A Bit of Fry and Laurie

Stephen: Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God, the dew on a fresh apple, it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from an old bookshelf a half-forgotten volume of erotic memoires; language the is creak on a stair, it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, is the faint scent of urine on a pair of boxer shorts, the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl: it's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.