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Vimes stalked gloomily through the crowded streets, feeling like the only pickled onion in a fruit salad.
-Terry Pratchett
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Vimes Stalked Gloomily Through The Crowded Streets,

Terry Pratchett
Vimes stalked gloomily through the crowded streets, feeling like the only pickled onion in a fruit salad.
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Fruit Salad Feelings Onions

More From Terry Pratchett

She had been so wicked that in all her life she had done only one good deed-given an onion to a beggar. so she went to hell. as she lay in torment she saw the onion, lowered down from heaven by an angel. she caught hold of it. he began to pull her up. the other damned saw what was happening and caught hold of it too. she was indignant and cried, "let go-it's my onion," and as soon as she said, "my onion," the stalk broke and she fell back into the flames.
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My childhood is streets upon streets upon streets upon streets. streets to define you and streets to confine you, with no sign of motorway, freeway or highway.
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Pulled into my convenient neighborhood fast food restaurant. i ordered shrimp salad, onion rings, and a beer. the shrimp were straight out of the freezer, the onion rings soggy. looking around the place, though, i failed to spot a single customer banging on a tray or complaining to a waitress. so i shut up and finished my food. expect nothing, get nothing.
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We're dealing here," said vimes, "with a twisted mind." "oh, no! you think so?" "yes." "but... no... you can't be right. because nobby was with us all the time." "not nobby," said vimes testily. "whatever he might do to a dragon, i doubt if he'd make it explode. there's stranger people in this world than corporal nobbs, my lad." carrot's expression slid into a rictus of intrigued horror. "gosh," he said.
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Something amazing happens when the rest of the world is sleeping. i am glued to my chair. i forget that i ever wanted to do anything but write. the crowded city, the crowded apartment, and the crowded calendar suddenly seem spacious. three or four hours pass in a moment; i have no idea what time it is, because i never check the clock. if i chose to listen, i could hear the swish of taxis bound for downtown bars or the soft saxophone riffs that drift from a neighbor's window, but nothing gets through. i am suspended in a sensory deprivation tank, and the very lack of sensation is delicious.
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The apparition of an evil, sick unconscious wild city rose before me in visible semblance, and about the dead buildings in the barren air, the bodies of the soul that built the wonderland shuffled and stalked and stalked and lurched in attitudes of immemorial nightmare all around.
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