Me: Dave is fast asleep under the kitchen table. Darling Big Brave Beautiful Boy.
Nell: Don’t worry, Harriet is watching over him.
Me: Yesterday’s afternoon tea was exhausting.
Nell: Those Maine Coons weren’t even wearing hats.
Me: They’re Minimalists, Nell. Anyway, berets are hats.
Nell: Not in my book.
Me: Are you writing one too?
Nell: Yes, with you. Remember?
Me: Did you see the Maine Coons’ faces when the Whippets Institute Big Band started playing and the llamas leap out in lycra?
Nell: No, I was too busy helping the Welsh Corgi Choir on stage.
Me: Why?
Nell: Their dresses were a little on the tight side. Satin can be most unforgiving.
Me: The Cat’s Mother actually gasped when the flamingos surrounded them.
Nell: A flamboyance can be startling if you’re not expecting it.
Me: Especially armed to the beak.
Nell: Count Bingo insisted.
Me: The Maine Coons tried to get Dave to sit next to them at tea. They even grabbed his tail coat.
Nell: I know but David was having none of it.
Me: He responded magnificently.
Nell: I agree.
Me: He took off his top hat, bowed and said ‘Ladies, I’m afraid I must decline. I shall be sitting at the other end of the table next to my dear friend The Cat.’
Nell: Fortunately he’d rehearsed the correct response with Rupert earlier. He was going to say ‘Off the cloth, moth’.
Me: They didn’t eat much apart from clotted cream.
Nell: I was relieved when Poppy took it away.
Me: She said, ‘No scone, no cream. And use a spoon next time.’
Nell: Quite right.
Me: At least Lionel kept a low profile.
Nell: I didn’t notice. Stop grinning and help Poppy with the potatoes. Sunday roast won’t cook itself you know.
Me: Yes. Sorry.
