take me home and i will show you my strawberries

'Sometimes I raise my hopes, too much and too often - it must be said - for my own good. Well, I am a naive person, that is a certainty. Or is it?'

Helen was sitting in her favourite armchair: one covered in soft dark red velvet. She was drinking one of the innumerable cups of tea which she inevitably had on depressing days. Rain was beating against the window panes and the heavy clouds coloured the sky with grey light. This Helen didn't mind though, she had romantic thoughts on rainy weather.
Outside the window stood two Robins in the garden's bird pond. And although they were enjoying each other's company, their feathers were now completely drenched.

'How tedious clouds can be dear Talbot, don't you think?' said one robin to the other. This one looked rather more neglected than his friend, having not kept his plumage tidy for several days.
'True, my garment is quite a mess. But really, clouds are perfectly fine when not so furious dear Edgar. But unfortunately they seem to be rather easily offended and suddenly get exceedingly unpleasant for the wrong reason. That is when, without notice, they will tip down buckets full of tears.' replied the other Robin. Now, Talbot was smaller in size, but how he loved to give himself high looks!
'But Talbot, dear, what got them so upset this time?' said Edgar perplexed. 'I am pretty sure the Mountains haven't uttered a word and that the Red Rose Beds haven't whispered a thought on the subject'
'Dear Edgar, have you not heard? That young and frivolous Roger never stops complaining about the state of the clouds. His manners are so terribly unsuitable I can hardly bear it.' replied Talbot with great indignation.
'I must say I don't know anyone by the name of Roger dear Talbot. Does he live somewhere distant like Holland?' inquired Edgar.
'I'm afraid I couldn't possibly tell, Edgar, dear. You see, I have only just invented the presumed culprit Roger.'
'Well, that solves a great deal of mysteries!' Edgar said quite content.

During this time, the two Robins had caught Helen's interest. She admired their bright orange feathers, hung around their round necks, as they shined with rain water. Their conversation, however, was incomprehensible to her, so she imagined it instead. Helen's best guess (and most plausible one in her opinion), was that they had had intellectual conversation on french cheese, emphasizing on the importance of Roquefort and how Camembert was their personal favourite. Fortunately enough for Helen, her pretty looks excused the misjudgements of her imagination.

Adam, dear, you're tight already

'L'homme qui travaille, perd un temps précieux.' So was the saying of Arthur.

Arthur was a practical man indeed: he scarcely thought a word of what he said, merely explaining that truth and honesty weren't true to manners or moral. Hypocrisy is quite fashionable after all. And it helps to have a great many friends. Now, fashion and popularity are two great advantages in society which I'm quite sure you'll find are difficult to surpass.

But Arthur was not only practical and idle; his saying would suggest he is french. Actually he isn't in the slightest. Although the Englishman rather fancies the idea of pretending to be a Frenchman - as well as a traveler, a spy and being famous. However, his accent - especially his incapability to pronounce the french letter 'r' - just gives him away. It is true to say very few Englishmen are gifted with the aptitude to speak a foreign language. Properly, it must be said. Nonetheless his ineptitude was never given away among his ignorant surroundings. Ignorant surroundings being rather very apt for the unwise minded.

Ernest, sitting comfortably opposite Arthur, reached out of his jacket front pocket for another cigarette. It was usual for him to smoke unnaturally too much, but it didn't seem to cause any harm to his conscience.

'Precious time certainly cannot be afforded to be lost.' He answered to Arthur's statement, only half thinking what he was saying. It hardly mattered, he was certain it slotted in the conversation rather well. His full concentration was really required upon the task of lighting his cigarette.

'A distant member of my dear family once said that "If a thing's not worth doing well, it's not worth doing at all," he added, getting slightly interested. 'I can't remember who she was though I'm afraid, probably some boring - if not interesting - cousin.'

'Cousins do have a tendency to be either tedious or charming,' answered Arthur. 'One belonging to my family once mentioned: "anger starts here". Nothing whatsoever starts anywhere, especially things concerning anger.

But concerning your formidable quote, isn't the proper saying: "If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing well"?'

'Well I suppose it is,' said Ernest, thin curls of silver smoke curling out of his mouth. 'But only if the proper quote is a proper lie, proper quotes are too often mistaken with truth. It's a terrible mistake.'

'Quite true dear boy. Although we are proper tight, are our thoughts worth a penny?'

These were Arthur's last words before the idle two of them fell asleep upon their respective armchairs, snoring too heavily for their drunkenness to pass unnoticed.