If the weather's nice, I'll be fishing [yesterday]. I'll go to church in the morning, fish in the afternoon . . . and on Monday I'll be taking care of school business.

It's very nice to have two silver medals. Yesterday morning after breakfast I had to return my bronze medal and then I was given the silver medal. So, all in all, it is very nice.

We threw a lot of rock yesterday, and we're throwing more rock this afternoon.

Afternoon sex was the best sex of all, Ann thought. Morning sex she'd had enough of in her time: usually it meant, 'Sorry about last night but here it is anyway'; and sometimes it meant, 'This'll make sure you don't forget me today'; but neither attitude charmed her. Evening sex was, well, your basic sex, wasn't it? It was the sex which could vary from enveloping happiness via sleepily given consent to an edgy, 'Look, this is what we came to bed early for, so why don't we just get on with it.' Evening sex was as good or as indifferent, and certainly as unpredictable, as sex could be. But afternoon sex - that was never just a courteous way to round things off; it was keen, intended sex. And sometimes it whispered to you, in a curious way (and even though you were married), 'This is what we're doing now, and I still want to spend the evening with you afterwards.' Afternoon sex gave you unexpected comforts like that.

Fishing is boring, unless you catch an actual fish, and then it is disgusting.