Jack Vettriano her Secret life

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wizards in there were actually doing, but because he strongly suspected that they didn't, either. They seemed to positively enjoy becoming less and less certain about everything and would come in to dinner saying things like 'Wow, we've just Ridcully pushed his way past him and into the HEM. It was unfamiliar ground for a traditional wizard. There wasn't a skull or dribbly candle to be seen; this particular room looked like an alchemist's laboratory had suffered the inevitable explosion and landed in a blacksmith's shopoverturned Marrowleaf's Theory of Thaumic Imponderability! Amazing!' as if it was something to be proud of, instead of gross discourtesy.And they were always talking about splitting the thaum, the smallest unit of magic. The Archchancellor couldn't see the point. So you had bits all over the place. What good would that do? The universewas bad enough without people poking it.The door opened.'Oh, it's you, Archchancellor.'Ridcully pushed the door open further."Morning, Stibbons. Glad to see you're up and about early.'Ponder Stibbons, the faculty's youngest member, blinked at the sky.'Is it morning already?' he said.

Salvador Dali Leda Atomica

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think I change my name,' said Lias, eventually. 'I mean . . . Lias? Not a good name for the music business.'
'What'll you change it to?' said Glod.
'I thought . . . Imp is sticking with Imp, right?'
Imp looked at the guitar. It's not right, he thought. I hardly touched it. I just . . . And I feel so tired . . .
'Not sure,' he said, wretchedly. 'Not sure if Imp is the right name for . . . this music.' His voice trailed off. He yawned.
'Imp?' said Glod, after a while.
'Hmm?' said Imp. And he'd felt someone was watching him out there. That was daft, of course. He couldn't say to someone 'I was on stage and I thought someone was watching me'. They'd say 'Really? That's really occult, that is . . .'
'Imp?' said Glod, 'why're you snapping your fingers like that?'
Imp looked down.don't laugh . . . I thought . . . Cliff?' said Lias.'Cliff?''Good troll name. Very stony. Very rocky. Nothing wrong with it,' said Cliff né Lias, defensively.'Well . . . yes . . . but, I dunno, I mean . . . well . . . Cliff? Can't see anyone lasting long in this business with a name like Cliff.''Better than Glod, anyway.''I'm sticking with Glod,' said Glod. 'And

Thomas Kinkade Footprints in the sand

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thinking,' he muttered. 'That's the stuff Now, a wolf, your basic wolf, he'd jump, and if he couldn't jump, he'd be stuck. Whereas me, on account of uperior intelligence, can assess the whole wossname and arrive at a solution through application of mental processes.'
He nudged the gargoyle squatting on the angle of the gutter.
'Ot oo oo ont?'
'If you don't help me down to that balcony, I'll widdk in your ear.'

BIG FIDO?
'Yes?'it until Big Fido came back.
His collar was kept in a secret place and visited regularly by dogs until they forgot about it.

Sergeant Colon pushed open the door with the end of his pike.
The Tower had floors, a long time ago. Now it was hollow all the way up, criss-crossed by golden shafts of light from ancient window embrasures.HEEL. There were, eventually, two theories about the end of Big Fido.The one put forward by the dog Gaspode, based on observational evidence, was that his remains were picked up by Foul Ole Ron and sold within five minutes to a furrier, and that Big Fido eventually saw the light of day again as a set of ear muffs and a pair of fleecy gloves.The one believed by every other dog, based on what might tentatively be called the truth of the heart, was that he survived his fall, fled the city, and eventually led a huge pack of mountain wolves who nightly struck terror into isolated farmsteads. It made digging in the middens and hanging around back doors for scraps seem . . . well, more bearable. They were, after all, only doing

Pop art king elvis on red

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yes. Boffo was on gate duty and he distinctly remembers him going out.'
'He knows it 'If only he'd stuck to something, you know, original,' said Dr Whiteface.
'Like a bucket of whitewash over the door, or a custard pie?' said Sergeant Colon.
'That's right!'
'Well, we might as well be going,' said Carrot. 'was him?'Dr Whiteface looked blank.'Of course.''How?''How? He recognized him, of course. That's how you know who people are. You look at them and you say . . . that's him. That's called re-cog-nit-ion,' said the clown, with pointed deliberation. 'It was Beano. Boffo said he looked very worried.''Ah. Fine. No more questions, doctor. Did Beano have any friends among the Assassins?''Well . . . possibly, possibly. We don't discourage visitors.'Carrot stared at the clown's face. Then he smiled.'Of course. Well, that about wraps it all up, I think.'