Whatever next?

Me: Are you all comfortable enough? I wouldn’t want to disturb your lie-in.

Nell: Yes, thank you. It is Sunday morning.

Me: I know.

Nell: Sundays are for rest and recuperation.

Me: Would you like me to bring you some tea?

Nell: That would be lovely. And a small piece of shortbread, perhaps? If there’s any left after that tiger has been at it.

Me: Are you talking about Beauregard?

Nell: I don’t know why you keep asking me that? Of course I’m talking about Beauregard. Unless he’s been joined by another tiger in which case I’m moving out.

Me: I didn’t know tigers liked shortbread.

Nell: They like everything. He’s a terrible influence on David, you know.

Me: Both puppies certainly seem tired. Bless them.

Nell: That’s because they were dancing until gone midnight.

Me: So that’s why Gladys and the llamas were looking a little subdued at Sunday Songs.

Nell: Llamas don’t do early mornings. I hope they were wearing their dressing gowns. It’s rather chilly for June.

Me: Did you join in the dancing at all?

Nell: Why?

Me: You look a little tired yourself.

Nell: I might have managed a brief foxtrot with Knitwear Wolf but nothing more.

Me: Very interesting.

Nell: What’s that supposed to mean?

Me: Nothing.

Nell: Rupert is an excellent dancer and it would have been rude to refuse.

Me: Of course it would.

Nell: Stop smiling. Where is that tiger going in a top hat?

Me: To join in Sunday Songs. It really suits him, doesn’t it? Look at little Oliver on his back waving at everyone.

Nell: Are those sequins waving too?

Me: No. It’s Henry and Horst in shiny waistcoats.

Nell: Woodlice in waistcoats? Whatever next?

Me: Well, Beauregard just took out his trumpet.

Nell: Good grief.

Me: Sorry.

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