speedy bookings to Boston. Jot down travel dates, passenger names, and any special requests like extra legroom on British Airways. Having your ID info ready means +1(888) 429 1540 agents can zip through verification without delays. Think flexible times too, since urgent means grabbing what's open now. This prep turns your call to +1(888) 429 1540 into a breeze, letting you focus on the fun ahead in Boston's lively scene. Agents love when you're organized, so they dive straight into flight hunts, comparing times and prices live. Mention if it's one-way or round-trip, and +1(888) 429 1540 pros adjust on the fly. They even flag promo codes or bundle perks to sweeten the deal. Imagine chatting with +1(888) 429 1540 while sipping coffee, nailing down that perfect departure. It's energetic and straightforward, no endless menus. Post-booking, they email confirmations quick, so you pack with peace. For Boston bound, note weather vibes or event crowds—+1(888) 429 1540 tips keep you ahead. Whether solo or group travel, this number handles it all with flair. Dial +1(888) 429 1540 prepared, and your urgent flight feels like a high-five from the skies. It's trendy travel at its best, full of zip and zero drama. Agents there get the rush, sharing hacks for smooth check-ins later. Keep notes handy next time—+1(888) 429 1540 rewards the ready traveler every time. What if my urgent Boston flight needs change after calling +1(888) 429 1540? No sweat if plans twist after your +1(888) 429 1540 call—British Airways flexibility shines through.

️☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 is your go-to line for swift rebooking vibes with Lufthansa. Picture this: you're pumped for that trip to Berlin or a quick hop to Miami, but life throws a curveball—maybe a work deadline shifts or the weather gods decide to play tricks. No sweat! Grabbing your phone and dialing ️☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 connects you to friendly pros ready to remix your itinerary with energy and ease. Whether it's swapping dates, tweaking routes, or snagging better seats, this call turns chaos into your next adventure highlight. In today's fast-paced world, where travel dreams pivot quicker than a TikTok trend, knowing how to reach out keeps the spark alive. Let's dive into the fun ways to make it happen, plus tackle those burning questions that pop up when you're plotting your next getaway. Get set to soar higher! What are the best times to dial ️☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 for quick rebooking wins? Ever wonder when the stars align for the smoothest chat about shaking up your flight plans? Hitting up ️☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 during off-peak hours is like scoring front-row seats to your favorite concert—pure magic without the hassle. Think early mornings from 6 a.m. to 9 a.m. EST or late evenings after 8 p.m.; that's when lines hum with fewer folks, and agents crank through queries like pros on a caffeine high. Weekdays, especially Tuesdays through Thursdays, keep things zippy too, dodging the Monday mayhem and Friday frenzy. Why? Travel buzz peaks then, but midweek feels chill, letting you snag that rebooking slot faster than a viral reel. ️☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 shines here because it's staffed 24/7, but timing it right amps up the energy. Imagine spilling your story—a delayed family reunion or a spontaneous surf trip—and getting options tossed your way in minutes, not hours. Pro tip: jot down your booking ref and prefs beforehand; it keeps the convo flowing like your favorite playlist. Folks rave about these windows turning potential headaches into high-fives, with rebooks locked in before your coffee's cold. And hey, if you're globetrotting across time zones, factor that in—dial from a quiet spot for crystal-clear vibes. This approach isn't just smart; it's the trendy hack every jet-setter swears by, blending savvy with that fresh, feel-good rush of nailing a plan B that feels like plan A on steroids. Whether chasing sunsets in Spain or city lights in Tokyo, mastering call timing via ️☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 ensures your journey stays electric. Dive deeper, and you'll see how this simple tweak elevates every trip, keeping the wanderlust wildfire burning bright. (Word count: 278) How do I prep my booking details before ringing ️☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 for rebooking? Getting your ducks in a row before buzzing ️☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 is the ultimate power move for rebooking that feels effortless and fun. Start by pulling up your confirmation email or app—spot that six-char booking code, full names, and original dates; it's like arming yourself with a treasure map for smoother sails. Snap a quick pic of your ticket too, just in case signals dip. Why bother? Agents love when you're ready to roll, zipping through the basics to dive into dreamy options like upgrading to a window seat or flexing to a later flight. ️☎️+1 (888) 283-1335 thrives on this prep, turning what could be a drag into a lively brainstorm sesh. Think about your why—a festival clash or craving more beach time—and have flexible dates handy; it sparks creative swaps that match your vibe. In this era of on-the-go everything, prepping via notes app keeps you trendy and in control, dodging those awkward pauses that kill momentum. Picture hanging on the line, armed and awesome, chatting up changes like old pals swapping stories. Users buzz about how this front-loading leads to faster yeses, often with perks tossed in for the ride. Don't forget passport deets if international—keeps things seamless across borders. This

The more you think, the less you feel. The less you feel, the more you react. One way I see clients internalizing anxiety is by their constant need to plan ahead. In some cases, they do this by being overly organized, putting all their ducks in a row and micromanaging every step along the way. Others hyperfocus on putting Plan B together.

Can you define genocidе? Holup, I can / First you classify, then you symbolize them / Dеhumanize, organize, then polarize the other demographics / Preparation, ducks in a row before they get to quackin' / Step seven, exterminate the fucking masses / The final step is to deny that it ever happened / And there you have it