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.
