Sunday Bacon

Me: What on earth is going on downstairs?

Nell: Nothing for you to worry about.

Me: I heard Poppy shouting.

Nell: Kev was a little slow at distributing the sausages and bacon. David was supervising and they lost count of the number of pieces.

Me: Why did Poppy get angry?

Nell: You know how she likes everything done quickly and she’s still got the Sunday roast to prepare.

Me: I didn’t know we were having a fry up.

Nell: It’s Sunday. You can’t have a Sunday without bacon.

Me: I’ve had weeks and weeks of Sundays without bacon. Nobody told me.

Nell: You were writing. It’s a chilly morning and Sunday Songs is about to begin. You can’t expect us to face the cold without a little sustenance.

Me: I thought you were going to listen from inside.

Nell: I’m going to stand in the doorway in my scarf and hat, if you must know.

Me: I’ve just had a thought.

Nell: Here we go.

Me: Have you all been eating sausages and bacon every Sunday and not telling me?

Nell: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Me: While I’ve been upstairs writing with a meagre piece of toast and a cup of weak tea have you all been wallowing in bacon?

Nell: We only get a small piece, or two, each.

Me: All this time, I’ve been wondering why you were licking your lips at Sunday Songs and now I know why.

Nell: Licking my lips?

Me: That’s what you all do after bacon.

Nell: David must be licking his lips all the times then. I’ve always included you, by the way. What do I say to you every Sunday?

Me: ‘Wake up and smell the bacon.’

Nell: Exactly.

Me: I thought it was just a saying. Sorry.

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