Surrey Quotes

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives — he didn’t belong to the library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake: Mr. H. Potter The Cupboard under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey

What’s your name, lad?” “Newton. Newton Pulsifer.” “LUCIFER? What’s that you say? Are ye of the Spawn of Darkness, a tempting beguiling creature from the pit, wanton limbs steaming from the fleshpots of Hades, in tortured and lubricious thrall to your Stygian and hellish masters?” “That’s Pulsifer,” explained Newton. “With a P. I don’t know about the other stuff, but we come from Surrey.” The voice on the phone sounded vaguely disappointed.

Dearest Cecilia, the story can resume. The one I had been planning on that evening walk. I can become again the man who once crossed the surrey park at dusk, in my best suit, swaggering on the promise of life. The man who, with the clarity of passion, made love to you in the library. The story can resume. I will return. Find you, love you, marry you and live without shame.

He'd been unhappy, restless, irritable since leaving Surrey. He'd lived on memories of her. Her absence slowly strangled him. The instant he took Antonia in his arms, he breathed again.

I visited Surrey in the early fall of 1994, and I would return only if I was tasked to kill a demon to save the world. Maybe not even then. Sorry, Surrey. Sorry, world. Yay, hypothetical demon.

It was the hour of unreality.

at eighteen, I got the grades I needed to secure a place at university. I left that semi-detached prison in Surrey—and I thought I was free. I was wrong.

She came closer, and he was drawn to the way her skin glistened in the light. He took a deep breath, telling himself it was meant to be calming and not because he was desperate to catch her delicate scent- like the violets that grew in Surrey summer.

And a ton came down on a coloured road, And a ton came down on a gaol, And a ton came down on a freckled girl, And a ton on the black canal, And a ton came down on a hospital, And a ton on a manuscript, And a ton shot up through the dome of a church, And a ton roared down to the crypt. And a ton danced over the Thames and filled A thousand panes with stars, And the splinters leapt on the Surrey shore To the tune of a thousand scars.

Mr H. Potter The Cupboard under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey

Tommy, why did they put Maldon Surrey on the telegram?" "Because Maldon is in Surrey, idiot.

Mr. H. Potter The Cupboard under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey

on a bike ride through the Surrey Lanes, pedalling in my cotton dress through the hot fields blushing with poppies, freewheeling down a sudden dip into a cool wooded sanctum.

And Leonard had reached the destination. He had visited the county of Surrey when darkness covered its amenities, and its cosy villas had re-entered ancient night. Every twelve hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go and see for himself.

At first, he talked about the flowers in the garden behind his country house in Surrey. His voice still had its Midlands accent but was soft now and barely audible. He knew the plants by name and took a few minutes with each of them: ageratum, coreopsis, echinacea, rudbeckia. The yarrow, he said, had rose-red flowers on two-foot stems. Achillea millefolium, the plant Achilles used to heal wounds.

The Things that Cause a Quiet Life My friend, the things that do attain The happy life be these, I find: The riches left, not got with pain, The fruitful ground; the quiet mind; The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; No charge of rule nor governance; Without disease the healthy life; The household of continuance; The mean diet, no dainty fare; True wisdom joined with simpleness; The night discharged of all care, Where wine the wit may not oppress; The faithful wife, without debate; Such sleeps as may beguile the night: Content thyself with thine estate, Neither wish death, nor fear his might.

There was no clear-cut moment of victory for the British. They really won when Sea Lion was called off, but this Hitler backdown was a secret. The Luftwaffe kept up heavy night raids on the cities, and this with the U-boat sinkings made the outlook for England darker and darker until Hitler attacked the Soviet Union. But the Luftwaffe never recovered from the Battle of Britain. This was one reason why the Germans failed to take Moscow in 1941. The blitzkrieg ran out of blitz in Russia because it had dropped too much of it on the fields of Kent and Surrey, and in the streets of London.—V.H.

