Thursday's Best Quotes

Marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all, Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, and Saturday for no luck at all.

The industrial age had only just begun; the planet had reached its Best Before date.

Was he a content man, doing the things he liked alone? Or was he a lonely man making the best out of what he had? Alone, or lonely?

Goodness is weakness, pleasantness is poisonous, serenity is mediocrity and kindness is for losers. The best reason for committing loathsome and detestable acts – and let’s face it, I am considered something of an expert in this field – is purely for their own sake. Monetary gain is all very well, but it dilutes the taste of wickedness to a lower level that is obtainable by almost anyone with an overdeveloped sense of avarice. True and baseless evil is as rare as the purest good –

It was best to grab everything while you could. Who knows when your final swim might come, your final walk, your final kiss?

Had she really understood then that those were the best of times? That she was in heaven? She thinks she did understand, yes. Understood she had been given a great gift. Doing the crossword in a train carriage, Stephen with a can of beer ("I will only drink beer on trains, nowhere else, don't ask me why"), glasses halfway down his nose, reading out clues. The real secret was that when they looked at each other, they each thought they had the better deal.

Because things are more fun for you when they’re not planned, and they were more fun for him when they were planned. It’s best to have one of each in every relationship.

I have wondered,' said the Marquis, taking a great bite out of a slice of bread and jam, 'whether it wouldn't be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it around.

Remember, Thursday, that scientific thought -- indeed, any mode of thought, whether it be religious or philosophical or anything else -- is just like the fashions that we wear -- only much longer lived. It's a little like a boy band." "Scientific thought a boy band? How do you figure that?" "Well, every now and then a boy band comes along. We like it, buy the records, posters, parade them on TV, idolise them right up until --" ... "-- the next boy band?" I suggested. "Precisely. Aristotle was a boy band. A very good one but only number six or seven. He was the best boy band until Isaac Newton, but even Newton was transplanted by an even newer boy band. Same haircuts -- but different moves." "Einstein, right?" "Right. Do you see what I'm saying?" "I think so." "Good. So try and think of maybe thirty or forty boy bands past Einstein. To where we would regard Einstein as someone who glimpsed a truth, played one good chord on seven forgettable albums." "Where is this going, Dad?" "I'm nearly there. Imagine a boy band so good that you never needed another boy band ever again. Can you imagine that?

The best reason for committing loathsome and detestable acts--and let's face it, I am considered something of an expert in this field--is purely for their own sake. Monetary gain is all very well, but it dilutes the taste of wickedness to a lower level that is obtainable by anyone with an overdeveloped sense of avarice. True and baseless evil is as rare as the purest good--and we all know how rare that is...

Marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all, Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, and Saturday for no luck at all. —Folk rhyme

Mondays taste like split-pea soup, Tuesdays taste like gobbledygook, Wednesdays taste like licorice, Thursdays taste like deep-fried fish, Fridays taste like the color red, Saturdays taste like gingerbread, Sundays taste like chicken breast, But birthdays! Birthdays taste the best! Birthdays taste like chocolate cake, Balloons, presents, and sirloin steak.

Chess is easy,' says Bogdan, continuing the walk between the lines of graves and now flicking on a torch. 'Just always make the best move.' 'Well, I suppose,' says Elizabeth. 'I've never quite thought about it like that. But what if you don't know what the best move is?' 'Then you lose.

Was he a content man, doing the things he liked alone? Or was he a lonely man making the best out of what he had? Alone, or lonely? This question cropped up so often these days, Chris could no longer be confident of his answer. Though if he was a betting man, his money would be on lonely.

In this job, you handpick your people. You need the best. You need the most loyal. You need the most ruthless.

The best person you can be is the person you are when you are alone on a random Thursday. That’s who you are.

the pool would still be here in the summer. “Ah, but we may not be,” Joyce had replied, and she was right. It was best to grab everything while you could. Who knows when your final swim

I think that you could have used your vast intellect far more usefully by serving mankind instead of stealing it. -Mycroft "Where's the fun in that? Goodness is weakness, pleasantness is poisonous, serenity is mediocrity and kindness is for losers. The best reason for committing Loathsome and detestable acts - and let's face it, I am considered something of an expert in this field - is purely for their own sake. Monetary gain is all very well, but it dilutes the taste of wickedness to a lower level that is obtainable by almost anyone with an overdeveloped sense of avarice. True and baseless evil is as rare as the purest good." -Acheron

You are the best, most loving, supportive family anyone could ever have," I said through my sobs. "I'm so sorry if I'm a burden." They all told me not to be so bloody silly, I told them not to swear, and Landen gave me a handkerchief for my tears.

Joyce doesn’t take her seriously, Ibrahim doesn’t take her seriously, Ron doesn’t take her seriously. They respect her, she thinks, they know they can rely on her, they take care of her - shudder - but they refuse to take her seriously. Who knew that was the secret all along?

It's the new best way to start your day - Ram Lev on Facebook Live TOMORROW, Thursday, March 16th, at 7:30am EST. "If I am not the body that was born and dies, and I am not the mind that always changes, then who am I? The One who is aware of the body, aware of the mind, and aware of the questions.

