Sunday news

Me: There’s a similarity between you and Nigella, you know. Beautiful but quite strict.

Nell: Turn that off. We need to check the Sunday papers. If they’ve arrived of course. I don’t know what possessed Gladys to take on the paper round.

Me: She needed a job.

Nell: Yes, but she is a small Pomeranian. Her feet hardly reach the peddles on that bicycle and all those hills.

Me: That’s probably why The Cat is teaching her to drive.

Nell: Yes. Although The Cat rushed in yesterday asking for a brandy so I don’t think it’s going well.

Me: The papers are here. Would you like the Sunday Growl?

Nell: Yes. They should have printed an update after we sent in the latest photos.

Me: Is there anything?

Nell: Yes. “Heartthrob Dave Martin and his friend The Cat reveal the anguish they have suffered after false accusations of muffin stealing.” I told David not to do an interview.

Me: I never noticed a reporter.

Nell: Yes. A young Jack Russell in a trilby. You must have seen him.

Me: I didn’t. There were so many owls in the kitchen.

Nell: Yes. Apparently Owl Pacino has increased the number of patrols.

Me: So they are going owl out to put a stop to it. We had better steer clear before owl hell breaks loose.

Nell: Do stop. He is sending in his son.

Me: The nest to the throne, eh?

Nell: I am trying to ignore you. Apparently, he is a really tough character.

Me: Like feather like son.

Nell: Enough. You might have heard of him. Owl Capone.

Me: He’s been dead for years.

Nell: Rubbish. He’s in the kitchen right now enjoying Malcolm’s pancakes with maple syrup.

Me: Well, owl be damned.

Nell: You are never going to get tired of this are you?

Me: No. Sorry.

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