The fine purple cloaks, the holiday garments, elsewhere signs of gayety of mind, are stained with blood and bordered with black. Throughout a stern discipline, the axe ready for every suspicion of treason; “great men, bishops, a chancellor, princes, the king’s relations, queens, a protector kneeling in the straw, sprinkled the Tower with their blood; one after the other they marched past, stretched out their necks; the Duke of Buckingham, Queen Anne Boleyn, Queen Catherine Howard, the Earl of Surrey, Admiral Seymour, the Duke of Somerset, Lady Jane Grey and her husband, the Duke of Northumberland, the Earl of Essex, all on the throne, or on the steps of the throne, in the highest ranks of honor, beauty, youth, genius; of the bright procession nothing is left but senseless trunks, marred by the tender mercies of the executioner.

Remember, with each dawn seek guidance, and with each night give gratitude.

I Google “five star hotels, new york city” and scroll through the list. The Surrey—nah, too fussy. The Peninsula—just looked at that one last week. Anything Trump—no, thanks, too overdone.

Young Surrey now lays down his knife and begins to complain. Noblemen, he laments, are not respected as they were in the days when England was great. The present king keeps about himself a collection of men of base degree, and no good will come of it. Cranmer creeps forward in his chair, as if to intervene, but Surrey gives him a glare that says, you’re exactly who I mean, archbishop.

Only a shallow mind would be puzzled by the fact that Original Sin appears to be distributed so much more noticeably among the deprived...than among merchant bankers living in Surrey's green belt.

Charles Darwin announced that the geological processes that created the Weald, an area of southern England stretching across Kent, Surrey and Sussex, had taken, by his calculations, 306, 662, 400 years to complete.

If I told you I was thinking about Surrey and Middlesex I was thinking about Surrey and Middlesex. Men are simpler than you imagine, my sweet child. But what goes on in the twisted tortuous minds of women would baffle anyone.

I am immensely respectable. All the young ladies in the office acknowledge my entrance. I can dine where I like now, and without vanity may suppose that I shall soon acquire a house in Surrey, two cars, a conservatory and some rare species of melon.

Since 2008, 150 local papers have closed in England, including some once major ones like the Surrey Herald and Reading Post. That’s not good. Without local newspapers there’s no one to tell you when somebody’s been fined for having rats in their kitchens.

Several Watford supporters disgracefully started leaving the ground, and the Arsenal surprised us by adding another chant to their repertoire – making a total of two chants if my mathematics serves me correctly. 'You might as well go home.' What they don’t realise, of course, is that we are home. Watford’s not a pretty place, but its home. I live a half-hour walk from Vicarage Road. The chant went up from our end, 'We support our local team,' which always shuts up Premiership supporters from Borehamwood, Radlett and Surrey, no matter which of the top four teams they follow.

You think the king ever loved you? No. To him you were an instrument. As I am. A device. You and me, my son Surrey, we are no more to him than a trebuchet, a catapult, or any other engine of war. Or a dog. A dog who has served him through the hunting season. What do you do with a dog, when the season ends? You hang it.

The common where we had walked the previous evening was a deserted tract of land, typical of Surrey, looking as if it might be miles from any habitation, while only a few deciduous trees divided it from country studded with bungalows. Some of the land showed traces of heath fires, charred roots and stones lying about on the blackened ground. Walking there was not at all like being in the country. Agriculture seemed as remote as in a London street. This waste land might have been some walled-in space in the suburbs where business men practised golfstrokes; or the corner of a cinema studio used for shooting wilderness scenes. It had neither memories of the past nor hope for the future.

This was suburban Surrey, the land of the A and B social classes in the terminology of pollsters, where passports lay at the ready and Range Rovers stood in the driveway. Range Rovers? The only time they ever encountered mud was when being driven carelessly over front lawns late on a Friday night or when dropping off their little Johnnies and Emmas at their private schools.

Somehow, Gemma had turned into her north star, and going back to Cornwall had only heightened that sense. Nothing had felt right there. Yet as soon as she was back in Surrey, she’d felt at peace. Places you belonged were never about the location itself. They were always about the people, the memories you held, and the ones you hoped to make. Gemma and Skye fell very much into the final category.

So it came as a surprise when, in 1859 in On the Origin of Species, Charles Darwin announced that the geological processes that created the Weald, an area of southern England stretching across Kent, Surrey, and Sussex, had taken, by his calculations, 306,662,400 years to complete. The assertion was remarkable partly for being so arrestingly specific but even more for flying in the face of accepted wisdom about the age of the Earth.

