It is a COMPLETE coincidence that women just HAPPEN to be good at the boring, thankless tasks that men have no interest in doing.
I hate children, with their mucus-spilling faces, and their vacant, concussed-style questioning.
It is a sad state of affairs to be running around Hampstead Heath, holding a cash box, asking strangers if they’ve seen my ex-girlfriend.
I’ve come up with a list of anaesthetic drugs we might be without, and some “alternatives” that might be considered.
I am at peace with never owning a house, but is it too much to ask that I could put up a poster?
Our cultural emotional capacity is synonymous with Olivia Colman’s ‘nervous raspberry’.
What didn’t I ask to see beamed into my eyeballs? A close-up of Davidson’s tongue entering Beckinsale’s mouth.
“Maybe getting an STI would be a good anecdote.”
It’s something that someone loves and you have made the fatal error of not even having an opinion.
Plot strands and characters are introduced, presented in a seemingly random sequence, and then never revisited.