Back on Our Beach and John Keats

Me: It was simply glorious to be back on the big beach again, wasn’t it?

Nell: Yes, and we almost had the whole beach to ourselves.

Me: We did, apart from the kite surfers and a small fluffy dog.

Nell: Don’t call Poppy a small fluffy dog. She doesn’t like it.

Me: Listen to you making jokes. That’s usually my job.

Nell: I can be amusing too, you know.

Me: Not intentionally.

Nell: I beg your pardon?

Me: So, what’s put you in such a good mood? Going on another date with a certain someone?

Nell: Rupert and I might be taking a stroll along the quay together later. Weather permitting, of course.

Me: I noticed he was wearing his lovely conker brown cardigan today.

Nell: Yes. Autumn is the season of cardigans.

Me: And ‘mists and mellow fruitfulness’.

Nell: If you say so.

Me: It wasn’t me who said that actually, it was John Keats.

Nell: Don’t be ridiculous. John Keats isn’t here.

Me: I know. John Keats is a dead poet. I studied him at university.

Nell: John Keats might write the odd poem in his spare time but he certainly isn’t dead. I saw him a few days ago.

Me: We both know you didn’t, Nell. Stop telling stories.

Nell: I most certainly did. Ask Rupert. I shall leave the storytelling to you.

Me: John Keats died in 1821.

Nell: What’s he doing serving scones at The Cottage Hotel then? I know it’s haunted but he seemed perfectly real to me.

Me: I’m beginning to think your John Keats might be a different one to mine.

Nell: My John Keats is a rather handsome Harrier Hound.

Me: I see. Well, that makes a little more sense.

Nell: I’m glad you think so. I’m completely confused.

Me: Sorry.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.