OK, last one. I was thinking of ending with a couple of quotes from Nasty Uncle Sidney’s latter days giving his views on punk music and rock fans, but that seems churlish as even great men (he was one) have their flaws (he had quite a few.) So...
On spending the night alone and hearing strange noises from the kitchen:
My dogs, quick to guard their master, formed into a hollow square and withdrew under the couch. I dried my palms, which seemed to have accumulated a slight film of oil, and picked up the fire tongs. “Who’s there?” I inquired in a crisp falsetto. (After all, I thought, why waste a trip to the kitchen if nobody was there?) There was no answer; whoever it was didn’t even have the common decency to reply. Angered, I strode toward the kitchen, whistling to warn of my approach, and flung open the door. Everything was in apple-pie order, including the apple pie, except that the rocking chair was bobbing slowly back and forth.
“That’s odd - very odd,” I murmured, re-entering the living room and tripping over a chair. “Probably caused by a draft from an open window or something.”
“Or something,” agreed one of the dogs from under the couch.