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.
