Nell: I don’t know what the world is coming to?
Me: What’s wrong?
Nell: I do not expect my Sunday newspapers to be delivered by a wolf in knitted pyjamas.
Me: Yes. Malcolm was a little taken aback when he saw him through the kitchen window. He was making scrambled eggs at the time.
Nell: Why on earth was he doing that?
Me: Well, he is the Sous Chef, Nell, and Poppy’s gone jogging with Gladys.
Nell: No. Knitwear Wolf. Why is he delivering newspapers?
Me: Everyone needs to make a living, Nell. It’s probably a holiday job.
Nell: But you can’t just waltz around in pyjamas. Knitted, or not. It simply won’t do.
Me: Sundays are pyjama days for me, too. If I don’t have to go anywhere it’s lovely to lounge around.
Nell: You’re still not well, so pyjamas are allowed.
Me: I wonder if Malcolm noticed the quality of the wool.
Nell: I doubt it. Wolves and flamingos aren’t traditionally close so I think Malcolm kept his distance.
Me: Timothy nearly had a heart attack.
Nell: Turkeys are easily startled.
Me: By the way, Malcolm says we are out of bacon, so it’s smoked salmon with scrambled eggs for breakfast and wholemeal toast.
Nell: What happened to the bacon?
Me: David ate it by mistake. What are the plans for later?
Nell: A walk by the sea. Poppy is cooking roast beef and Yorkshire puddings for our Canadian visitors later.
Me: A meal like that is meant to be shared, isn’t it?
Nell: Of course.
Me: Might there be room for one more?
Me: Roaming the countryside in knitted pyjamas can’t be much fun.
Nell: You are not inviting Knitware Wolf to dinner. Lonely, or not. It’s a ridiculous idea.
Me: You are right. Sorry.