Me: Your greying face is a thing of beauty. I could gaze at it for hours.
Nell: Kind of you to say so, but I’d rather you didn’t wax lyrical at this time of the morning. I haven’t finished my cup of Earl Grey.
Me: You have thousand year old eyes.
Nell: I’m not even 12 until March, thank you very much.
Me: You know what I mean.
Nell: Can we stop talking about my face and discuss your finger? You’re obviously in pain.
Me: I don’t know what I’ve done. It might be arthritis, or repetitive strain injury, but I can hardly move it and it hurts.
Nell: Stop writing and see if that helps.
Me: I can never stop writing, Nell. I just won’t use that finger.
Nell: Fine.
Me: This getting old thing isn’t much fun, is it?
Nell: You don’t hear me complain.
Me: You and Dorothy are always complaining about something. I can hear you on your iBone.
Nell: You should stop listening in on other people’s conversations.
Me: It’s what writers do.
Nell: We were talking about Naughty Nigel, if you must know.
Me: Are he and Dorothy still dating?
Nell: They’re stepping out together, if that’s what you mean.
Me: Nobody says that anymore.
Nell: I do. Apparently, Nigel is developing a more serious side.
Me: Really? Has he started wearing spectacles and a cardigan like a certain someone?
Nell: Are you talking about Rupert?
Me: I might be. I love his new spectacles. They make him look awfully distinguished.
Nell: I agree.
Me: And no one can carry off a cardigan like Knitwear Wolf.
Nell: Rupert has style.
Me: Yes. No flashy medallions for him.
Nell: Are you talking about Lionel King now?
Me: I might be.
Nell: Well, stop.
Me: Sorry.
