This is apparently me in twenty years :P

'Language is my Mother, my Father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my check-out girl!

Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or a handy freshen-up wipette, um, language is the breath of God; language is the dew on a fresh apple; it's the soft rain of dust that falls onto a shaft of morning light as you pluck, from an old bookshelf, a half-forgotten book of erotic memoires; um...language is the creak on a stair; it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane; it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party; it's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy; the hulk of a charred panzer; the underside of a granit boulder; the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl; uh, it's cobwebs long since overrun by an old wellington boot.'

Thank you to Fry and Laurie for this delicious delight of understated utterrances.
Thank you to Chelle for the assumed affection by which she brought this pelthora of perfectly pronounced performances to my attention.