Nottingham Quotes

I know there's no way I can convince you this is not one of their tricks, but I don't care, I am me. My name is Valerie, I don't think I'll live much longer and I wanted to tell someone about my life. This is the only autobiography ill ever write, and god, I'm writing it on toilet paper. I was born in Nottingham in 1985, I don't remember much of those early years, but I do remember the rain. My grandmother owned a farm in Tuttlebrook, and she use to tell me that god was in the rain. I passed my 11th lesson into girl's grammar; it was at school that I met my first girlfriend, her name was Sara. It was her wrists. They were beautiful. I thought we would love each other forever. I remember our teacher telling us that is was an adolescent phase people outgrew. Sara did, I didn't. In 2002 I fell in love with a girl named Christina. That year I came out to my parents. I couldn't have done it without Chris holding my hand. My father wouldn't look at me, he told me to go and never come back. My mother said nothing. But I had only told them the truth, was that so selfish? Our integrity sells for so little, but it is all we really have. It is the very last inch of us, but within that inch, we are free. I'd always known what I wanted to do with my life, and in 2015 I starred in my first film, "The Salt Flats". It was the most important role of my life, not because of my career, but because that was how I met Ruth. The first time we kissed, I knew I never wanted to kiss any other lips but hers again. We moved to a small flat in London together. She grew Scarlet Carsons for me in our window box, and our place always smelled of roses. Those were there best years of my life. But America's war grew worse, and worse. And eventually came to London. After that there were no roses anymore. Not for anyone. I remember how the meaning of words began to change. How unfamiliar words like collateral and rendition became frightening. While things like Norse Fire and The Articles of Allegiance became powerful, I remember how different became dangerous. I still don't understand it, why they hate us so much. They took Ruth while she was out buying food. I've never cried so hard in my life. It wasn't long till they came for me.It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for three years, I had roses, and apologized to no one. I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish. Every inch, but one. An Inch, it is small and it is fragile, but it is the only thing the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away. We must never let them take it from us. I hope that whoever you are, you escape this place. I hope that the world turns and that things get better. But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that even though I do not know you, and even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you. I love you. With all my heart, I love you. -Valerie

One condition,” Cilla sniffled through a joyful smile. “We are not naming our child after any of your grandfather’s fonts.” “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gaz said. “The only other one that crackpot invented was called the Serif of Nottingham.

One of the most memorably unexpected events I experienced in the course of doing this book came in a dissection room at the University of Nottingham in England when a professor and surgeon named Ben Ollivere (about whom much more in due course) gently incised and peeled back a sliver of skin about a millimeter thick from the arm of a cadaver. It was so thin as to be translucent. “That,” he said, “is where all your skin color is. That’s all that race is—a sliver of epidermis.” I mentioned this to Nina Jablonski when we met in her office in State College, Pennsylvania, soon afterward. She gave a nod of vigorous assent. “It is extraordinary how such a small facet of our composition is given so much importance,” she said. “People act as if skin color is a determinant of character when all it is is a reaction to sunlight. Biologically, there is actually no such thing as race—nothing in terms of skin color, facial features, hair type, bone structure, or anything else that is a defining quality among peoples. And yet look how many people have been enslaved or hated or lynched or deprived of fundamental rights through history because of the color of their skin.

And Miriam also refused to be approached. She was afraid of being set at nought, as by her own brothers. The girl was romantic in her soul. Everywhere was a Walter Scott heroine being loved by men with helmets or with plumes in their caps. She herself was something of a princess turned into a swine-girl in her own imagination. And she was afraid lest this boy, who, nevertheless, looked something like a Walter Scott hero, who could paint and speak French, and knew what algebra meant, and who went by train to Nottingham every day, might consider her simply as the swine-girl, unable to perceive the princess beneath; so she held aloof.

IN MERRY ENGLAND in the time of old, when good King Henry the Second ruled the land, there lived within the green glades of Sherwood Forest, near Nottingham Town, a famous outlaw whose name was Robin Hood.

It was Alan Rickman and I was terrified, not because of the menace he exuded as Severus Snape, but because I loved the film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and was obsessed with Alan’s performance as the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham. To be in the same room as the Sheriff himself was enough to penetrate even my veneer of schoolboy cockiness.

We are that drop in the ocean of the cosmos which contains within itself the entire cosmos. (p. 12)

It's not really fun listening to an insane person. Do you realize that? You're only entertaining yourself. Not much of a host, if you don't mind my critique.

Nottingham’s Rock Cemetery, with its magnificent marble angels and sandstone catacombs.

When the polar ice advanced as far as Nottingham, my school was closed and I was evacuated to Mars.

And so many No's - Bee Holm's film "Awfully Big Adventure", the Rankin film, "Jack and Sarah", directing "The Tin Soldier", running Nottingham Playhouse. Fate is running around throwing hands in the air.

