Me: I’ve got mixed feelings about seaweed.
Nell: Here we go.
Me: I don’t like the way it curls itself around your legs when you walk into the sea in a sly and silky way.
Nell: A sly and silky way?
Me: I’m talking about the light seaweed, not the heavy stuff we have on our beach at the moment.
Nell: Good, because there’s nothing sly or silky about our seaweed.
Me: The seaweed I’m talking about is more like grass and very wet.
Nell: It’s in the sea. It’s supposed to be wet.
Me: Some seaweed is like huge pieces of tagliatelle, only green.
Nell: Good grief.
Me: Or even very long sheets of lasagne.
Nell: No, that’s it. The seaweed discussion is over.
Me: Why? I thought you were interested in seaweed. You’re always sniffing it on the beach.
Nell: Seaweed is fascinating. You never know what you’ll find.
Me: It’s disturbingly bouncy when it’s dry, isn’t it?
Nell: Enough.
Me: Like huge bubble wrap.
Nell: I worry about you sometimes.
Me: People love eating seaweed all over the world. The Welsh make laverbread, which isn’t bread at all but a sort of salty mushy porridge.
Nell: You’re not selling it to me.
Me: It’s an acquired taste.
Nell: I prefer my porridge made from oats with honey.
Me: I never see you dogs eating it when we’re on the beach.
Nell: Porridge is for breakfast and eaten at home.
Me: I meant seaweed.
Nell: Of course not. It’s far too salty. You don’t see us drinking sea water, either.
Me: A lot of dogs drink it the first time they go in the sea.
Nell: They’re visiting dogs. They don’t know it’s salty. Can we stop talking about seaweed now? It’s making me very thirsty.
Me: Sorry.
