“Zaphod’s calmed down a lot you know.” “Really?” said Arthur, clustering hurriedly round Fenchurch to relieve her of the shopping. “Yeah,” said Ford, “at least one of his heads is now saner than an emu on acid.”

More from So Long, and Thanks For All the Fish

• All eyes were on Ford. Some were on stalks.
• A man can’t cross a hundred thousand light years, mostly in other people’s baggage compartments, without beginning to fray a little, and Arthur had frayed a lot.
• And somewhere on this good boffo stretch of coastline lay the house of this inconsolable man, a man whom many regarded as being insane. But this was only, as he would tell people, because he was.
• Grown men, he told himself, in flat contradiction of centuries of accumulated evidence about the way grown men behave, do not behave like this.
• He didn’t like to think of himself as the sort of person who giggled or sniggered, but he had to admit that he had been giggling and sniggering almost continuously for well over half an hour now.
• It’s all right. There’s nothing to see, it’s all over. None of this is actually happening.