Me: I wish it would stop raining.
Nell: Don’t we all.
Me: I can’t help but feel rather down.
Nell: I know what you mean.
Me: Harriet’s lost in thought.
Nell: Yes, and David’s asleep on the torn sofa.
Me: Darling Big Brave Beautiful Boy.
Nell: You need to repair it.
Me: I’m not very good at that sort of thing. I usually cover it with one of Knitwear Wolf’s soft blankets.
Nell: What you need is an antimacassar.
Me: I haven’t heard that word in years. My stepfather used to have them.
Nell: Sensible man.
Me: The trouble is they keep slipping off.
Nell: Talking of trouble, you’re not going to believe this.
Me: I might.
Nell: The Daily Growl has asked a chicken to be one of the judges.
Me: A chicken?
Nell: A hen, to be exact. Lady Constance Eggbuckland.
Me: Goodness me.
Nell: The Cat’s absolutely furious about it.
Me: Why?
Nell: They don’t get on at all. They clashed at Ascot.
Me: Why?
Nell: Lady C is rather old school in her ways. She disapproves of The Cat’s flamboyance.
Me: The Cat doesn’t usually care what anyone thinks.
Nell: She was rude about its hat.
Me: Oh, it won’t have liked that.
Nell: It didn’t. But that’s not the only thing I dislike about her.
Me: You’re not being chickenist now, are you?
Nell: No. My friend Dorothy says for all her hoity-toity ways Lady C has a penchant for the dark and dangerous.
Me: She’s not involved with that lion, is she?
Nell: Lionel isn’t dark and dangerous.
Me: I beg to disagree.
Nell: But Stephen Seagull is, and so is NOIR.
Me: The Notorious Organisation of International Rooks?
Nell: Exactly.
Me: But she’s a chicken.
Nell: They all have feathers.
Me: True. Sorry.