So you who seek for deep truth, for the mystery and sacredness of life, don't give up looking just because the externals seemed to be the opposite of what they should be. Keep searching, for it is to be found. You will find that pearl of great price, in fact you will be led to it. So don't give up! One day, you will be given that which will set your heart on fire and you will become a new person, the person you were always meant to be.

Jonathon stretched his arms, like he was reading himself for exercise. He leaned back and asked, "Why are you doing this?" Robin was a bit surprised by the blunt question. "Doing what? Laying here, strapped to this table? I'll be honest, I've asked myself the same question.

Kidnapping a Reluctant Bride:  Traditional Meet-Cute or First-Degree Felony Abduction? You decide in our insta-poll!

Take thy bow in hand," said Robin, "For Much will ride with thee, And all can be together, If no man die for me.

Mostly Robin is in that ‘ex-boyfriend space,’ where you forget he exists for months at a time and then suddenly you remember and you’re embarrassed all over again that you ever liked him, in the first place.

Remember always that the goal of awakening, of self-awareness, of living in higher consciousness is always about the very same thing that Christ brought into the world which is unconditional, agape love. (p. 92)

Robin of Loxley, Robin of Loxley, England’s most treasured man. He takes delight, in leading the fight, To save good Nottingham. “Unlike the sheriff, Robin is cherished, His heart is pure and true. Loved by the ladies, they want his babies, And love his merry crew. “The sheriff grows scared as Robin prepares, To end Prince John’s regime. If you want freedom, a better kingdom, Then sing this merry theme! “Robin of Loxley, Robin of Loxley, ’Tis no one greater than, Robin of Loxley, Robin of Loxley, England’s most treasured man!

In ancient times, the temple of Delphi proclaimed „Know Thyself“ and the Greek philosophers made it their central theme, because in the knowing of one‘s true Self, we discover not a name or a lineage, but a whole new dimension of what it means to be human. In our very mortality is embedded something of the eternal. Encased within the bones and sinews that are destined to disintegrate is Spirit that comes from beyond and returns home when we are „born into Heaven“ as the Orthodox say, or when we cross that threshold. These ideas cannot be reduced to mere belief systems and dogmas. They have been vividly part of the human experience from the beginning. (p. 8-9)

Deep within the web of pavement and steel, a young boy and girl scurried past an old man, his outdated mechanical limbs shaking and twitching like an addict without a fix. He scowled at the hoodlums, scratching the hole in his face where his nose used to be, sold long ago as a cheap replacement part for someone slightly richer than he was.

In most parts of the world, people go to sleep without fearing that in the middle of the night a neighbouring tribe might surround their village and slaughter everyone. Well-off British subjects travel daily from Nottingham to London through Sherwood Forest without fear that a gang of merry green-clad brigands will ambush them and take their money to give to the poor (or, more likely, murder them and take the money for themselves). Students brook no canings from their teachers, children need not fear that they will be sold into slavery when their parents can’t pay their bills, and women know that the law forbids their husbands from beating them and forcing them to stay at home. Increasingly, around the world, these expectations are fulfilled.

Our world will never be changed until individuals have changed, and individuals will never change until religion as inner transformation has penetrated to the hearts of their beings and made them into new persons. Change happens one human being at a time. It is your transformation, my transformation, that will make a difference in this wondrous but troubled world of ours, as we become who we truly are.

In 1976, a doctoral student at the University of Nottingham in England demonstrated that randomizing letters in the middle of words had no effect on the ability of readers to understand sentences. In tihs setncene, for emalxpe, ervey scarbelmd wrod rmenias bcilasaly leibgle. Why? Because we are deeply accustomed to seeing letters arranged in certain patterns. Because the eye is in a rush, and the brain, eager to locate meaning, makes assumptions. This is true of phrases, too. An author writes “crack of dawn” or “sidelong glance” or “crystal clear” and the reader’s eye continues on, at ease with combinations of words it has encountered innumerable times before. But does the reader, or the writer, actually expend the energy to see what is cracking at dawn or what is clear about a crystal? The mind craves ease; it encourages the senses to recognize symbols, to gloss. It makes maps of our kitchen drawers and neighborhood streets; it fashions a sort of algebra out of life. And this is useful, even essential—X is the route to work, Y is the heft and feel of a nickel between your fingers. Without habit, the beauty of the world would overwhelm us. We’d pass out every time we saw—actually saw—a flower. Imagine if we only got to see a cumulonimbus cloud or Cassiopeia or a snowfall once a century: there’d be pandemonium in the streets. People would lie by the thousands in the fields on their backs. We need habit to get through a day, to get to work, to feed our children. But habit is dangerous, too. The act of seeing can quickly become unconscious and automatic. The eye sees something—gray-brown bark, say, fissured into broad, vertical plates—and the brain spits out tree trunk and the eye moves on. But did I really take the time to see the tree? I glimpse hazel hair, high cheekbones, a field of freckles, and I think Shauna. But did I take the time to see my wife? “Habitualization,” a Russian army-commissar-turned-literary-critic named Viktor Shklovsky wrote in 1917, “devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife, and the fear of war.” What he argued is that, over time, we stop perceiving familiar things—words, friends, apartments—as they truly are. To eat a banana for the thousandth time is nothing like eating a banana for the first time. To have sex with somebody for the thousandth time is nothing like having sex with that person for the first time. The easier an experience, or the more entrenched, or the more familiar, the fainter our sensation of it becomes. This is true of chocolate and marriages and hometowns and narrative structures. Complexities wane, miracles become unremarkable, and if we’re not careful, pretty soon we’re gazing out at our lives as if through a burlap sack. In the Tom Andrews Studio I open my journal and stare out at the trunk of the umbrella pine and do my best to fight off the atrophy that comes from seeing things too frequently. I try to shape a few sentences around this tiny corner of Rome; I try to force my eye to slow down. A good journal entry—like a good song, or sketch, or photograph—ought to break up the habitual and lift away the film that forms over the eye, the finger, the tongue, the heart. A good journal entry ought be a love letter to the world. Leave home, leave the country, leave the familiar. Only then can routine experience—buying bread, eating vegetables, even saying hello—become new all over again.

