to live on the fat of the land

My impresa to your lordship; a swan Flying to a laurel for shelter.

Stop it, you daft thing. He draws me into a warm hug. I might be a bit of a boofhead but I do understand. My arms wrap tightly around him. You′re not a boofhead. You′re a very nice man and I′m glad you′re my friend.

the paper feed of a printer