You don’t expect mackerel on a Sunday

Nell: David is guarding Poppy’s Palace.

Me: Why?

Nell: She was hit by a mackerel first thing this morning.

Me: Oh no. Is she okay?

Nell: A little shocked. One doesn’t expect mackerel on a Sunday.

Me: Poor Poppy.

Nell: David insisted on helping her with breakfast and now they’re both resting.

Me: When you say helping do you mean cooking?

Nell: No. David excels at Clearing the Plates.

Me: Before or after the food has been eaten?

Nell: It’s a little hit and miss.

Me: He’s a Big Brave Beautiful Boy but I’m afraid a diet may be on the cards. I’m going to suggest salad for lunch.

Nell: On a Sunday? Have you taken leave of your senses? Sundays are roast days.

Me: It was just a thought.

Nell: We’ve already got fish coming out of our ears. In Poppy’s case literally. Allow us a little pleasure.

Me: Talking of pleasure it’s good to have Strictly back, isn’t it?

Nell: Yes, although watching it with Gladys is rather tiring as she insists on performing.

Me: Alejandro seemed happy to join in.

Nell: Yes, but not everyone wants a Pomeranian and an alpaca dancing the Viennese Waltz round the living room. It’s dangerous.

Me: Where are they, by the way?

Nell: Alejandro is giving Malcolm his Spanish lessons. I don’t know where Gladys is, but my handbag is missing.

Me: I saw Knitwear Wolf carrying it just now. I think he put it in his sidecar.

Nell: Well, go and stop him. I can’t have a wolf waltzing off with my handbag.

Me: He wasn’t waltzing. It was more of a foxtrot. Not something you expect from a wolf, to be honest, but he’s very light on his feet.

Nell: Just get my handbag back, please.

Me: Yes. Sorry.

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