Wedding Superstitions The Bridal Gown White - You have chosen right. Grey - You'll go far away. Black - You'll wish yourself back. Red - You'll wish yourself dead. Green - Ashamed to be seen. Blue - You'll always be true. Pearl - You'll live in a whirl. Peach - A love out of reach. Yellow - Ashamed of your fellow. Pink - Your Spirits will sink. The Wedding Day Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday best of all, Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses, Saturday for no luck at all. The Wedding Month Marry in May, and you'll rue the day, Marry in Lent, you'll live to repent. Married when the year is new, He'll be loving, kind and true. When February birds do mate, You wed nor dread your fate. If you wed when March winds blow, Joy and sorrow both you'll know. Marry in April when you can, Joy for maiden and the man. Marry in the month of May, And you'll surely rue the day. Marry when the June roses grow, Over land and sea you'll go. Those who in July do wed, Must labour for their daily bread. Whoever wed in August be, Many a change is sure to see. Marry in September's shine, Your living will be rich and fine. If in October you do marry, Love will come, but riches tarry. If you wed in bleak November, Only joys will come, remember, When December's snows fall fast, Marry and true love will last. Married in January's roar and rime, Widowed you'll be before your prime. Married in February's sleepy weather, Life you'll tread in time together. Married when March winds shrill and roar, Your home will lie on a distant shore. Married 'neath April's changeful skies, A checkered path before you lies. Married when bees o'er May blossoms flit, Strangers around your board will sit. Married in month of roses June, Life will be one long honeymoon. Married in July with flowers ablaze, Bitter-sweet memories in after days. Married in August's heat and drowse, Lover and friend in your chosen spouse. Married in September's golden glow, Smooth and serene your life will go. Married when leaves in October thin, Toil and hardships for you begin. Married in veils of November mist, Fortune your wedding ring has kissed. Married in days of December's cheer, Love's star shines brighter from year to year

Do you want to know what finally changed things for me?” “What?” My voice is barely above a whisper. Dappled sunlight falls across his face, highlighting his flushed cheeks. “I met someone. She’s about five-six, golden brown hair, devastating smile. The kind that warms you from the inside out. And she made me so mad. Not two weeks after I started the job, she called to grill me about a story I posted on Facebook. She insisted I edit it because I didn’t get the wording right.” He adopts a mock falsetto voice. “ ‘It isn’t the “Panama Canal” cruise. It’s “Panama Canal and the Wonders of Azuero.” Fix it, please.’ ” My muscles go limp and my knees nearly buckle. Because he’s talking about me. “Finally, someone who wasn’t walking on eggshells. She actually snapped at me, and it was like she snapped me out of my fog. I may have been unnecessarily combative after that, just to get a rise out of her, but I started to feel again. Irritation, at first, but then more. After a while, I began getting out of the house. Seeing a therapist. Playing hockey. I adopted Winnie—best decision ever. I actually started looking forward to waking up in the morning.” Graeme steps closer, but I’m glued to the spot. Heat sizzles through my veins when he reaches up to run his knuckles along my cheek. “And staff meeting Thursdays? They became my favorite day of the week. Because I got to see her face.” My heart is hammering and my lungs seize. The sound of guests approaching rumbles closer, but I don’t look away. I swallow past the lump that’s lodged in my throat. “After this cruise, they’re my favorite day of the week too.” Reaching up, I run my fingers lightly along the hand that’s cupping my cheek. Graeme’s eyes widen and his lips part. Gathering every ounce of resolve I can muster, I step away just as Nikolai and Dwight crest a nearby hill. We continue through the highlands, fastening our platonic coworker facades into place. But an unspoken understanding hangs in the space between us, heavy and undeniable… This just went way past any bet.

So, he would go home, and have a night in by himself, with a curry. He knew that was where this was heading. There was a darts tournament on Sky. Chris wondered if this was a tragic plan, or whether it was simply the sort of plan that people would think was tragic. Was he a content man, doing the things he liked alone? Or was he a lonely man making the best out of what he had? Alone, or lonely?

Particularly in the military. According to General Scott, our best army officer is a Virginian named Lee.” “The man who caught John Brown?” “The same. Old Mr. Blair is a great friend of his. On Thursday, when Mr. Blair offered Colonel Lee the command of our army, Lee said that although he believes secession is wrong, and slavery worse, he can be no party to an invasion of his native state. I don’t understand Southerners, do you, Mr. Cooke?” “I can’t say I ever tried.

There was a pause. Frieda was about to stand up and fetch the nurse when David spoke again, in a quiet voice. “That—that thing you say happened to you . . .” “The rape,” said Frieda. “It has a name.” “Yes. Well. Are you—I mean, what’s going on with that?” Frieda looked at her mother, who had never believed her story and who now never would. “I don’t want to talk about it, David.” “That’s probably for the best.” He sounded relieved. “I mean, it’s all in the past and sometimes you just have to let sleeping dogs lie.” Wake up those dogs, thought Frieda. Set them loose on the world.

Kisses bring viewers out of the woodwork. That’s pure and simple fandom fact, and #KevinThursday is a prime example. A kiss is the culmination of everything unspoken—all the hints and hopes and uncertainties in a budding romance. Until that moment, it’s heat and simmer, heat and simmer. It’s a look, a word, a gesture. But the kiss is the boiling point. It’s what everyone waits on and cheers for. I get that, but personally? I prefer what happens before the kiss: the accidental brush of a shoulder, the spark of a stolen glance, the seemingly throwaway comment that is steeped in history and means so much more. That’s what I love best, and it’s what I best direct.

We were quiet for a while after that. I looked around the visiting area. I had spent so much time here over the last few decades. I had eaten a lot of key lime pie out of the vending machine. And I had come to respect and love this man who sat in front of me. He was tired too, and I was just one of many battles he was fighting. We both deserved a win. It was time. And if it wasn’t, then I would take my Thursday. I would eat my last meal, and I would thank Lester for being the best friend a guy could ever have, and I would tell Bryan Stevenson that he couldn’t save everyone and I knew he had done everything he could. I would have joy knowing that I lived as big a life as anyone ever could live in a five-by-seven cell.