The Sherwood Forest Chronicles . 1. If Robin Hood steals from the rich, doesn't that make them poor? Does he give them their money back? I mean, what the point of robbing to begin with if your mission statement is logically flawed? 2. If the Sheriff of Nottingham is such an asshole, why isn’t he the Prime Minister of Nottingham? 3. Why don’t I see elves here? Did all the elves of Sherwood Forest migrate to New Zealand to become extras on the Peter Jackson’s Hobbit films? 4. Does Little John even know what an oxymoron is? 5. If Smokey the Bear came to Sherwood Forest to make a public service announcement about preventing forest fires, would he leave with arrows in his ass or would the Merry Men feast on bear meat for several days? And what makes the Merry Men merry in the first place? 6. What do you think? Does Robin Hood shop at Walmart or Target?

One of the most memorably unexpected events I experienced in the course of doing this book came in a dissection room at the University of Nottingham in England when a professor and surgeon named Ben Ollivere (about whom much more in due course) gently incised and peeled back a sliver of skin about a millimeter thick from the arm of a cadaver. It was so thin as to be translucent. “That,” he said, “is where all your skin color is. That’s all that race is—a sliver of epidermis.” I mentioned this to Nina Jablonski when we met in her office in State College, Pennsylvania, soon afterward. She gave a nod of vigorous assent. “It is extraordinary how such a small facet of our composition is given so much importance,” she said. “People act as if skin color is a determinant of character when all it is is a reaction to sunlight. Biologically, there is actually no such thing as race—nothing in terms of skin color, facial features, hair type, bone structure, or anything else that is a defining quality among peoples.

It can be very helpful if you keep a notebook to record your observations. It helps you to remember them more fully and with more accuracy. What did you say; how did you react; what were your motives; what were your actions; what emotional states were you in; did you pretend; did you lie by omission or by commission; were you insincere; did you justify yourself; did you gossip or slander anyone; did you have any moment of self-awareness at all or did you sleep-walk through your day wasting every opportunity to awaken?

Intentionality is actually the first step toward authentic spiritual awakening and the discovery of new horizons of understanding and wisdom. Intentionality is that baby step that opens the doors of perception. It requires an effort of sustained attention and commitment which is rare in our time, as our minds are distracted and reshaped by the rapid-fire stimulus of media through every possible venue. We are each responsible for reining in our attention, taking command of this power of focused awareness, and purposefully choosing how we will live the moments of our lives. We can waste and dissipate them, like leaking cisterns that can hold no water as the prophet Jeremiah said in ancient times, or we can center ourselves intentionally and live fully in the present moment which then opens a meaningful path into the future, even when our plans are not entirely clear. Intentionality calls forth the best of our human nature and all its potential. It all begins with a decision to live in such a way, a decision that we refuse to betray. We then become useful to the Universe and to our fellow human beings. That is how bliss enters our lives.

Ah,” Robin rolled the sound around his mouth. “That’s been something I’ve meant to ask you. What exactly does the Church think of what you’re doing here?” “The Church?” Friar Tuck threw his hands up in disgust. “Honestly, I haven’t the faintest. I’m sure they’d say any number of things about it, and some would be true, and some wouldn’t, and all of it would mean we hadn’t given them enough tithe last week. If I cared what the Church said about the things we do, I wouldn’t be out here doing them.” He chuckled, massaging the snags of his beard. “I suppose the Church would have us stay true to the laws of the land, but the Lord would have us stay true to our hearts. In better times, aye, those would be the same. Our job is to do our best to keep the two in harmony.

