Me: Look at darling Harriet dreaming away. Have you noticed her grey chin?
Nell: Never mind that. Let her sleep. She’s exhausted. It was a very long drive.
Me: I’m so glad you decided to come back from London last night.
Nell: We had no choice. The Whippets Institute needed their minibus back.
Me: Why?
Nell: How else were they going to get to Sunday Songs?
Me: Oh yes. I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose they could have missed it for once.
Nell: Miss Sunday Songs? I don’t think so.
Me: You must be tired, too.
Nell: I am, but I managed to sleep a little on the coach after a small sherry.
Me: There was sherry on the coach?
Nell: The Whippets Institute never go anywhere without it.
Me: Of course, sherry is their favourite tipple. My grandmother always loved a small glass of sweet sherry before her roast dinner on a Sunday.
Nell: It’s got nothing to do with tipples. They never know when they might be asked to whip up a quick trifle.
Me: Right. Silly me.
Nell: Anyway, Harriet was far too excited to sleep so she’s making up for it now.
Me: Dave seems fine. He’s still wearing his crown.
Nell: Yes, even after I told him ‘No crowns at breakfast’.
Me: Indulge him, Nell. It’s his special time.
Nell: Herr Hoffmann has made fresh rolls for everyone in his honour. Sweet and savoury.
Me: How delicious.
Nell: And the Beefy Choir is serenading him as we speak.
Me: The what?
Nell: The Beefy Choir. Do keep up. They sing for their supper, or any kind of meal, to be honest. You must have heard them.
Me: I thought it was just the usual screeching.
Nell: It’s organised screeching now.
Me: I see. Sorry.
