Roo sighed. "Imagine a man is running along the street," he said. "What?" Tracey pulled a face at him. "Imagine a man running along the street." "Um, okay." "He's racing away, desperate to catch a bus that he sees is two hundred yards ahead of him, its indicator already flashing to pull out." "Right." "The man sprints towards it for all he's worth--arms waving, loose change flying out of his pockets." "Yes." "But while he's still a good hundred and fifty yards away, he stumbles over a small dog--a Yorkshire terrier, perhaps--that disinterestedly crosses his path. He falls. Spinning awkwardly onto the pavement in the cruel oasis created by other pedestrians leaping out of the way. Failure. Wasted effort. A jagged rip in the elbow of his jacket where it's hit the ground. Ahead, unknowing, the bus pulls away and he's missed it." "Uh-huh." "Now, instead of a man, imagine it's you, and instead of a bus it's 'The Point.'" "Cheers for that. It's certainly cleared up a few worries I was having. Also, you're a twat." --Mil Millington, from the novel "Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About"
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