You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now,” she continued. “I can see it from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something else, I’m afraid. Life’s going to be melted down, all over the world.” Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot was being prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. One’s hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth beating time?

His former mother-in-law attempted to ease the new couple’s burdens by bestowing on them a wedding present in the form of a household slave. In a town where one in five families owned enslaved people, it was a traditional gift. Adams balked. “A slave cannot live in my house,” he declared, insisting, “If she comes, she must be free.” Emancipated, Surrey remained a fixture at the Adams address for nearly fifty years. In conjunction with a Rhode Island doctor, Adams began to formulate a campaign against slavery.

Let us adopt a symbologist approach to our subjects and see whether there are any invisible connections buried just beneath the surface. One anagram of "Herman Melville, Moby Dick" would be "Hmm-- a credible milky novel." Shuffle the letters of "Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code", and we uncover this message: "B. was a contrived, hidden con." And rearranging "Andy Miller-- The Year of Reading Dangerously" proves what we have suspected for a while: "I am only a greying fatheaded Surrey nerd-- LOL." Dr. Langdon may be onto something.

Riding out with the Old Surrey and Burstow Hunt, White recorded the first time he saw a kill with distanced fascination. The fox was dug out of a drain where it had taken refuge and thrown to the hounds. They tore it to pieces while a circle of human onlookers 'screeched them on'. The humans, White thought, were disgusting, their cries 'tense, self-conscious, and histerically animal'. But the hounds were not. 'The savagery of the hounds', he wrote, 'was deep-rooted and terrible, but rang true, so that it was not horrible like that of the human.

Lecz teraz nie mam ani chwili do stracenia. Nie ma tu wytchnienia, nie ma cienia drżących liści ani altany, w której można by się schronić przed słońcem, usiąść z ukochaną na wieczornym chłodzie. (...) To jest życie - Pan Prentice o czwartej, Pan Eyres o czwartej czterdzieści (...) Brzemię świata spoczywa na naszych barkach. To jest życie. Jeśli będę parł do przodu, odziedziczę fotel i dywan, posiadłość w Surrey ze szklarniami i jakimś niezwykłym okazem drzewa szpilkowego, melona albo kwitnącego drzewa, którego będą mi zazdrościli inni handlowcy

And here’s Miss Carroll’s house who taught me clarinet, except one day I rang the doorbell and got no answer and it turned out she’d run off with Mr. Surrey from the auto-parts store who was married and had five children.” Derek said, “I didn’t know you played the clarinet.” She drew in a breath to speak but then just stared at him, because what? Oh, boys were such foreigners. (Not for the first time, she wished she’d had a brother or two.) A girl would have begged for every detail about Miss Carroll’s running off. “Well, not anymore,” she said finally. “I wasn’t very musical.

Near London Bridge, where the river had frozen to a depth of some twenty fathoms, a wrecked wherry boat was plainly visible, lying on the bed of the river where it had sunk last autumn, overladen with apples. The old bumboat woman, who was carrying her fruit to market on the Surrey side, sat there in her plaids and farthingales with her lap full of apples, for all the world as if she were about to serve a customer, though a certain blueness about the lips hinted the truth. ’Twas a sight King James specially liked to look upon, and he would bring a troupe of courtiers to gaze with him.

For a time it was highly fashionable to build a hermitage and install in it a live-in hermit. At Painshill in Surrey, one man signed a contract to live seven years in picturesque seclusion, observing a monastic silence, for £100 a year, but was fired after just three weeks when he was spotted drinking in the local pub. An estate owner in Lancashire promised £50 a year for life to anyone who would pass seven years in an underground dwelling on his estate without cutting his hair or toenails or talking to another person. Someone took up the offer and actually lasted four years before deciding he could take no more; whether he was given at least a partial pension for his efforts is sadly unknown.

