Quartet

Simon:
We were not doing anything...

Jean:
Neither were we.

Jean:
This is not a retirement home, it is a madhouse!

Jean:
Make up your mind, dear.

Jean:
I'm going to say something very rude to you: f*** you.

Reginald Paget:
[to a class of teenagers] Opera is: when a guy's stabbed in the back, instead of bleeding, he sings. It seems to me, after much research, that rap is when a guy is stabbed in the back, and instead of bleeding, he talks. Er, rhythmically, even with feeling. But because rap's *spoken*, the feeling is sort of held in check: all on one note.

Jean:
Are you telling me to go out and smell the roses?

Cissy Robson:
Oh no. We're telling you the roses are long gone. But the chrysanthemums are magnificent.

Jean:
Oh Reg, please, this is the first time we've seen each other in God knows how many years.

Reginald Paget:
Ninety-seven.

Cissy Robson:
[gasps] Is it really that long? God, how time flies.

Wilf Bond:
When you're finished being a croquet expert, Nigel, a pound I'll kick your arse.

Nigel:
The way you play you probably will. You forget I saw your Barber of Seville, your singing brought tears to y ears.

Wilf Bond:
Saw you in Carmen. I'll never forget it, but I'll try.

Wilf Bond:
I read somewhere that the average man thinks of sex every seven seconds.

Reginald Paget:
Do you?

Wilf Bond:
I wish, it was only every seven seconds.

Dr. Lucy Cogan:
[Showing a picture] This is Sir Thomas Beecham. He was one of Britain's greatest composers.

Jean:
Yes, I know who he was. He inherited a fortune. His grandfather made laxatives. Naming a nursing home after him is frighteningly apt.