Parishioners will welcome the assurance, if news of changes and experiments has come their way, that no such changes are contemplated in this parish church; they will not be used as guinea pigs for liturgical experiments. The form used at weddings and at the baptism of their children will be exactly the same as it has been for centuries. There have been changes in the world around – especially perhaps in the Victorian era, which we are pleased to think of as solid – but human needs are very constant and those who study it will find that the Book of Common Prayer, compiled from ancient sources in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries meets those needs in a manner more realistic than more contemporary efforts in this direction. It is difficult for instance to discover any need in 1966 which is not fittingly brought to God in the 400 year old words of the Litany. So the motto for our public transactions with Almighty God in the churches of our parish will be ‘Business as usual’. If any declare that we stick in the mud, we retort that by loyalty to the Prayer Book we stand on a rock.

Successful con men are treated with considerable respect in the South. A good slice of the settler population of that region were men who’d been given a choice between being shipped off to the New World in leg-irons and spending the rest of their lives in English prisons. The Crown saw no point in feeding them year after year, and they were far too dangerous to be turned loose on the streets of London—so, rather than overload the public hanging schedule, the King’s Minister of Gaol decided to put this scum to work on the other side of the Atlantic, in The Colonies, where cheap labor was much in demand. Most of these poor bastards wound up in what is now the Deep South because of the wretched climate. No settler with good sense and a few dollars in his pocket would venture south of Richmond. There was plenty of opportunity around Boston, New York, and Philadelphia—and by British standards the climate in places like South Carolina and Georgia was close to Hell on Earth: swamps, alligators, mosquitoes, tropical disease... all this plus a boiling sun all day long and no way to make money unless you had a land grant from the King... So the South was sparsely settled at first, and the shortage of skilled labor was a serious problem to the scattered aristocracy of would-be cotton barons who’d been granted huge tracts of good land that would make them all rich if they could only get people to work it. The slave-trade was one answer, but Africa in 1699 was not a fertile breeding ground for middle-management types... and the planters said it was damn near impossible for one white man to establish any kind of control over a boatload of black primitives. The bastards couldn’t even speak English. How could a man get the crop in, with brutes like that for help? There would have to be managers, keepers, overseers: white men who spoke the language, and had a sense of purpose in life. But where would they come from? There was no middle class in the South: only masters and slaves... and all that rich land lying fallow. The King was quick to grasp the financial implications of the problem: The crops must be planted and harvested, in order to sell them for gold—and if all those lazy bastards needed was a few thousand half-bright English-speaking lackeys in order to bring the crops in... hell, that was easy: Clean out the jails, cut back on the Crown’s grocery bill, jolt the liberals off balance by announcing a new “Progressive Amnesty” program for hardened criminals.... Wonderful. Dispatch royal messengers to spread the good word in every corner of the kingdom; and after that send out professional pollsters to record an amazing 66 percent jump in the King’s popularity... then wait a few weeks before announcing the new 10 percent sales tax on ale. That’s how the South got settled. Not the whole story, perhaps, but it goes a long way toward explaining why George Wallace is the Governor of Alabama. He has the same smile as his great-grandfather—a thrice-convicted pig thief from somewhere near Nottingham, who made a small reputation, they say, as a jailhouse lawyer, before he got shipped out. With a bit of imagination you can almost hear the cranky little bastard haranguing his fellow prisoners in London jail, urging them on to revolt: “Lissen here, you poor fools! There’s not much time! Even now—up there in the tower—they’re cookin up some kind of cruel new punishment for us! How much longer will we stand for it? And now they want to ship us across the ocean to work like slaves in a swamp with a bunch of goddamn Hottentots! “We won’t go! It’s asinine! We’ll tear this place apart before we’ll let that thieving old faggot of a king send us off to work next to Africans! “How much more of this misery can we stand, boys? I know you’re fed right up to here with it. I can see it in your eyes— pure misery! And I’m tellin’ you, we don’t have to stand for it!...

Pink's involvement in this intellectually alluring. but spiritually deadening movement, deeply troubled his father. During one week in 1908, Pink was scheduled to speak at an important gathering of the Society. He was to lecture once early in the week, and then again later in the week. The meeting seems to have been in his home town of Nottingham, but we cannot be certain of that. But when Pink returned home from his first teaching assignment at the Theosophy Society meetings, he was faced by his father's quotation of Proverbs 14:12. That verse says, "There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death." Evidently this portion of the Word of God shook Pink deeply and sent him into seclusion to his room for the remainder of most of the week. He says he stayed there without food, until he finally came downstairs to go preach the gospel at the Friday meeting of the society. One can hardly imagine the pandemonium his actions brought to the society that day. This action sets forth another of Pink's characteristics—a frankness and boldness to speak his convictions without fear or favor, regardless of the situation.

Theologically, from the very beginning of his Christian life, he was a Calvinist. This was the doctrinal conviction, no doubt of his home church in Nottingham. Pink does show a change in the basic framework of his theology in the passing of time (from dispensationalism to Reformed theology), but there is no evidence of any change in the matter of his Calvinistic convictions.