[I]t's a con, at children's expense. When self-esteem advocates tell us to flatter the young about their views, in reality they ask adults to abandon the difficult task of disciplining them. Emphasizing that adults must 'express unconditional positive regard and acceptance for children' effectively destroys the inter-generational duty of passing on knowledge, setting boundaries for behavior and the broader task of socialization. It is not good for children and can mean adults indulging even the most destructive aspects of young people's behavior. In 2013, a self-harming pupil at Unsted Park School in Godalming, Surrey was given a disposable safety razor to slash himself with, supervised by a teacher. A spokeswoman from selfharm.co.uk justified this irresponsible collapse of adult judgement using the mantras of pupil voice and self-esteem: 'The best way to help is to listen without judging, accept that the recovery process may take a while and avoid "taking away" the self-harm' because 'self-harm can be about control, so it's important that the young person in the center feels in control of the steps taken to help them'. That's an extreme case but it touches on how focusing on the schoolchild's self-esteem can create the impression that the world should circle around pupils' desires. This in turn puts pressure on adults to tip-toe around young people's sensitivities and to accede to their opinions. Combined with student voice orthodoxies, this can lead to the peculiar diktat that teachers express respect for pupils' views, however childish or even poisonous.

On the road leading from his ranch to Samantha's, Wyat t drove his surrey up a small hill and caught his breath as the beauty of the large crescent moon dangling just out of reach over the crest A full moon would have been plump with luminescence, yet the pearly surface of the sickle still cast enough light to shadow his surroundings and seemed close enough that once he drove to the top of the hill, he'd be able to touch the bottom horn or at least toss a rope around it. He slackened the reins, slowing the horse, knowing that the higher he climbed, the sooner the illusion of closeness would disappear and he wanted to preserve for a moment the fantasy that the moon was within his grasp. The stars, by contrast, were distant pricks of diamond light farther out than a man could dream. He sighed. Life as a rancher or as a rancher's wife was not moon and stars easy or romantic. What would put stars in Samantha's eyes?

Nem sempre foi assim! Mas os homens não nos querem mais, as mulheres nos odeiam. Saiamos daqui. Vamo-nos. Eu (diz a Pureza) para o poleiro das galinhas. Eu (diz a Castidade) para as colinas ainda não violadas de Surrey. Eu (diz a Modéstia) para qualquer canto onde haja muitas heras e cortinas." "Pois lá, e não aqui" (todas falam ao mesmo tempo, dando-se as mãos e fazendo gestos de despedida e desespero na direção da cama onde Orlando jaz adormecido) "nos ninhos e nos toucadores, nos escritórios e nos tribunais, reside ainda quem nos ame, quem nos honre; virgens e comerciantes; advogados e médicos; aqueles que proíbem; aqueles que negam; aqueles que fazem reverências sem saber por quê; aqueles que louvam sem entender; a tribo ainda muito numerosa (graças aos Céus!) das pessoas respeitáveis; que preferem não ver; desejam não saber; amam a escuridão; os que ainda nos adoram, e com razão, pois lhes demos riqueza, prosperidade, conforto, bem-estar. Vamos rumo a eles e te deixamos sozinho. Vinde, irmãs, vinde! Aqui não é o nosso lugar.

Helene Hanff, an aspiring playwright who had been put to work in the Theatre Guild press office, remembered trying to generate some effective publicity for Away We Go! “This was, they told us, the damndest musical ever thought up for a sophisticated Broadway audience,” Hanff wrote. “It was so pure you could put it on at a church social. It opened with a middle-aged farm woman sitting alone on a bare stage churning butter, and from then on it got cleaner.”16 It was the kind of Americana that Larry Hart distrusted. But at the New Haven tryout he tried to keep an open mind. Of the songs in Away We Go!’s first act, five of them—“Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’,” “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top,” “Many a New Day,” “People Will Say We’re in Love,” and “Out of My Dreams”—were destined to become instant classics, with “All Er Nuthin’” and “Oklahoma!” delighting the audience in the second act. But Larry wasn’t so delighted. He might have regarded “We know we belong to the land” as a professionally crafted line, as resonant to recent immigrants as to Mayflower descendants; but “The land we belong to is grand”?