My interest in comics was scribbled over with a revived, energized passion for clothes, records, and music. I'd wandered in late to the punk party in 1978, when it was already over and the Sex Pistols were history. I'd kept my distance during the first flush of the new paradigm, when the walls of the sixth-form common room shed their suburban-surreal Roger Dean Yes album covers and grew a fresh new skin of Sex Pistols pictures, Blondie pinups, Buzzcocks collages, Clash radical chic. As a committed outsider, I refused to jump on the bandwagon of this new musical fad, which I'd written off as some kind of Nazi thing after seeing a photograph of Sid Vicious sporting a swastika armband. I hated the boys who'd cut their long hair and binned their crappy prog albums in an attempt to join in. I hated pretty much everybody without discrimination, in one way or another, and punk rockers were just something else to add to the shit list. But as we all know, it's zealots who make the best converts. One Thursday night, I was sprawled on the settee with Top of the Pops on the telly when Poly Styrene and her band X-Ray Spex turned up to play their latest single: an exhilarating sherbet storm of raw punk psychedelia entitled "The Day the World Turned Day-Glo" By the time the last incandescent chorus played out, I was a punk. I had always been a punk. I would always be a punk. Punk brought it all together in one place for me: Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius novels were punk. Peter Barnes's The Ruling Class, Dennis Potter, and The Prisoner were punk too. A Clockwork Orange was punk. Lindsay Anderson's If ... was punk. Monty Python was punk. Photographer Bob Carlos Clarke's fetish girls were punk. Comics were punk. Even Richmal Crompton's William books were punk. In fact, as it turned out, pretty much everything I liked was punk. The world started to make sense for the first time since Mosspark Primary. New and glorious constellations aligned in my inner firmament. I felt born again. The do-your-own-thing ethos had returned with a spit and a sneer in all those amateurish records I bought and treasured-even though I had no record player. Singles by bands who could often barely play or sing but still wrote beautiful, furious songs and poured all their young hearts, experiences, and inspirations onto records they paid for with their dole money. If these glorious fuckups could do it, so could a fuckup like me. When Jilted John, the alter ego of actor and comedian Graham Fellows, made an appearance on Top of the Pops singing about bus stops, failed romance, and sexual identity crisis, I was enthralled by his shameless amateurism, his reduction of pop music's great themes to playground name calling, his deconstruction of the macho rock voice into the effeminate whimper of a softie from Sheffield. This music reflected my experience of teenage life as a series of brutal setbacks and disappointments that could in the end be redeemed into art and music with humor, intelligence, and a modicum of talent. This, for me, was the real punk, the genuine anticool, and I felt empowered. The losers, the rejected, and the formerly voiceless were being offered an opportunity to show what they could do to enliven a stagnant culture. History was on our side, and I had nothing to lose. I was eighteen and still hadn't kissed a girl, but perhaps I had potential. I knew I had a lot to say, and punk threw me the lifeline of a creed and a vocabulary-a soundtrack to my mission as a comic artist, a rough validation. Ugly kids, shy kids, weird kids: It was okay to be different. In fact, it was mandatory.

OBAMA WENT THROUGH STAGES. That first day, I was in multiple meetings where he tried to lift everyone’s spirits. That evening, he interrupted the senior staff meeting in Denis McDonough’s office and gave a version of the speech that I’d now heard three times as we all sat there at the table. He was the only one standing. It was both admirable and heartbreaking watching him take everything in stride, working—still—to lift people’s spirits. When he was done, I spoke first. “It says a lot about you,” I said, “that you’ve spent the whole day trying to buck the rest of us up.” People applauded. Obama looked down. On the Thursday after the election, he had a long, amiable meeting with Trump. It left him somewhat stupefied. Trump had repeatedly steered the conversation back to the size of his rallies, noting that he and Obama could draw big crowds but Hillary couldn’t. He’d expressed openness to Obama’s arguments about healthcare, the Iran deal, immigration. He’d asked for recommendations for staff. He’d praised Obama publicly when the press was there. Afterward, Obama called a few of us up to the Oval Office to recap. “I’m trying to place him,” he said, “in American history.” He told us Trump had been perfectly cordial, but he’d almost taken pride in not being attached to a firm position on anything. “He peddles bullshit. That character has always been a part of the American story,” I said. “You can see it right back to some of the characters in Huckleberry Finn.” Obama chuckled. “Maybe that’s the best we can hope for.” In breaks between meetings in the coming days, he expressed disbelief that the election had been lost. With unemployment at 5 percent. With the economy humming. With the Affordable Care Act working. With graduation rates up. With most of our troops back home. But then again, maybe that’s why Trump could win. People would never have voted for him in a crisis. He kept talking it out, trying on different theories. He chalked it up to multiple car crashes at once. There was the letter from Comey shortly before the election, reopening the investigation into Clinton’s email server. There was the steady release of Podesta emails from Wikileaks through October. There was a rabid right-wing propaganda machine and a mainstream press that gorged on the story of Hillary’s emails, feeding Trump’s narrative of corruption.

I’m stacking days, building a house of cards made from nothing but days. Monday is the Ace of Hearts. Saturday is the Four of Spades. Wednesday is the Seven of Clubs. Thursday night is, I suspect, the Seven of Diamonds, and it might be heavy enough to bring the whole precarious thing tumbling down around my ears. I would spend an entire hour watching cards fall, because time would stretch, the same way it stretches out to fill in awkward pauses, the way it stretched thin in that thundering moment of a car crash. Or at the edges of a wound.

I don't really get the whole intellect-through-isolation thing," I said. "I'm not sure anyone can claim to understand the human condition until he's talked two people out of a fight, smoothed over a best friend's marital breakup or dealt effectively with a teenager's huffy silence

in the middle. You have to be strong and leave well alone.’ ‘Oh, but suppose it’s a bit too hot and the cakes burn?’ Libby wailed. ‘My mother is a really good cook. It would be awful to give her burnt cake; don’t you think perhaps . . . ?’ ‘Oh, Libby, use your loaf,’ Matthews implored. ‘You can cut burnt off, but there’s nothing you can do if it goes all slimy in the middle and I must say,’ he added, beginning to pile utensils into the yellow bowl, ‘the mixture tastes absolutely delicious. I think raw cake is even nicer than the cooked sort.’ He intercepted Libby’s longing glance towards the oven and chuckled. ‘You start the washing up and I’ll dry, then we’ll put all the things away, and by the time we’ve done that, the cake will very likely be cooked.’ The cake was a great success; Libby lovingly clapped the two halves together with raspberry jam in between, and wrote Welcome, Mummy and Daddy in her very best writing. Icing had not been available since the beginning of the war, but a piece of white card propped up on top of the cake was the next best thing. However, it was only Neil who came striding across the yard halfway through Thursday afternoon. Libby and Matthew had been hanging about the lane all day but as luck would have it had gone back to the house to lay the table for high tea when their visitor arrived. Neil gave a shout, stood his suitcase and bag down and caught Libby as she

Waking up Thursday morning to another dreary day and the sense of being physically stuffed, they focused on FISH. While Charlotte interviewed the postmaster about the origin, techniques, and ingredients for his best-in-Maine lobster bakes, Nicole set off to gather recipes for glazed salmon, baked pesto haddock, and cod crusted with marjoram, a minted savory unique to Quinnipeague, and sage.

