Writing poetry's,' I looked around the solarium, but Madame Crommelynck's got a tractor beam, 'sort of . . . gay.'
'"Gay"? A merry activity?'
This was hopeless. 'Writing poems is . . . what creeps and poofters do.'
'So are you one of these „creeps”?
'No.'
'Then you are a „pooof-ter”, whatever one is?'
'No!'
'Then your logic is eluding me.

Author: David Mitchell