Our dog was doing her very best to defecate on an upturned dinghy.
“I do believe she’s attempting to christen it!”, I announced at the time.
“What name did she bestow on it?”, Tiki enquired.
“Poop Deck”, I quipped.
Unimpressed!
Tiki had just commented on how pieces of clothing appeared to scattered about the furniture in our lounge room.
“I have my whole wardrobe out to impress you. I’m like a dancing peacock!”, I professed.
“You can forget about the cock bit!”, she retorted through a smile.
A Realistic Promise
We were watching television when we observed a woman of eighty years who was still mowing her own lawn.
This prompted Tiki to remark, “Don’t expect me to mow our lawn when I’m eighty!”
“I won’t. Because I won’t be here!”. I assured her.
“How old will you be when I’m eighty?”. She surprisingly queried.
“Eighty-eight. Out of the gate before eighty-eight!”. I replied.
“I should never have opened it, in the first place!”. She retorted, with a wry smile.
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