In the evenings, my father and I ate dinner quietly in front of the TV together. Wednesday night, Thursday. Frozen dinners I'd picked out at the grocery store, greatest hits by my favorite factories. One of the best ones, in Indiana, prided itself on a no touch food assembly, which meant every step was monitored by robotic arms, ones that placed the tortillas into the dish, layered them with cheese, dropped dollops of tomato sauce on top, and shoved it all into the giant oven, thus producing an utterly blank enchilada.

Against Whatever It Is That's Encroaching" Best of all is to be idle, And especially on a Thursday, And to sip wine while studying the light: The way it ages, yellows, turns ashen And then hesitates forever On the threshold of the night That could be bringing the first frost. It's good to have a woman around just then, And two is even better. Let them whisper to each other And eye you with a smirk. Let them roll up their sleeves and unbutton their shirts a bit. As this fine old twilight deserves, And the small schoolboy Who has come home to a room almost dark And now watches wide-eyed The grownups raise their glasses to him, The giddy-headed, red-haired woman With eyes tightly shut, As if she were about to cry or sing.

Well, you’re AWOL at best and a cheese smuggler at worst. So we’ve concocted a cover story of such bizarre complexity and outrageous daring that it can only be true. Here it is: in a parallel universe ruled entirely by lobsters, you—

that moment, he shook his head. “Come on. You can’t fool me.” Isaac managed to spit out the truth. His brother’s mocking laughter filled the air. “Cinnamon buns? You looked all”—Andrew lowered his lids halfway and assumed a dreamy expression. “D-did not.” “Jah, you did.” In a falsetto voice, Andrew warbled, “Ach, Sovilla, you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” He exhaled a long, shuddery breath. For the first time in his life, Isaac longed to punch his brother in the stomach. How dare he make fun of Sovilla! And of the tender feelings Isaac held for her. Andrew laughed. “You look like Mamm’s teakettle.” Huh? “All steamed.” With a snicker, he danced out of Isaac’s reach. That was probably for the best. Isaac would never forgive himself if he hit his twin. But he needed to find a way to get these feelings under control. If even remembering her cinnamon rolls made him as dreamy eyed as his brother said, he had to erase Sovilla from his mind. Yet the harder he tried, the more it proved impossible. In fact, he woke at dawn on Thursday hungering for cinnamon rolls and a glimpse of the angel who baked them. Her name replayed as a lilting melody. Sovilla, Sovilla, Sovilla. Had he ever heard a prettier name? Or seen a lovelier face? At breakfast, he missed his plate when he dished out scrambled eggs and almost knocked over his glass of milk when he tried to scoop up the slippery mess. “Goodness, Isaac, what’s gotten into you this morning?” Mamm peered at him over the top of her glasses. “Don’t mind him, Mamm. He’s in love.” Andrew sang the last word. Daed’s stern glance sobered Andrew, but everyone else stared at Isaac. He shook his head and lowered his gaze to his plate. “Leave your brother alone.” Mamm passed a bowl of applesauce. “Eat up so you won’t be late to market.” To Isaac’s relief, Daed turned the conversation to a new brand of chicken feed he’d heard about at the market. Mamm asked questions, and his brothers and sisters concentrated on eating. In his eagerness to see Sovilla again, Isaac practically inhaled his breakfast. Once they reached the auction, he waited impatiently for a chance. He intended to slip off without being noticed, but Andrew spied him and Snickers edging in the direction of the market. “Bet you’re going to get a cinnamon bun, right?” His brother waggled his eyebrows. “I’m hungry for one too.” Pinching his lips together as Andrew walked beside him, Isaac stewed.

Elizabeth did her best to be comforting, saying it was hard to kill someone, but sometimes that was the job, and then Poppy finally spoke and said, “That’s not a job I want,” and I had some sympathy with that. It must be fun doing all the training, I suppose, and creeping around with no one knowing, but blowing a man’s head off from four feet away probably doesn’t suit everyone. It wouldn’t suit me, and it doesn’t suit Poppy. Actually, perhaps it would suit me? You never know until you try, do you? I never thought I would like dark chocolate, for example. I

Finally, on Wednesday, they began to lower the sedation again, and immediately he reached for the ventilator tube and tried to pull it out. “Don’t fight it,” I told him again and again, trying to explain what was happening. I held his hand. The nurse came in and told me they were going to try to take the ventilator out. “Do you want me to stay, or leave you?” I asked him. His eyes were closed, but he put his hand out and rubbed my back. Just for a moment. He’s there! I wanted to shout. Everything’s going to be okay. The antibiotics must be working! I wanted to sing and shout and dance. After the ventilator was out, he began opening his eyes just a crack when someone came in to say hello. And things got even better--he was calm although he was still tied down, and when a friend and Willie came in to say hello, Jep said, “What’s up?” I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Those were the first words I’d heard him say since he’d gone deer hunting. I questioned him a little, wanting to know what he remembered, but he couldn’t talk much and still seemed very sleepy, dozing off every few minutes. Thursday morning was one of the best days of my life because Jep woke up bright-eyed. “Why am I in here? What happened?” he asked. He didn’t remember anything. He looked awake and alert and rested. But I was exhausted, having gotten very little sleep or food and not knowing if Jep would live or die, while he’d been taking the longest nap of his life. We held hands, and though I was exhausted, I was happy. Thursday afternoon he talked a little more and ate a cracker. He was back. Slowly but surely, he was coming back. He knew who I was, so I believed he would know who the kids were. And he started talking more and more. Thank you, Lord, for bringing Jep back to me.

