Sunday is Lazy Breakfast Day

Me: Should I wake Harriet for breakfast?

Nell: She was very late home last night. Let her sleep. It’s Sunday.

Me: Where was she?

Nell: I don’t know. Charlie says we shouldn’t pry.

Me: She’s off spying again. As sure as eggs is eggs.

Nell: You worry me sometimes.

Me: No, it’s a phrase.

Nell: Well, it’s grammatically incorrect. Talking of eggs. Scrambled, fried or poached? Poppy is asking.

Me: Poached, please.

Nell: David is having all three. He couldn’t make up his mind.

Me: I’m not really an egg person but Sunday is an egg kind of day, isn’t it?

Nell: True. Sunday is a lazy breakfast day when we eat later so one tends towards eggs. Not that I don’t enjoy a boiled egg during the week.

Me: What did you think of the Eurovision? It was a good party, wasn’t it?

Nell: When David and Gladys turned up in platform boots I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Me: The wigs were amazing.

Nell: Yes. The Cat has an excellent collection of wigs. Mutley rather suits a Mohican.

Me: Count Bingo has got some moves. I never associated flamingos with breakdancing before.

Nell: No, but what was the flame throwing about and why was Gladys somersaulting? It made me quite dizzy.

Me: It probably didn’t do Gladys any favours. Do you think the right person won?

Nell: I have to confess I was rather taken with Australia.

Me: Dave was fascinated.

Nell: I don’t think I like the idea of David tied to a long pole swaying around wearing a sparkling crown and a long flowing dress.

Me: Just because you like something doesn’t mean you have to do it, Nell.

Nell: We are talking about David here.

Me: Yes. Sorry.

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