A Quote by Sheila Hancock

I got myself into hot water with the press in 2014 by suggesting that the art installation of poppies in the Tower of London moat should be completed by being malevolently mown down by a tank, in the way that the service men and women whom the poppies represented had been.
Your machinery is beautiful. Your society people have apologized to me for the envious ridicule with which your newspapers have referred to me. Your newspapers are comic but never amusing. Your Water Tower is a castellated monstrosity with pepperboxes stuck all over it. I am amazed that any people could so abuse Gothic art and make a structure not like a water tower but like a tower of a medieval castle. It should be torn down. It is a shame to spend so much money on buildings with such an unsatisfactory result. Your city looks positively dreary.
By the time writing was invented, the Greeks and Egyptians had already learned to extract opium from poppies to facilitate sleep.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow.
I have dated and have had sex with men and women and have to say that the relationships I have had with certain women have been much more fulfilling, sexually and emotionally, than of those with certain men. I connect with an aura, with energy. And if the person with whom I connect happens to be a female, that's just the way it is. That's what makes my wheels turn.
When Tarquin the Proud was asked what was the best mode of governing a conquered city, he replied only by beating down with his staff all the tallest poppies in his garden.
Thank you for calling customer service. If you're calm and rational, press 1. If you're a whiner, press 2. If you're a hot head, press 3
The poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalks.
Not all Peter Greenaway's stuff is sequential, narrative story. Some of it is like an art installation and I'm not particularly interested in being in an art installation to be honest. I'm interested in the story.
I celebrate those who wear their red poppies with pride.
But pleasures are like poppies spread: You seize the flower
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow: In Flanders fields.
Pleasures are like poppies spread: You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed.
Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.
Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.
Such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.
I am utterly, consummately intense, wearing sunflowers and poppies and dahlias in my buttonhole.
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