WATSON: Holmes?
HOLMES: Watson?
WATSON: Holmes?
HOLMES: Watson?
(TOBY WOOFS AS HE TRIES TO PRISE OPEN BICCIE TIN)
It is the 20th of February. Holmes is in a sulk because I beat him, nay thrashed him at dominoes. And he is envious, methinks, of my brand-new slippers. The slippers are blue with a dash of white down the sides. They are profoundly comfortable and warm and have aided considerably the aching corn on my big toe on my left foot. We have sat here, exchanging glances, for the best part of the morning. Confound it all, one could drown in such a silence. No doctor hath greater patience than Dr Watson. It may take an hour, a day, a week even, but Holmes WILL apologise for his unbecoming behaviour and WILL forgive me and Mrs Hudson for smashing his beloved Ming vase whilst we enjoyed some hot crumpet by the fire late last night. He needs to get out more. Everybody says so. Holmes, you infuriatingly superannuated anorak, GET A LIFE!
No comments:
Post a Comment