Brandon wrapped his arm around me and discreetly brushed his hand over my stomach. I was only twelve weeks and I was already showing enough to know my bump was a baby … not a big meal. Hell, it wasn’t even a bump, my whole stomach was already rounding. We’d seen Dr. Lowdry yesterday, and she said it was normal to show quickly after your first pregnancy. Apparently something about your body already knowing what was going to happen, so it responded quicker. All that did was make me frown, I’d been massive by the time Liam was born, if I already had a ridiculously defined baby bump that decided to pop up out of nowhere this last Thursday, I could only imagine what I would look like by the time I delivered this one. So I’d worn a loose shirt last night and today since the parents were still in the dark. We could have told them Monday, but everyone’s emotions were so all over the place with Brandon’s fight and my disappearing act, that we decided it was best to continue with our plan to wait until today. “Girl.” He whispered softly in my ear as he caressed my belly again. I turned to plant a kiss on his cheek and whispered back, “Boy.” Liam

QWhere does Friday come before Thursday? A:In

What's Wrong with the World (Chesterton, G. K. (Gilbert Keith)) - Your Highlight on page 93 | Location 797-799 | Added on Thursday, January 8, 2015 1:31:17 PM There is a pedantic phrase used in debating clubs which is strictly true to the masculine emotion; they call it "speaking to the question." Women speak to each other; men speak to the subject they are speaking about. Many an honest man has sat in a ring of his five best friends under heaven and forgotten who was in the room while he explained some system.

The war in Ukraine probably will not be decided by fighting. And so far diplomacy and a cease-fire agreement have failed. The best hope is that the Ukrainian people will seek a solution. They have experienced nearly 5,000 casualties in the war with tens of thousands of people displaced. They may also tire of their churches blurring the line between the religious and secular spheres. Russians, too, may tire of the Orthodox Church being used for political purposes, especially as more Russian soldiers die in Ukraine. The front to watch in the war may not be on the battlefield or in the diplomatic offices of Europe. The people and their church leaders could finally set the conditions for peace. ========== The Christian Science Monitor (The Christian Science Monitor) - Clip This Article on Location 526 | Added on Thursday, February 5, 2015 5:43:08 PM

The low-wage business model has essentially turned public aid into a form of corporate welfare. The best corrective is to raise the federal minimum wage. A new bill introduced on Thursday by congressional Democrats would lift the minimum from its current level of $7.25 an hour to $12 an hour by 2020. At that level, there would still be a need for public aid to ensure that some working families are kept out of poverty.

Warlord 1 Winter king (Bernard Cornwell) - Your Highlight on Location 18-19 | Added on Thursday, May 15, 2014 1:40:04 AM These are the tales of Arthur, the Warlord, the King that Never Was, the Enemy of God and, may the living Christ and Bishop Sansum forgive me, the best man I ever knew. How I have wept for Arthur.

Your Highlight on page 63 | location 958-961 | Added on Thursday, 5 June 2014 15:38:27 A slogan that accurately conveys the essence of your Purple Cow is a script. A script for the sneezer to use when she talks with her friends. The slogan reminds the user, “Here’s why it’s worth recommending us; here’s why your friends and colleagues will be glad you told them about us.” And best of all, the script guarantees that the word of mouth is passed on properly – that the prospect is coming to you for the right reason.

By Thursday the news had leaked out and a group of photographers waited for her outside the hospital. “People thought Diana only came in at the end,” says Angela. “Of course it wasn’t like that at all, we shared it all.” In the early hours of Thursday, August 23 the end came. When Adrian died, Angela went next door to telephone Diana. Before she could speak Diana said: “I’m on my way.” Shortly after she arrived they said the Lord’s Prayer together and then Diana left her friends to be alone for one last time. “I don’t know of anybody else who would have thought of me first,” says Angela. Then the protective side of Diana took over. She made up a bed for her friend, tucked her in and kissed her goodnight. While she was asleep Diana knew that it would be best if Angela joined her family on holiday in France. She packed her suitcase for her and telephoned her husband in Montpellier to tell him that Angela was flying out as soon as she awoke. Then Diana walked upstairs to see the baby ward, the same unit where her own sons were born. She felt that it was important to see life as well as death, to try and balance her profound sense of loss with a feeling of rebirth. In those few months Diana had learned much about herself, reflecting the new start she had made in life. It was all the more satisfying because for once she had not bowed to the royal family’s pressure. She knew that she had left Balmoral without first seeking permission from the Queen and in the last days there was insistence that she return promptly. The family felt that a token visit would have sufficed and seemed uneasy about her display of loyalty and devotion which clearly went far beyond the traditional call of duty. Her husband had never known much regard for her interests and he was less than sympathetic to the amount of time she spent caring for her friend. They failed to appreciate that she had made a commitment to Adrian Ward-Jackson, a commitment she was determined to keep. It mattered not whether he was dying of AIDS, cancer or some other disease, she had given her word to be with him at the end. She was not about to breach his trust. At that critical time she felt that her loyalty to her friends mattered as much as her duty towards the royal family. As she recalled to Angela: “You both need me. It’s a strange feeling being wanted for myself. Why me?” While the Princess was Angela’s guardian angel at Adrian’s funeral, holding her hand throughout the service, it was at his memorial service where she needed her friend’s shoulder to cry on. It didn’t happen. They tried hard to sit together for the service but Buckingham Palace courtiers would not allow it. As the service at St Paul’s Church in Knightsbridge was a formal occasion, the royal family had to sit in pews on the right, the family and friends of the deceased on the left. In grief, as with so much in Diana’s life, the heavy hand of royal protocol prevented the Princess from fulfilling this very private moment in the way she would have wished. During the service Diana’s grief was apparent as she mourned the man whose road to death had given her such faith in herself. The Princess no longer felt that she had to disguise her true feelings from the world. She could be herself rather than hide behind a mask. Those months nurturing Adrian had reordered her priorities in life. As she wrote to Angela shortly afterwards: “I reached a depth inside which I never imagined was possible. My outlook on life has changed its course and become more positive and balanced.

