Lynn had one choice word in particular to describe the cries that the Rangers are quitting. It’s often seen in large piles at Lone Star Park.

We trudge on then by the moor path, to the high brow of the wine-blue purple-dark hill, and fling ourselves down there, and dream there and see there a grasshopper, carting back to his home in the hollow, a straw.

Showing an unexpectedly fleet turn of foot, she ducked through to safety, smartly shutting the door in our faces just in time.

If the punches land, you might lose a few teeth!