Mid-morning,’ said Grace. ‘We should get to Nottingham by early afternoon if the traffic’s not too bad.

When we entered the library we were surprised to see two other people.  They were friends of Joan who would also be guests here for a part of the holiday.  Their first names were Helen and John and after that the only thing I heard was that she was the Justice of the Peace in Sherwood Forest and he was the Sheriff of Nottingham.      I looked at Tim first who was straight faced as usual, then at Marguerite and we both managed to suppress a grin or a laugh.  I almost said, “Ok, Ok, this shit has gone on long enough, SO we’re not gonna ask if Robin Hood will be here as well.”  Thank heavens I didn’t, because they were deadly serious and it was all true.

Meeting the Marches *Hector March, the Earl March (b.1817) His beloved wife, Charlotte, is deceased. He divides his time between his Sussex estate, Bellmont Abbey, and his London home where he is active in Parliamentary debate, particularly over the question of Irish Home Rule. His hobbies are Shakespearean studies and quarrelling with his hermit. His children are: Frederick, Viscount Bellmont “Monty” (b. 1846) Married to Adelaide Walsingham. Resides in London. Represents Blessingstoke as a Member of Parliament. Lady Olivia Peverell (b.1847) Married to Sir Hastings Peverell. Resides in London where she is a prominent political hostess. Hon. Benedick March (b.1848) Married to Elizabeth Pritchett. Manages the Home Farm at Bellmont Abbey and is acknowledged to be Julia’s favourite brother. His two eldest children, Tarquin and Perdita, make an appearance in two of Lady Julia’s adventures. Lady Beatrice “Bee” Baddesley (b. 1850) Married to Sir Arthur Baddesley, noted Arthurian scholar. Resides in Cornwall. Lady Rupert “Nerissa” Haverford (b.1851) Married to Lord Rupert Haverford, third son of the Duke of Lincoln. Divides her time between London and her father-in-law’s estate near Nottingham. Lady Bettiscombe “Portia” (b.1853) Widow. Mother to Jane the Younger. Resides in London. Hon. Eglamour March (b.1854) Known as Plum to the family. Unmarried. A gifted artist, he resides in London where he engages in a bit of private enquiry work for Nicholas Brisbane. Hon. Lysander March (b.1855) Married to Violanthe, his turbulent Neapolitan bride. He is a composer. Lady Julia Brisbane (b.1856) Widow of Sir Edward Grey. Married to Nicholas Brisbane. Her husband permits her to join him in his work as a private enquiry agent against his better judgment. Hon. Valerius March (b.1862) Unmarried. His desire to qualify as a physician has led to numerous arguments with his father. He pursues his studies in London. *Note regarding titles: as the daughters of an earl, the March sisters are styled “Lady”. This title is retained when one of them marries a baronet, knight, or plain gentleman, as is the case with Olivia, Beatrice, and Julia. As Portia wed a peer, she takes her husband’s title, and as Nerissa married into a ducal family, she takes the style of her husband and is addressed as Lady Rupert. Their eldest brother, Frederick, takes his father’s subsidiary title of Viscount Bellmont as a courtesy title until he succeeds to the earldom. (It should be noted his presence in Parliament is not a perk of this title. Unlike his father who sits in the House of Lords, Bellmont sits in the House of Commons as an elected member.) The younger brothers are given the honorific “The Honourable”, a courtesy which is written but not spoken aloud.

and refrigerate. Tip: Serve this with veggies, crackers, or rice cakes, or try on Sunny Day Flatbread (here) for lunch. Nottingham Sandwich Spread By Jane Esselstyn Say the word “Nottingham” slowly three times. The sound should be reminiscent of “Not-Eating-Ham.” This recipe is by no means a ham spread, but it sure does have the consistency and texture of one! Try this on none other than the Nottingham Flatbread (here) for lunch. Prep time: 10 minutes • Makes 1½ cups spread 1 cup chickpeas, mashed with fork ¼ cup chopped onion ¼ cup chopped pickles or pickle relish 1 celery stalk, finely chopped 1½ tablespoons mustard 1½ tablespoons applesauce ½ teaspoon fresh dill, chopped Pinch of salt Pinch of freshly ground black pepper Mix all of the ingredients in a bowl using a fork—make sure to smash the chickpeas. Spread on sandwiches, or serve as a dip. Spinach-Artichoke Dip and Spread By Kimetha Wurster Kimetha used to make her patented spinach-artichoke dip every February for a friend’s birthday party. True to her new, dairy-free E2 lifestyle, she was determined to make the recipe dairy-free, too. The guests had no idea it wasn’t the traditional one and gobbled it up. And there’s no baking necessary. Try this on the St. Nick Pizza (here) for lunch or dinner. Prep time: 10 minutes • Makes around 4 cups dip 14 ounces artichoke hearts, packed in water 2 to 6 garlic cloves 9 ounces fresh spinach, or 1½ cups frozen spinach 1 ripe avocado 1 cup nutritional yeast 6 shakes hot sauce Pinch of freshly ground black pepper (optional) Pinch of salt (optional) In a food processor or blender, pulse the drained artichokes with garlic until chopped. Add the raw spinach (or drained frozen), avocado, and nutritional yeast and pulse until well mixed. Shake in the hot sauce and season with salt and pepper as desired, and pulse again. Transfer to a bowl and serve with 100 percent whole wheat crackers or veggies,