41. The Means to attain Happy Life MARTIAL, the things that do attain The happy life be these, I find: The richesse left, not got with pain; The fruitful ground, the quiet mind: The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; No charge of rule, nor governance; Without disease, the healthful life; The household of continuance: The mean diet, no delicate fare; True wisdom join'd with simpleness; The night discharged of all care, Where wine the wit may not oppress. The faithful wife, without debate; Such sleeps as may beguile the night; Contented with thine own estate Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.

What did she say that has you so eager to take a beating?" Bourne ignored the question, the explosion of pain in his cheek not doing its job, failing to take away all thought of what had happened earlier with his wife. Of how her blue eyes had flashed as she'd accused him of using her body to secure his interests. Of how she'd squared her shoulders and defended her own honor- something he should have done for her. Of how she'd looked at him, truth and tears in her eyes, and told him that she'd missed him. The words had taken his breath away- the idea that pure, perfect Penelope had thought of him, had worried about him. Because he had missed her, too. It had taken him years to forget- years that were erased in one moment of honesty, when she'd looked into his eyes and accused him of leaving her. Of dishonoring her. And there, in the pit of his stomach, still unmasked by the pain of Temple's beating, was the emotion he'd feared since the beginning of this charade. Guilt. She'd been right. He'd misused her. He'd treated her as less than she deserved. And she'd defended herself with strength and pride. Remarkably. And even as he'd tried to let her go, to push her from him, he'd known that he wanted her. He didn't fool himself into thinking that the desire was new. He'd wanted her in Surrey, when she'd stood in the darkness with nothing but a lantern to protect her. But now... want had become something more serious. More visceral. More dangerous. Now, he wanted her- his strong, intelligent, kindhearted wife, who became more tempting every day as she shifted and blossomed into someone new and different than the girl he'd met on that dark Surrey evening.

St. Just lifted his mug and peered into the contents. “Higgins explained that Goliath is a horse of particulars. Westhaven, did Valentine spit in my mug?” Westhaven rolled his eyes as he glanced at first one brother then the other. “For God’s sake, nobody spat in your damned mug. Pass the butter and drop the other shoe. What manner of horse of particulars is Sophie’s great beast?” “He does not like to travel too far from Sophie. He’ll tool around Town all day with Sophie at the ribbons. He’ll take her to Surrey, he’ll haul her the length and breadth of the Home Counties, but if he’s separated from his lady beyond a few miles, he affects a limp.” “He affects a limp?” Vim picked up his mug and did not look too closely at the contents. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” “I’ll tell you what I’ve never heard of.” Westhaven shot him a peevish look. “I’ve never heard of my sister, a proper, sensible woman, spending a week holed up with a strange man and allowing that man unspeakable liberties.” Lord Val paused in the act of troweling butter on another roll. “Kissing isn’t unspeakable. We know the man slept in my bed, else he’d be dead by now.” And thank God that Sophie hadn’t obliterated the evidence of their separate bedrooms. “I have offered your sister the protection of my name,” Vim said. “More than once. She has declined that honor.” “We know.” Lord Val put down his second roll uneaten. “This has us in a quandary. We ought to be taking you quite to task, but with Sophie acting so out of character, it’s hard to know how to go on. I’m for beating you on general principles. Westhaven wants a special license, and St. Just, as usual, is pretending a wise silence.” “Not a wise silence,” St. Just said, picking up Lord Val’s roll and studying it. “I wonder how many cows you keep employed with this penchant you have for butter. You could write a symphony to the bovine.” Lord Val snatched his roll back. “Admit it, St. Just, you’ve no more clue what’s to be done here than I do or Westhaven does.” “Or I do.” The words were out of Vim’s mouth without his intention to speak them. But in for a penny… “I want Sophie to be happy. I do not know how to effect that result.” A small silence spread at the table, a thoughtful and perhaps not unfriendly silence. “We want her happy, as well,” Westhaven said, his glance taking in both brothers.

