time now, to turn oot the pockets, of yer flarey old Levis. To turf oot yer pen-knife, an' yon ooze covered apple-core. Get shot of that minging old crumpled hanky and shards of blue stone. Chuck it all on the mantle piece, leave it behind. Hopefully then, by the morrow, yel' wake up, an' no' be of yer heid or totally mental, anymare!!!