This man threatened the volunteer then returned twenty minutes later to beat him up. At a charity bonfire. In Wilford. It’s not the Middle East,” she said, “it’s Wilford, Nottingham. I don’t want to be among these people. They complain about a charity bonfire, and right on their doorstep there are children as young as eleven selling drugs along the river.

Because ye willna accept me for who I am! I can only be the Duchess of Nottingham now, not permitted to wear wool or speak with a burr or believe what I have spent my whole life believing. I canna turn around without your oldest friend lecturing me on superstition or you calling me daft for believing in curses " His usually gut reaction beckoned--- spin away, refuse to engage in what he deemed a ridiculous argument. But a quiet Stay resonated within him, and this time he didn't think he was misunderstanding. He shoved his hands in his pockets to anchor himself. " I love to hear you speak. I care very little what you wear, so long as you have what you need and are happy in it." She snorted. " Your society disagrees " "Yes, they do. And you can either conform to their expectations or defy them. Whatever your choice, I will stand beside you. But it is the other that really bothers you, and that is my fault. My failing. Your opinions and beliefs are worth no less than mine.

GOD’S TITS, MEN WERE ever the dumbest of beasts.

Fear just keeps you from doing the things you know you should. It holds you back.

Deciding upon reasons left a maddening sense of obligation. But deciding only on actions brings the satisfying sense of movement.

Grief is the only thing I’ve ever known that grows smaller by being added upon.

Prayer is for giving. It’s for offering yourself to God, for devoting yourself to whatever it is He wants of you. And whatever that is, all we can do is accept it. Through prayer we are closer with Him, which gives us strength. But that’s only half of it. We give God strength as well, when we give of ourselves, unselfishly.

Are you serious right now? Have you not seen Alan Rickman’s transcendent turn as the Sheriff of Nottingham in the 1991 classic Robin Hood Prince of Thieves?

Britain's oldest turkey is ironically named 'Dinner'. He is over 16 years old and lives as a pet on Stonebridge Farm in Nottingham.

Ah-ha-ha-ha!” Robin Hood threw back his head and laughed heartily. “No, it means Marian scared him off with her sword.” “And I wouldst do it again,” said Marian. “For the scoundrel was sent here by that vile villain the Sheriff of Nottingham.” “Aye,” said Robin, squinting at the shadowy trees. “Methinks there shalt be others eager to earn the price the sheriff hath placed upon my head.” “Well, maybe, I don’t know, you two should go hide in Sherwood Forest or something.” “Forsooth, I like thy notion. Come. Sherwood is over yonder.

100%原版制作學历證书【+V信1954 292 140】《诺丁汉大学學位證》University of Nottingham

Simon Graves, Nottingham, a teacher with a lot of knowledge in the English world, now decided to write books for his students. He also gives lectures on the internet about the English language and is very good at it. In his years of instructing, he's had loads of tasks. Simon Greaves, Nottingham, started and developed an internet coaching company, mainly focusing on assisting education leaders and individuals searching for career assistance. Keep in mind that he has over 20 years of expertise to draw upon.

wonder if people would be so shocked if it was the other way around. It seems like something a man does to a woman, and this way round kind of freaks people out. Especially because I know everyone thinks Alistair is suspiciously good-looking in a way that places him ‘out of my league’. Make it make sense! is probably the line that’s flying around group chats of our acquaintances, people we were in halls with at Nottingham. I even had to Google whether you still say ‘jilted’ when it happens to a man because I wasn’t sure. It turns out you do. I am a jilter.

His eyes were an icy blue, but the light in them was warmer than the sun. I supposed someone capable of piercing the veil between life and death would have an odd balance to them.

Terror thrived in solitude,

Now come I, forsooth, from good Banbury Town," said the jolly Tinker, "and no one nigh Nottingham--nor Sherwood either, an that be the mark-- can hold cudgel with my grip. Why, lads, did I not meet that mad wag Simon of Ely, even at the famous fair at Hertford Town, and beat him in the ring at that place before Sir Robert of Leslie and his lady? This same Robin Hood, of whom, I wot, I never heard before, is a right merry blade, but gin he be strong, am not I stronger? And gin he be sly, am not I slyer? Now by the bright eyes of Nan o' the Mill, and by mine own name and that's Wat o' the Crabstaff, and by mine own mother's son, and that's myself, will I, even I, Wat o' the Crabstaff, meet this same sturdy rogue, and gin he mind not the seal of our glorious sovereign King Harry, and the warrant of the good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, I will so bruise, beat, and bemaul his pate that he shall never move finger or toe again! Hear ye that, bully boys?

love bug.

poodle-scone.