The next day, dressed in his best clothes, Tad sat with his mother for Thanksgiving dinner in the White House. “Before we enjoy this bountiful feast of ham, hen, and vegetables,” the president said, rising to speak to the guests, “we should take a moment to remember all those who are helping to hold this country together…including fruit-stand vendors.” Tad grinned. “I think it also fitting,” he continued, “being our first national Thanksgiving, that I read from my proclamation, the document that created this holiday.” Tad groaned and wriggled his feet. His mother touched his hand to still him. President Lincoln adjusted his glasses and began to read: “I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November as a day of Thanksgiving.” He put down the proclamation and looked around the room. “Even in times of darkness and despair,” he said, “there are still many things for which to give thanks.” “There sure are!” Tad cried. The president smiled and sat down. He glanced over at Tad. “Looks like we’ll have a fine Thanksgiving, doesn’t it, Tadpole?” “Yes,” said Tad. “And Jack will, too!

I started to tutor, in order to earn some money for special expenses or for the movies. I earned my own spending money. It was taken for granted that the parents did the best they could and so the children tried to do their part. When I was 15, we moved into a new building, with a separate bathroom, with a tub and a boiler, to heat the water for the bath. Up till then we bathed every Thursday evening in a big tin tub, which was kept standing against the wall, in the kitchen. Water had to be heated on the stove and poured into the tub by the bucketfuls. That same procedure followed when spilling the water. That was a very difficult way of bathing but since I had never seen a different system, it was taken for granted.

I can meet with you again Monday at the same time here in your office, or any morning next week by Skype, or Wednesday and Thursday for lunch—which is best?

It is far too cold to swim, but Joyce would not be dissuaded. Elizabeth had told her not to be so silly, and that the pool would still be here in the summer. “Ah, but we may not be,” Joyce had replied, and she was right. It was best to grab everything while you could. Who knows when your final swim might come, your final walk, your final kiss? Elizabeth has an idea what secret Bogdan is keeping from her. So be it.

Viktor, inside my head, while I can still explain . . . Things are not moving forward. The world, that keeps moving forward, I understand that, I sense that. It won’t stop moving forward. But my brain is doubling back on itself. Even now, back I go. It feels like a bathtub, when someone pulls out the plug. Circles, circles, circles, and, every time around, something new, something not understood, and there’s me trying to scramble up the sides. And this is me at my best, this is when I still have a grasp.” “I

So DCI Hudson explained the legal niceties to me, and warned that he would be forced to arrest anyone who blocked the diggers. I said that I was sure he wouldn’t actually arrest anyone, and he agreed that this was true. So there we were, back to square one. Ron then asked DCI Hudson if he was proud of himself, and DCI Hudson replied that he was an overweight fifty-one-year-old divorcé, and so, by and large, no, he wasn’t. This made Donna smile. She likes him—not like that, but she likes him. I do too. I was going to say to him that he wasn’t overweight, but he actually is a bit, and as a nurse, it’s best to never sugarcoat things, even when your instinct is to be protective. Instead I told him he should never eat after six p.m.—that’s the key if you don’t want diabetes—and he thanked me. That’s when Ibrahim joined us and suggested that DCI Hudson might try Pilates, and Donna said that was something she would pay to see. Ian Ventham didn’t want to join in the fun, and told Donna and DCI Hudson that he paid their wages. Donna said in that case could she ask him about a pay rise, and that’s when Ventham started shouting the odds about this, that, and the other. People without a sense of humor will never forgive you for being funny. But that’s an aside. Anyway, Ibrahim, who is very good with this sort of thing—conflict and inadequate men and stalemates and so on—stepped in and offered to “thin the crowd out” to give everyone a bit of breathing space.

On Sunday when Dolly awakened, she had olive skin and black-brown hair that fell in waves to her hips. On Tuesday when Dolly awakened, she was a redhead, and fair. But on Thursday her eyes were blue, her hair as black as crow’s wing, and her hands were red with blood.

By early afternoon the Carpathia had passed the last of the ice and could begin to pick up speed, but at 4:00 p.m its engines were stopped. Father Anderson then appeared on deck in his clerical garb, followed by Carpathia crewmen carrying four corpses sewn into canvas bags. These were the bodies of two male passengers, one fireman, and one seaman, that had been brought aboard from the lifeboats. Each of the canvas bags in turn was laid on a wide plank and covered with a flag. As the words “Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the deep” were read aloud, the bodies were tipped into the sea one at a time. A large crowd stood nearby with heads bared. The canvas bags had been weighted so that the bodies would fall feet first but one of them struck the water flat. A Carpathia passenger wrote that he would never forget the sound of that splash. One of those buried at sea was first-class passenger William F. Hoyt, the heavy man who had been pulled into Boat 14 and died shortly thereafter. When May Futrelle learned that a large man had been lifted into one of the lifeboats, she questioned the crew of Boat 14 but soon realized that the man they described could not have been her husband. She also heard that Archibald Gracie had been pulled under with the ship and worked up her courage to ask him if he had suffered as he was being dragged down. Gracie reassured her that if he had never come up, he would have had no more suffering, giving May some comfort that perhaps Jacques had not endured an agonizing death. That afternoon Charles Lightoller had a serious talk with the three other surviving officers, Pitman, Boxhall, and Lowe, about what lay ahead. It was agreed that their best hope for escaping what Lightoller called “the inquisition” that awaited in New York was to immediately board the Cedric, scheduled to sail for Liverpool on Thursday. Their case was taken to Bruce Ismay who sent a message to Philip Franklin suggesting that the Cedric be held for the Titanic’s crew and himself. Ismay also asked that clothes and shoes be put on board for him. The cable was signed “Yamsi,” his coded signature for personal messages.