Sophie!” Val spotted her first and abandoned all ceremony to wrap his arms around her. “Sophie Windham, I have missed you and missed you.” He held her tightly, so tightly Sophie could hide her face against his shoulder and swallow back the lump abruptly forming in her throat. “I have a new étude for you to listen to. It’s based on parallel sixths and contrary motion—it’s quite good fun.” He stepped back, his smile so dear Sophie wanted to hug him all over again, but St. Just elbowed Val aside. “Long lost sister, where have you been?” His hug was gentler but no less welcome. “I’ve traveled half the length of England to see you, you know.” He kissed her cheek, and Sophie felt a blush creeping up her neck. “You did not. You’ve come south because Emmie said you must, and you want to check on your ladies out in Surrey.” Westhaven waited until St. Just had released her. “I wanted to check on you.” His hug was the gentlest of all. “But you were not where you were supposed to be, Sophie. You have some explaining to do if we’re to get the story straight before we face Her Grace.” The simple fact of his support undid her. Sophie pressed her face to his shoulder and felt a tear leak from her eye. “I have missed you so, missed all of you so much.” Westhaven patted her back while Valentine stuffed a cold, wrinkled handkerchief into her hand. “We’ve made her cry.” St. Just did not sound happy. “I’m just…” Sophie stepped away from Westhaven and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m a little fatigued is all. I’ve been doing some baking, and the holidays are never without some challenges, and then there’s the baby—” “What baby?” All three men spoke—shouted, more nearly—as one. “Keep your voices down, please,” Sophie hissed. “Kit isn’t used to strangers, and if he’s overset, I’ll be all night dealing with him.” “And behold, a virgin shall conceive,” Val muttered as Sophie passed him back his handkerchief. St. Just shoved him on the shoulder. “That isn’t helping.” Westhaven went to the stove and took the kettle from the hob. “What baby, Sophie? And perhaps you might share some of this baking you’ve been doing. The day was long and cold, and our brothers grow testy if denied their victuals too long.” He sent her a smile, an it-will-be-all-right smile that had comforted her on many an occasion. Westhaven was sensible. It was his surpassing gift to be sensible, but Sophie found no solace from it now. She had not been sensible, and worse yet, she did not regret the lapse. She would, however, regret very much if the lapse did not remain private. “The tweenie was anticipating an interesting event, wasn’t she?” Westhaven asked as he assembled a tea tray. While Sophie took a seat at the table, St. Just hiked himself onto a counter, and Val took the other bench. “Joleen,” Sophie said. “Her interesting event is six months old, a thriving healthy child named… Westhaven, what are you doing?” “He’s making sure he gets something to eat under the guise of looking after his siblings,” St. Just said, pushing off the counter. “Next, he’ll fetch the cream from the window box while I make us some sandwiches. Valentine find us a cloth for the table.” “At once, Colonel.” Val snapped a salute and sauntered off in the direction of the butler’s pantry, while Westhaven headed for the colder reaches of the back hallway. “You

One month later, as promised, they sailed upriver on the royal barge bound for Richmond Palace. Richmond was a residence built in the time of the king’s father and situated on the site of the old Manor of Sheen, on the Surrey shore of the Thames. Bridget had never been there before and was looking forward to seeing it. As the barge sailed serenely atop the calm waters, she imagined what Richmond might look like. She needed something positive to look forward to, something to distract her mind from her current situation. She had been positioned in the boat, to her chagrin, to the right of the king, as close as he could place her whilst still observing some degree of propriety. She was garbed in a new gown of rich red brocade, the bright sunlight catching the numerous golden threads that ran through it. It was one of the many presents that the king had showered her with since she had consented to become his mistress. If “consented” was indeed the right word.

Oh possibly so, Rex, but our xenoscientibiozoologisters attributed their ill-temper to the Surrey T-Rex’s having short forearms in combination very itchy testicles – no chance whatsoever of a good scratch do you see? Hell on Earth I suppose, especially during the humid summer months of the Maastrichtian Cretaceous in the suburbs of Godalming.

Old things tell a story, Mr. Gilchrist, just as the lives of people do,' Miss Iverness's dark eyes were fixed intently on him. 'They preserve the past and remind us of how far we have come.

—¡Qué encanto!—murmuró, quedando inmóvil con una rodilla sobre al almohadón del surrey. Un momento después las serpentinas volaban hacia la victoria. Ambos carruajes estaban ya enlazados por el puente colgante de cintas, y la que lo ocasionaba sonreía de vez en cuando

Thoth is the Egyptian ibis-headed god of magick and writing, whose name means “Leader”.  His worship has been suggested by bronze ibis heads at Chiddingfold (Surrey) and Caerwent (Monmouthshire), indicating his worship found its way to Britain, if only in private villas.