And she’d been “unhealthily fixated” on the man ever since, according to her prison therapist.  Marion didn’t feel like she was fixated.  She just thought about Nicholas eighty million times a day.

Win against who?  Hood?”  Once you got him talking, Nicholas was filled with snarky, suspicious questions about everything.  So was Marion.  It was good they shared interests.

Team Creative Villainy.

She shrugged.  “I also stalk you a lot.  You may have noticed that part.  And I’ll probably steal other stuff.  And there may be some video surveillance.

It’s a hopeful sign, you being here.”  Cragg went on.  “For all the rest of us, I mean.  If the commander can find a mate, maybe we can, too.” “I’m pretty sure I found him.”  Marion wasn’t about to let Nicholas take the credit, when she was the one who’d traveled through frigging time.

Marion heard his internal conflict.  “If you offer me money, I’ll be pissed, pudding-fish.” His mouth twitched at the reassurance that she welcomed his touch and at the ridiculous endearment.

But I hated that you chose him.  That you trusted him.  That you never saw me…”  He paused for a beat, his gaze roaming over her face and his tone became softer.  “And all I ever saw was you, Marion.” “You barely know me.”  She whispered. “I know you better than anyone.”  He gestured towards all the letters she’d written.  All the secrets she’d shared.  “I know you inside and out.  I know that we fit.  We always have.  It was always supposed to be me.

He always tried to read the same books she did.  The past few weeks, she’d been fascinated with pottery, which wasn’t so bad.  For several months last year she’d been very into quilting, though.  Jesus, that had been a tough time.  Literally, no one on the planet could write an interesting article on quilting.  Nicholas had been struggling to stay awake, as he learned the difference between a four-patch star block and a pinwheel flower pattern. Being an obsessed stalker was hard work, at times.

pookie-pooh.

squishy-boo.

Yes, orange peel?

She was pissed at her former boyfriend.  Beyond pissed.  Her ex was in for a rude awakening when she got out of her bindings and beat the living crap out of him. Only one man was allowed to abduct Marion and it sure wasn’t Robin.

treasure squirrel.

You think you’re going to follow me around, spying on me?” “Oh, I know I am.” She’d shadow his cutie-patootie all over Nottingham.  Her “unhealthy fixation” was positively swooning over the delightful stalking possibilities.

He’d also taken the opportunity to examine her underwear.  If he was going to be an obsessed bastard, he might as well do it full throttle.  So he had a very clear picture of what silky bits of fabric separated her succulent curves from the pilfered clothes. He wondered if it was the black panties with the lace. Christ, he hoped so.

love monkey.

sweetie-nugget?

jellybean.

snickerdoodle.

cookie-crumb.

sugar-bean.

doodle-puppy.

turtledove.

Sweet cheeks?”  She suggested instead.  “Fluffy-muffy?  Feel free to tell me when we get to one you like.  I’m open to feedback here.

Prince Handsome Pants,’ maybe?

nummy-muffin.

honey-bunny.

Her hair might be longer and her face rounder, but inside she was still a thirty-six year old felon.

You turned and super-calmly asked how I wanted to die. I responded," she cleared her throat, because it wasn't her maidly-est moment, "in bed, fucking your mother." Trevelyan made a considering face. "Mother would have liked that" "Last time you said father" "Both are true.

Please keep writing. You're all that keeps me alive.

You will find that there is a mighty power, a non-exclusive, eternal dimension that actually can change your psychology, your joy of life; it can lift you up, give you a sense of self beyond anything you imagined to empower you to become that child of the universe, a child of God to whom miracles of goodness can come. Take the time to seek; take the time to rediscover the depths of these teachings and everything will change. (p. 20)

To hold your soul in hell and not despair is to manage to hang on to the faith in the reality of the spiritual realm, even in the harshest time of the physical realm, even when all seems lost and in fact if you want to climb the mountain of spiritual awakening, spiritual consciousness there must be that stage where we are taken to the far edge beyond what we can bear or think we can bear. And if we hang on in faith and trust, if we call upon the help of that spiritual reality, that miracle will happen and against all odds renewal, new beginnings, redemption, can take place. This is a verifiable, magnificent experience that I know personally, that I know others have experienced, and that you can experience. So, from the point of view of the Fourth Way all the difficulties of life become firewood for the fire. In other words, strengthen your consciousness, raise your consciousness to another level of perspective and transcendence so that you can walk calmly through the nightmare and holding on through that dark night you will achieve a new level of faith, understanding, and relationship with the spiritual reality. If some of you are in times of great suffering and all of us walk that path somehow sometime, remember that and take it seriously for it is one of the pearls of great price and discover that the very negative things of life, personal and destructive can turn into the fertilizer for your soul, the awakening of a deeper self, and the face-to-face encounter with the reality of God's help. (p. 142-142)

