'Well, well, Piglet.'
'Well, well, Pooh.'
'Four hundred years, eh? I wonder if my hums will still be hummed in four hundred years.'
'You never know.'
'That's true, I never do. But I wonder if my hums--'
'They could be, Pooh, is what I'm saying.'
'Ah. Yes, well…thank you.'
'Funny thing about his plays, though.'
'Well, Tigger was saying, in the ones where there's, you know, fisticuffs…'
'Bangs and crashes.'
'Yes. Sometimes it says "Alarum sounded" or "Hautboys…Hautboys…"'
'That's the one. But then it says "Ordnance Shot Off".'
'Well, I was wondering…whoever that happens to…in the play…do they have their ordnance stuck back on?'
'Stuck back on?'
'I mean, right away.'
'I shouldn't think so.'
'Well, look, Pooh, say one of them might have his ordnance shot off and some…well, medic, I suppose…comes rushing on--'
'Maybe with a tunic to identify him?'
'Yes, exactly. Ordnance Sans Frontieres or something.'
'Could be bright blue, I suppose, with the letters in orange in a circle--'
'Let's not get bogged down, Pooh. I'm just saying, if someone like that exists and comes rushing on…'
'Well, he might be in the middle of sorting out one ordnance when someone else's ordnance hits the deck.'
'And there they all are, trying to get on with the play, and the medic chappie is dodging between them hell-bent on ordnance affixing.'
'I suppose it'd slow things down.'
'Stop them altogether, I should think. Especially if there's a mass shoot-off…you know, ordnances all over the shop.'
'The rest'd have to stop.'
'Precisely. Get their sandwiches out. Well, get their ordnances out, too, I should imagine, to check they're alright.'
'I see what you mean.'
'No, with that kind of play, Pooh, it's more likely they'd wait till the end and then someone'd sweep all the ordnances up and they'd be reaffixed in the order they were shot off.'
'How would they know whose was whose?'
'Well…I suppose they'd put their names on in marker-pen before the start.'
'Ah, like with the cups in that coffee-shop.'
'That's a shame.'
'Well…suppose your ordnance wasn't…suppose you'd grown up with an ordnance you didn't like. Suppose it was…was…'
'Well, for argument's sake.'
'Certainly that. Can you imagine trying to take on the milestones of life with a languid ordnance?'
'Well, yes, Pooh, it's not unknown. Owl says there's glossy magazines with stories like that all over the cover. "My Ordnance Hell"…"I'm Not An Ordnance Wrecker, Says Amanda Holden"…all of that.'
'There you are, then. If you didn't like your ordnance and they didn't have their owners' names on in marker-pen, you could swap yours for a better one.'
'Hmm. Might be tricky.'
'What if the new ordnance was happy where it was? What if it…you know…doesn't take to you?'
'I hadn't thought of that.'
'It'd start pining, Pooh.'
'Lose its lustre. Turn freckled and languid.'
'Gosh, you wouldn't want that.'
'Then there you are…lumbered with a freckled, languid, pining ordnance.'
'It'd turn against you. Sulk. Stay in its room. Get photos of its real owner out and sigh.'
'Really really loudly.'
'Oh, well…maybe the best thing is to tell the director that you'd rather not have yours shot off, not this time, if it's all the same.'
'True. Though you may get paid extra for it.'
'And if you have, you know, ordnance issues, you could put it towards having surgery.'
'Have it fettled with that stuff plastic surgeons use.'
'That's the one.'