We feel more dangerously, teeteringly close to disease and death (in a slow, rotting, swamp-induced fashion) than we did during the war in Rhodesia...

Cane juice granulates into sugar.

One man was skiting around on a big, wheeled camera like a Dalek, dodging the scurrying assistants and clipboard-wielders, […]

And be it enacted that […] no person […] presume to wish to go out for ginger-beer or oysters between the acts, to the annoyance of the nine rows of audience behind him, and the especial discomfiture of the fat old gentleman with the child on his knees, who sits on the flap-seat by the box-door.