The word Church (Ecclesia) means: The assembly of those who are called out. In other words, each individual who is called out of a godless world gathers with companions on the Way and becomes part of the Body of Christ together – incarnations of Divine Goodness. (p. 45)

Salvation is healing [sozo], fullness of life, and life in abundance. And we learn in this ancient teaching at the dawn of time that this is the kind of Uncreated One and mystery at the heart of the universe who made us. And then we hear a teaching, „Now wait for the Lord. My soul waits.“ Now it‘s not like waiting at a bus stop. It‘s an intentional attentive waiting. It‘s patience. It‘s certainty that God will come to help us. Who dares to wait patiently in the midst of distress? That is the way that we are given. That is the spiritual instruction. Wait for the Lord knowingly, expecting that you will have help. If you don‘t wait, if you run off and give up and say, „Okay, time‘s up. I tried that; I‘m going to do something else“ – that‘s what we call outer darkness, you‘re on your own. Wait for the Lord. (p. 44)

Darkness is always trying to overcome the light and what we know from Advent and from the resurrection is that darkness cannot overcome the light. And that is a truth that can carry you into bliss and hope all the days of your life. (p. 50)

Let us come into this holy place cleansed, purified. That's how we honor God. That's how we prove our belief in the arrival of the divine in the midst of our lives. God will help the one who seeks to make those efforts. Finally he says, „Put on (or clothe) yourself with the Lord Jesus Christ. Don't think of that as some other unapproachable metaphor. It means think like Him. Live like Him. Not as a vagrant, but as a compassionate person, a forgiving person. Even if you're the only one in the crowd. Don't let the poison of negativity get contagious on you. Recognize it for what it is. Put on Christ, nothing less. Each one of us is called to that. Because in putting on that understanding of life, you find your true Self, your true destiny, your true joy. (p. 52)

Sometimes it is when those most traumatic of experiences take place that we have the opportunity to be flooded by that which is called Grace. When the heart is broken, when you are deeply betrayed, when people speak falsely against you, try to find the inner strength not to crack under the injustice and maliciousness of others. Choose not to be filled with rage or despair. Then you are „letting go“ or detaching yourself from this most intimate kind of pain, and a door will open. As the great spiritual teacher Karlfried Graf Dürckheim said: „Open the door and let yourself be found.“ (p. 200)

That „road less traveled by“ is a modern parallel to the ancient mystical metaphor „the way is narrow that leads to life, and there are few who find it“ (Matthew 7:14) This less traveled, more difficult „road“ is the living out of a spiritual life rather than a mere survival in our short passage through time […] The less traveled road, or the mystic way as others might call it, is therefore a process of sublimation carrying the relationship of the self with the universe to higher levels than our ordinary states of awareness. But this is no selfish journey. For as the mystic grows nearer the source of true life and participates in the creative energies of the Divine, he or she is capable of greater unselfish activity to the point of unconditional Love […] This is the journey of the one who chooses „the road less traveled“ and there are many who have witnessed to the fact that this harder road, this narrow way, is an inner journey leading to the infinite depths of our True Self, crossing the threshold into becoming a conscious Child of God, a Child of the Universe. (p. 205 -215)

stuck with the birthday party on her day off. He’d messed up the work rota and 25-year-old Donna, who should have been in charge today, had managed to get time off to visit her sick gran. Elsa snorted. Sick gran. She wasn’t born yesterday. Single Donna and the very much married Alistair Fulcher were obviously having an affair. She’d spotted the secretive looks between them in the office. Why else had Alistair suddenly announced he had to go to Nottingham, leaving Elsa in charge of everything that day?

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Arteta was devastated when Arsenal failed to win the title. After that painful defeat at Nottingham Forest on the penultimate weekend of the season, he tried to watch Manchester City against Chelsea the following day, but he struggled. He just couldn’t sit through it all. He did tell me, however, that he made himself watch Ilkay Gündogan lift the trophy at the end of the game. Not because he wanted to see his former side celebrating yet another title success, but because he wanted to use it as added motivation to push himself even harder to bring those sorts of scenes to the Emirates.

We went to look at Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament which we recognised from the H.P. Sauce bottle. I wondered what brown sauce had in common with the Houses of Parliament. Apparently the recipe was devised in 1895 by a Nottingham grocer called Frederick Garton. He adopted the name H.P. for his sauce when he found out that it was being served in the Houses of Parliament. In 1905 Garton sold his recipe to the Midland Vinegar Company who marketed it widely. Although the company which owns the brand has changed several times and it is now manufactured in the Netherlands, H.P. Sauce remains the most popular British brown sauce to this day.

Flashbacks weren’t just dreams. They were a bridge in the mind to the exact moment the trauma occurred.

The path to hell’s paved with good intentions.

But when you rule on the principle of minimizing harm, the population generally agrees with you.

The sub has the power. The dom has the control.