Fyoooo-elll...

'Are you absolutely sure, Piglet?'

'That's what Tigger said.'

'Ah…so you're not sure.'

'Eminently plausible, Tigger says.'

'But what on earth is the point?'

'Partly diplomatic and, well, partly lurve.'

'Good grief…how?'

'Well, he's marrying the first one for, you know, the lurve thing…'

'Thang, surely.'

'Sorry pardon.  And he's marrying the other one so that his country won't lose all its teeth if it has to opt for a Hard Biskit.'

'And Tigger didn't mishear the names?'

'No, Pooh.  He assured me that his auditory ambience was geared to the appropriate valences at this point in the stretched envelope.'

'Well, bless my soul.'

'I'm fresh out of robes and water, Pooh.'

'All right, well, leave my soul to its own devices, then.  I just can't believe - '

'You'll just have to, Pooh.  Harry Wails is wedding Meg and Merkel.'

'And when's it happening?'

'Very soon.  The Feast of Wembley.'

'Oh, gosh, I know that one.  Will that Good King Windlassless be there?'

'I think they just thaw him out for a few days in the dark season so he can look out of a window and then pop out for, you know, a bit of trodding with a sheaf of pages blowing after him.'

'I see.'

'Unless his people talk to Tigger's people.  If they do, it'll fuel speculation.'

'Fyoooo-elll, surely.'

'Sorry pardon.'