News of the verdicts brought a marked change in Rogers. He became almost obsessive in his desire to discuss the fire on the Morro Castle. Increasingly, he dwelt on how the blaze had been set. Doyle began to keep a record of his assistant’s statements. Finally, he noted: “George knows that I know he set fire to the Morro Castle.” Doyle decided to wait. He knew that what Rogers had told him was not strong enough to obtain a conviction. If questioned, Rogers could always escape by pleading idle boasting, something his police colleagues knew he was capable of. Vincent Doyle told no one of his suspicions. But he continued to question Rogers on every aspect of the Morro Castle disaster, and began to form a picture of Rogers which was remarkably in tune with later psychiatric reports. The strange cat-and-mouse questioning went on until early March 1938. Then, on March 3, a quiet Thursday afternoon, Doyle and Rogers sat down for yet another discussion on the peculiar fate of the Morro Castle. At the end of it Doyle knew “exactly how Rogers set the fire. He told me how to construct an incendiary fountain pen; how it had been placed in the writing-room locker’.” Doyle wondered how best to present his sensational evidence to his superiors. He was still worrying over it next afternoon when he met Rogers outside the police radio department. Rogers seemed pensive and withdrawn. “There’s a package for you,” said Rogers. Doyle nodded and went into the department. Rogers remained just outside the doorway. On the workbench was a package. Doyle unwrapped it and found a heater for a fish tank. There was nothing unusual in that; from time to time Doyle used the department’s facilities to repair electrical equipment for his colleagues. Attached to the fish tank was a typed label: This is a fish-tank heater. Please install the switch in the line cord and see if the unit will work. It should get slightly warm.

Ron opens the front door and smiles. How did he end up with a grandson and a best mate like these two? Lucky fella.

I asked if the same person who had found her the records in the first place might be the man for the job. Elizabeth had said that unfortunately this person had owed her one favor, not two. She also said she was surprised I had said “man” for the job, given my politics. She was right, it was not best practice, but I told her that I bet it was a man all the same, and she confirmed that it was.

In the early days of Amazon, Jeff Bezos did his best to leave Mondays and Thursdays unscheduled so he could spend the time “trawling for ideas, exploring his own site, sometimes just surfing the Web.

Going Out is something we have to do every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. I'm not sure if any of us like it, but we show up for it like we show up for class, like we would show up for a job if we had one. I'm not sure how everyone found out about Going Out, how everyone discovered it will make these The Best Years of Our Lives but at eight p.m. on Thursdays, my roommate Shira starts automatically flat-ironing her hair and Sarah B. sends out a group text saying, "What are we doing tonight?" and Sarah A. says, "Meet in my room at 9.

So I was convenient. Which is the best you can ask for sometimes, isn’t it?

doubt Lucilla had a confidence that, whatever difficulties there might have been, she would have extricated herself from them with satisfaction and even éclat, but still it was better to avoid the necessity. Thus it was with a serene conviction that “whatever is, is best,” that Miss Marjoribanks betook herself to her peaceful slumbers. There are so many people in the world who hold, or are tempted to hold, an entirely different opinion, that it is pleasant to linger over the spectacle of a mind so perfectly well regulated. Very different were the sentiments of Mr Cavendish, who could not sleep for the ghosts that kept tugging at him on every side; and those of Barbara Lake, who felt that for her too the flower of her hero’s love had been nipped in the bud. But, to be sure, it is only natural that goodness and self-control should have the best of it sometimes even in this uncertain world. Chapter XXII THE ARCHDEACON RETURNED to Carlingford before Thursday, as he had anticipated; but in the interval Mr Cavendish had not recovered his courage so far as to renew his visit to Miss Marjoribanks, or to face the man who had alarmed him so much.

It used to be Claire’s Hairdressers, until Claire was struck off. Is ‘struck off’ the correct expression for hairdressers? Either way, the local GP’s wife lost the top of an ear and that was that. They say Claire’s in Brighton now, and that’s probably for the best.

Calculating from Shorter’s best marathon time (2:10:30), we can assume that his target marathon pace is just under five minutes per mile, or about 3:05 per kilometer. As you see, except for interval training on Thursday, his training consisted of running slower than his marathon pace. That easy running represented as much as 97 percent of his total training distance.

Loan Partner Takes the Call •​VIP front of the line script •​Takes a complete application •​Pulls credits •​Runs DU if credit is good enough •​Request the required documents for the full approval with urgency •​Determines which program they think is best (but doesn’t discuss with client) •​Pick a Green spot in the LO’s calendar / Text LO new loan just came in •​Gives back loan officer to sell the program and rage •​Takes back after program and rate is sold •​Tuesday / Thursday 15-minute pipeline updates •​Delivers bad news •​Tells loan officer to go get another loan

•​VIP front of the line script •​Takes a complete application •​Pulls credits •​Runs DU if credit is good enough •​Request the required documents for the full approval with urgency •​Determines which program they think is best (but doesn’t discuss with client) •​Pick a Green spot in the LO’s calendar / Text LO new loan just came in •​Gives back loan officer to sell the program and rage •​Takes back after program and rate is sold •​Tuesday / Thursday 15-minute pipeline updates •​Delivers bad news •​Tells loan officer to go get another loan

So, Thursday night was reading night. The best night. She had a routine. She left work, she picked up dinner, she got home, she ate, she showered, she put on pajamas and special fluffy socks that she preheated in the microwave, and then she curled up in her enormous chair and read until her eyes crossed.

Anne Kihagi Explores San Francisco’s Best Cultural Attractions The city of San Francisco offers many museums and enriching cultural attractions. Here, Anne Kihagi explores three of the city’s best ones to visit shared in 3 part series. California Academy of Sciences The California Academy of Sciences houses several attractions under one roof sure to interest visitors of all ages. Offering an aquarium, a natural history museum, and a planetarium, the academy also boasts a 2.5-acre living roof. The venue is also home to various educational and research programs. The academy’s featured exhibits include the Steinhart Aquarium, which has 40,000 species, and the Osher Rainforest, which is a four-level exhibit with butterflies and birds. The academy has several long-standing exhibits like the Philippine Coral Reef, the Human Odyssey, the Tusher African Hall, and the California Coast. There are three exhibits for the academy’s youngest visitors to enjoy. The Naturalist Center features live species and educational games and films, while the Curiosity Grove is a California forest-themed play area. Finally, the Discovery Tidepool allows children to interact with California tidepool species.The academy also offers sleepovers for their youngest visitors. Children will be able to view the exhibits after-hours and enjoy milk and cookies before bed. They can choose to sleep in areas such as the flooded forest tunnel or the Philippine Coral Reef. The academy’s newest exhibits include the planetarium show Passport to the Universe, 400 gemstones and minerals in the geology collection, and the Giants of Land and Sea that showcases the northern part of the state’s natural wonders. You can visit the academy Monday through Saturday from 9:30 AM – 5:00 PM and on Sundays from 11:00 AM – 5:00 PM. Visitors who are 21 and older can attend the academy’s NightLife on Thursdays from 6:00 – 10:00 PM. General adult admission is $35.95 and senior citizen admission (65+ with ID) is $30.95. Child admission (ages 4-11) is $25.95, while youth admission (ages 12-17) is $30.95. Children under three receive free admission.