A wave of unease traveled the room. Everyone recalled Levi’s memorable introduction to the Surrey City Press. Kim had been a new hire, only on the job a few days. At Levi’s first staff meeting, he’d loudly noted that her byline—Kimmy Jones—made it sound as if she were writing for the school newspaper, which she had been only months before. Adding insult to injury, Levi had handed Kim back a redlined piece she’d done on the 140th anniversary of Benjamin Franklin Savings Bank. From there he’d remarked, “If you rewrite the lead, find a quote worth using, and back off the superlatives, it might not sound like a college student wrote it.” And that was the beginning of Levi St John—expert at handling a newspaper agenda, disturbingly dense in the area of personal communication.

He could become again the man who had once crossed a Surrey park at dusk in his best suit, swaggering on the promise of life, who had entered the house and with the clarity of passion made love to Cecilia—no, let him rescue the word from the corporals, they had fucked while others sipped their cocktails on the terrace. The story could resume, the one that he had been planning on that evening walk.

home on 25 November 1854. He settled down in Surrey, married and continued to serve in the militia. He died in 1889. Temple Godman He was born in 1832 into a wealthy Surrey landed family and was educated at Eton. He joined the 5th Dragoon Guards in 1851 as a Cornet – the commission cost £840. He bought his promotion to Lieutenant in March 1854 and to Captain just over a year later. (The latter promotion cost £3,225 – about £150,000 at today’s prices.)

You're being evasive.” “Aye. You might not like me anymore if I told you more about me. Why risk it?” “But I want to know about you, Gray—” She pushed him away as he stopped and tried to claim her lips. “I want to know when you were born . . . where you were born . . .how many brothers and sisters you have . . . what your father and mother are like. . .” He laughed, his teeth white in the darkness. “I have six sisters and no brothers, my parents live in Surrey, and I was born in Penzance on the fourteenth day of August, in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and sixty-eight.” And I’m a Knight of the Bath whose head is going to roll, he thought to himself. “And your father and mother?” “Good parents. My father . . . owns land.” “In Surrey?” “Aye.

inquisitor’s stick, beginning with the bizarre claims of Mary Toft, the Englishwoman from Surrey who in 1726 tricked doctors into believing she’d given birth to rabbits. Though the hoax was eventually unmasked, the king’s own credulous doctor was embarrassed by the scandal and the wider medical profession also emerged with egg on its

What is it with you and death, Clement?” “Huh?” “That poor woman at the stables in Surrey — she also died with a knife sticking out of her chest, didn’t she?” “She was a fucking nutjob and died because of it. I didn’t kill her.” “Just a coincidence then?” “They happen.” “They do when you’re around apparently.” “What you sayin’?” The bliss I awoke to this morning now feels tainted. And the man who created that bliss isn’t perhaps the man I thought he was. “You didn’t have to kill Alex,” I murmur, repeating myself.

Not so long ago as a generation, there was no panting giant here, no heaving, grimy city; there was but a pleasant big town of neighborly people who had understanding of one another, being, on the whole, much of the same type. It was a leisurely and kindly place— “homelike,” it was called — and when the visitor had been taken through the State Asylum for the Insane and made to appreciate the view of the cemetery from a little hill, his host’s duty as Baedeker was done. The good burghers were given to jogging comfortably about in phaetons or in surreys for a family drive on Sunday. No one was very rich; few were very poor; the air was clean, and there was time to live. But there was a spirit abroad in the land, and it was strong here as elsewhere — a spirit that had moved in the depths of the American soil and labored there, sweating, till it stirred the surface, rove the mountains, and emerged, tangible and monstrous, the god of all good American hearts — Bigness. And that god wrought the panting giant.

