Whenever I go on the red carpet and I'm a bit nervous, I just say to myself the mantra, 'Come on Barbara, you gotta get those pictures posted on Instagram!' That's all I have in my mind, like, 'Look serious now, maybe give a little smile, but a cheeky one,' but in the end, it's never how it looks.
I was very aware of office politics because I was so baffled by them. So much so goes unsaid. No one says 'you're a cheeky so-and-so,' no one says 'you're so moody,' nobody ever confronts anyone else about anything. But I'm very crass, and I'm very confrontational, and I have a temper. I had to be hyper-vigilant in every office I worked in.
Leo and the Notmuch, the five-year old Leo Loses his best friend (is death for children like moving away?). For a whole summer he sits in his room and makes up stories. When his mother knocks and asks what he's doing in his room, he answers: not much. Does his miss his friend? Not much, always: not much. Leo's stories are the Notmuch (what kind of an idea is a Notmuch? It's not nothing, at least). Leo and fips turned the world into a fun and exciting place. They stayed together through thick and thin. Leo is despondent without Fips, he hides away in his room. His mother gets worried and asks how he's doing and what he's up to in there. Not much, answers Leo, not much. He lies on the bed and grieves for Fips (a childlike depression). Then Leo begins to create a friend in his mind, a cheeky, brave, and honest friend like Fips. Leo dubs this 'good monster' the notmuch (a childlike mania). Now the two of them play, they're cheeky and brave together, Leo now answers his mother: Notmuch. The notmuch is half memory of Fips, the other half is imagination, the two halves together enable Leo to overcome grief.
Giving the rugged repairman the eye was one thing - but Charity had no intention of snogging away a whole rainy afternoon when she was supposed to be catching up on her work. Lady Margaret was counting on her! But then again, Lady Margaret didn't have big brown eyes and a cheeky grin.
Elizabeth Jane Howard
I'm more of the girl who's always in the friend zone, and I try to help if my other friend wants to get with someone. I can be a bit cheeky and say stuff that embarrasses my friends, but I'm normally the girl who guys like to be friends with, so I become friendly with the guy and then go, 'Oh, this is my other friend.'
Hey, aren't you that girl from the web?' the new one asked, bending to suck my earing between his teeth. I pulled my head away. 'You got the wrong girl.' Mr. Hawaii pulled back to take a better look at me. 'No, I think you might be.' To my total bewilderment, he spun me around. 'Hey! What are you-?' 'Hey, it is you!' he yelled excitedly, drawing the attention of the crowd. 'Hey, everyone, it's Cheeky Galore!
I can't eat this, ' moaned Mick. 'I need something that's been hunted and killed, preferably tortured first... ' 'I could hack up your food, if it helps, maybe stomp on it a bit?' said Carolyn, with a cheeky grin. 'You're teasing me, ' Mick turned towards her and narrowed his eyes. 'You obviously haven't heard about the Elven girl I killed.' Carolyn laughed silently and swatted him on the shoulder, 'Silly boy. Don't look at the hostesses like that either, they're not edible!
Hey - Duggie! Duggie! Duggie!" He came running up to me, sparkler in hand. I felt like sticking one on him, the cheeky bastard. Nobody called me Duggie. He held the sparkler up in front of my face and said, "Wait. Wait." I was already waiting. What else was there to do? "Here you are, " he said. "Look! What's this?" At that precise moment, his sparkler fizzled out. I didn't say anything, so he supplied the answer himself. "The death of the socialist dream, " he said. He giggled like a little maniac, and stared at me for a second or two before running off, and in that time I saw exactly the same thing I'd seen in Stubbs's eyes the day before. The same triumphalism, the same excitement, not because something new was being created, but because something was being destroyed. I thought about Phillip and his stupid rock symphony and I swear that my eyes pricked with tears. This ludicrous attempt to squeeze the history of the countless millennia into half an hour's worth of crappy riffs and chord changes suddenly seemed no more Quixotic than all the things my dad and his colleagues had been working towards for so long. A national health service, free to everyone who needed it. Redistribution of wealth through taxation. Equality of opportunity. Beautiful ideas, Dad, noble aspirations, just as there was the kernel of something beautiful in Philip's musical hodge-podge. But it was never going to happen. If there had ever been a time when it might have happened, that time was slipping away. The moment had passed. Goodbye to all that. Easy to be clever with hindsight, I know, but I was right, wasn't I? Look back on that night from the perspective of now, the closing weeks of the closing century of our second millennium - if the calendar of some esoteric and fast-disappearing religious sect counts for anything any more - and you have to admit that I was right. And so was Benjamin's brother, the little bastard, with his sparkler and his horrible grin and that nasty gleam of incipient victory in his twelve-year-old eyes. Goodbye to all that, he was saying. He'd worked it out already. He knew what the future held in store.
The travelers emerged into a spacious square. In the middle of this square were several dozen people on a wooden bandstand like in a public park. They were the members of a band, each of them as different from one another as their instruments. Some of them looked round at the approaching column. Then a grey-haired man in a colorful cloak called out and they reached for their instruments. There was a burst of something like cheeky, timid bird-song and the air - air that had been torn apart by the barbed wire and the howl of sirens, that stank of oily fumes and garbage - was filled with music. It was like a warm summer cloud-burst ignited by the sun, flashing as it crashed down to earth. People in camps, people in prisons, people who have escaped from prison, people going to their death, know the extraordinary power of music. No one else can experience music in quite the same way. What music resurrects in the soul of a man about to die is neither hope nor thought, but simply the blind, heart-breaking miracle of life itself. A sob passed down the column. Everything seemed transformed, everything had come together; everything scattered and fragmented -home, peace, the journey, the rumble of wheels, thirst, terror, the city rising out of the mist, the wan red dawn - fused together, not into a memory or a picture but into the blind, fierce ache of life itself. Here, in the glow of the gas ovens, people knew that life was more than happiness - it was also grief. And freedom was both painful and difficult; it was life itself. Music had the power to express the last turmoil of a soul in whose blind depths every experience, every moment of joy and grief, had fused with this misty morning, this glow hanging over their heads. Or perhaps it wasn't like that at all. Perhaps music was just the key to a man's feelings, not what filled him at this terrible moment, but the key that unlocked his innermost core. In the same way, a child's song can appear to make an old man cry. But it isn't the song itself he cries over; the song is simply a key to something in his soul.