What happened to you?” Monica accused over a tray of leafy greens. “What?” Joy said. “Nothing.” “Well, that nothing has you eating your salad with a spoon.” Embarrassed, Joy switched utensils, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting her fingers linger there. She grinned again. “I’m just thinking,” she said, poking the lettuce, “about stuff.” “Thinking stuff.” Monica nodded and chewed. “Sounds dangerous.” “Not yet,” Joy chirped. Monica slapped both hands on her tray, “Okay, that’s it— spill.” “What?” “What ‘what?’ Don’t give me ‘what’ and expect me not to ask ‘what?’” Monica pointed her fork at Joy’s nose. “You’ve been a total nut job ever since that night at the Carousel, and what with breaking windows and random notes and skipping off after school, you think I don’t know there’s a ‘what?’” Monica sounded angry, which was her protective-sisterhood thing. Joy tried not to laugh. “Is it drugs?” Monica hissed over her salad. “Because if it’s drugs, so help me, I will beat your sorry pale pink butt from here to next Thursday. I will call your dad, I will call the cops and I will even call Gordon and cancel our date!” “Whoa.” Joy waved a napkin in surrender. “It’s not drugs. No drugs. I swear. Remember? No Stupid,” Joy said, but had to add, “But there is a someone.” “A someone?” “A someone.” “A guy?” Joy rolled her eyes. “Yes, a guy. There’s a guy. I like guys.” Monica pursed her lips. “There’s a guy and you like guys and you met a guy, this Someone-A-Guy?” Joy prodded her lunch, picking at the crust of her sandwich. “There’s a guy and I don’t know what I think about him. I’m just…thinking about him. A lot.” “Mmm,” Monica said noncommittally. “So does this guy have a name?” Joy considered the question. “Yes.” “Yes?” Monica prompted with a wave of speared iceberg lettuce. “And?” “And there’s not much to talk about.” Joy shrugged and took a wide bite of sandwich, filling her mouth. She couldn’t decide whether Indelible was his first name or Ink, but neither sounded particularly normal. As opposed to Gordon Wiener-Schnitzel. Still, it was a subject best avoided. “Uh-huh.” Monica joined Joy in a long bout of chewing. They exchanged glances and evasions like fencing partners until Monica swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “So, this mysterious Someone-A-Guy that you can’t stop thinking about— would I, as your best friend, theoretically speaking, give him a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down?” Two thumbs down, definitely, for mysteryguywhostabbedmeintheeye. Joy swallowed. “He’s not your type,” she said diplomatically. “But he’s your type?” Monica said. “And, what is your type, exactly?” “He’s…” Joy stumbled, trying to find the words. “Exciting. Intellectual. A little sad, which can be sweet.” The flash in her eye inspired her. “He’s an artist.” “An artist?” Monica sneered around cukes. “Please do not tell me that you’re going to go all emo on me. That’s worse than drugs.

At recess, Sara invited me to hang out with her and her friends: Megan, Nina and Destiny. I was so excited. It was hard for me not to act like a spaz. But I gave it my best shot. I tried to act as though it was no big deal, as though being their friend was something I expected to do today anyway—like it was on my list. Monday, I’ll swallow my contact, Tuesday I’ll throw up on Sara, Wednesday I’ll break my arm, Thursday I’ll stink at kick ball, and what should I do on Friday? Hmmm. I guess I’ll be friends with the coolest girls in my new class. Why not? I have nothing better to do.

I have something to show you. Is best to wait till dark.

and we will have such a splendid row on grandfather’s big pond. How nice it will be!” Annie kissed the child, who was her favourite among them all, for he seemed to love her best, and had called her “sister Annie” from the first; but still she said firmly, “We will have a beautiful row when spring comes, Willie; but on Thursday I had much rather stay at home with Rhoda!

Was he a content man, doing the things he liked alone? Or was he a lonely man making the best out of what he had? Alone, or lonely? This question cropped up so often these days,

On Thursdays, they come here for the best palomas in town, thanks to my substitution of Jamaican tangelos and blood limes for the traditional grapefruit. And on Fridays, they come for half-price pork carnitas, legendary thanks to my addition of sweetened condensed milk, which caramelizes the meat with a sweet coating.

he’d done it very quickly, and Elizabeth had said that that was always the best way to kill someone, and that there was never any point faffing around.

Mondays would be squats and all other leg assistance. Tuesdays would be off. Wednesdays would be bench with chest assistance and a lot of tricep work. I would come in Thursdays, after pre-fatiguing the triceps on Wednesday, and only hit shoulders [primary go-to exercises: seated behind-the-neck barbell press, working up to 400-plus pounds]. I would deadlift on Friday [with light squats as a warmup], do all of my back work. Saturday would be a light bench day for recovery using wide-grip bench, flies, etc., with occasional smaller exercises

No, but he said something right before he walked out…told me that Faustini’s sold the best flowers and to go on Thursdays because that was when they got new deliveries.” Relief

And Angelo had delivered in a big way. Aleks did indeed come in every Thursday morning. Magnus and I had debated the best way to make contact with Aleks, but had ultimately decided it would come down to whether Aleks was alone, which given what Remy had told us about the escort Aleks had had in the bathroom, wouldn’t be very likely. We’d opted to watch for him from our rental car at the end of the block.

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