I’m talking about you-know-who,’ Valance explained helpfully. ‘Torture. Maggie the Bitch.’ Oh. ‘She’s radical all right. What she wants – what she actually thinks she can fucking achieve – is literally to invent a whole goddamn new middle class in this country. Get rid of the old woolly incompetent buggers from fucking Surrey and Hampshire, and bring in the new. People without background, without history. Hungry people. People who really want, and who know that with her, they can bloody well get. Nobody’s ever tried to replace a whole fucking class before, and the amazing thing is she might just do it if they don’t get her first. The old class. The dead men. You follow what I’m saying.’ ‘I think so,’ Chamcha lied. ‘And it’s not just the businessmen,’ Valance said slurrily. ‘The intellectuals, too. Out with the whole faggoty crew. In with the hungry guys with the wrong education. New professors, new painters, the lot. It’s a bloody revolution. Newness coming into this country that’s stuffed full of fucking old corpses. It’s going to be something to see. It already is.

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By four in the afternoon the drive was lined with surreys, britzkas, droshkies, and gigs from Moscow and St. Petersburg and all the neighboring districts.

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blazing furnace of obsession for justice and revenge. When all those around him tell him that his daughter was the victim of a vampire, he may

He has a country house in Surrey, a daughter to educate and launch into Society, a wife to keep. He has kept pace for twenty years with an American millionaire, underwriting his own expeditions. What if he has gone to the well once too often?

This was my part of the land, and the sense of possession was strong in me; not in the sense of owning but of being owned; I belonged to it. Every particle of Surrey's varied soil - chalk, clay, sand, and the light brown loam - had a claim on something in me.

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It could produce the most extraordinary consequences, as the life of C. B. Fry demonstrates. The son of a chief accountant at Scotland Yard, he had played in the FA Cup before he left Repton School in 1890 and appeared for Surrey county cricket team in the time between school and university (Oxford, inevitably, and the top scholarship at Wadham College). By the time of his graduation, he had represented the university at cricket, soccer and athletics, tied the world long-jump record at 23 feet 6½ inches, and only missed playing wing three-quarter for the Oxford rugby team because of injury. He managed, in passing, to win a first in classics.

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You are under Lady Dare’s roof, so I strongly advise keeping a civil tongue in your head.

Next to him, Madeline quivered, and he discreetly jabbed her with his thumb so she didn’t dissolve into laughter and distract the most magnificent acting never performed on stage.

Very sensible,” said the vicar, nodding. “As I always say, never spare the rod.” “On my honor, I will not,” said Ethan gravely, and Madeline pressed her fingers to her lips and coughed twice.

Every happiness, Madeline,” called her mother unexpectedly, and he gave the woman an approving smile. Perhaps she might be permitted to visit again. The rest of them could go bathe in the Thames.

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In January 2012, the China Investment Corporation bought a 8.68 percent investment in Thames Water, the largest water utility in England, serving parts of the Greater London area, Thames Valley, and Surrey. In November of that year,

A thousand times a / day I die and a thousand am born, so distant am I from health.

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I am pleased to enclose my mother's recipe for Maids-of-Honor. She made beautiful pastry, such a light touch, and this was a great treat in my childhood. She liked to tell us that this cake dates back to Henry VIII's time (he was fond of his maids, wasn't he?) and that the original recipe is padlocked inside an iron box in Richmond Palace. Could that be true? CHARLES WEST, Surrey

His frown darkened. A Christmas house party in the wilds of Surrey was bad enough, but Portia had also invited half the damned county—noble and commoner—to a masked ball. Now she not only threatened him with bowel-loosening tisanes, but also Mittens, the ginger-striped, shoe-despoiling tyrant belonging to Beatrice and Amelia? Insubordination, that’s what this was. Or a particularly diabolical attempt at patricide. “Surely that feline has run out of lives.

Her gaze narrowed. “I do not lady snuffle.” Ethan coughed, then spluttered as she lovingly gouged his ribs with her elbow. Her husband hardly had a leg to stand on when it came to snores, he, the sporadic Lord of Gentle Rolling Thunder.

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Portia stalked forward until she stood nose to nose with her brother. “I care not what you or Kitty or your bloody mother think. I am a Denham now, and if you do anything to interfere with my happiness, anything at all, I shall ensure you are the sorriest marquess in England. No, the entire world. Do you understand, turnip-brain? I have vengeance on my mind, and am a most creative woman.

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