Neverwhere

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I have never been to St. John's Wood. I dare not. I should be afraid of the innumerable night of fir trees, afraid to come upon a blood red cup and the bearing of the wings of the Eagle. -The Napoleon of Netting Hill, G. K. Chesterton If ever thou gavest hosen or shoon Then every night and all Sit thou down and put them on And Christ receive thy soul This aye night, this aye night Every night and all Fire and fleet and candlelight And Christ receive they soul If ever thou gavest meat or drink Then every night and all The fire shall never make thee shrink And Christ receive thy soul -The Lyke Wake Dirge (traditional)

The night before he went to London, Richard Mayhew was not enjoying himself.

He had begun the evening by enjoying himself: he had enjoyed reading the good-bye cards, and receiving the hugs from several not entirely unattractive young ladies of his acquaintance; he had enjoyed the warnings about the evils and dangers of London, and the gift of the white umbrella with the map of the London Underground on it that his friends had chipped in money to buy; he had enjoyed the first few pints of ale; but then, with each successive pint he found that he was enjoying himself significantly less; until now he was sitting and shivering on the sidewalk outside the pub in a small Scottish town, weighing the relative merits of being sick and not being sick, and not enjoying himself at all.

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