'Sorry, Pooh, what is?'
'That midnight business.'
'Midnight?'
'On the thirty-first of January. What their Prime Miniscule wants to happen.'
'Oh, you mean the clock and--'
'Can you imagine? All those who voted for it floating ten feet off the ground with eyes like gob-stoppers.'
'No, Pooh, I don't--'
'Singing "If you're going to Old Sans Serif / Be sure to wear some flowers--"'
'Pooh, it isn't--'
'Waving copies of early Grateful Dead albums, too, I shouldn't wonder.'
'Pooh, it--'
'Totally unsupervised, mind you.'
'Pooh!'
'What?'
'I don't think it's that kind of bong.'
'No?'
'Although those who didn't vote for it might wish it was.'
'Are you sure? Their Prime Miniscule looks like he's started sucking already.'
'Let's not venture there, Pooh.'
'As you wish. Piglet?'
'Yes, Pooh?'
'What it's like…having to live in their country?'
'Why do you think we stay here, Pooh?'
'Ah. Point taken.'
