A cornucopacabana

 

'I'm telling you, Pooh, it's most unwise.'

'I care not.'

'Look, we've been through it times --'

'I know we've been through it times enough. To the point where there isn't enough time to time the times we've been through what you've put me through till I'm through in the face.'

'Well, then...if it's you, or me, or Eeyore, or Owl, then you add (he / him / his). If it's Kanga or Tigger's PA...whatever her name is--'

'Tiffany Breathless.'

'Right...then you add (she / her / hers).'

'What's that little shushing sound you're making?'

'I'm opening and closing brackets, Pooh.'

'Oh, is that what they sound like?'

'They should. If the runners are oiled and they're flush with the woodwork. Which mine are.'

'Well I don't care a fig for--'

'Pooh, you just can't present yourself as Edward Bear (it / wot?).'

'That, Piglet, is just the start of it.'

'What?'

'I'm not just Edward Bear. I'm Edward Bear, Winnie-the-Pooh and Pooh. I'm a confection, Piglet. A plurality. A cornucopacabana.'

'So - '

'So on other occasions I may advert to my being as Winnie-the-Pooh (them / more of 'em / "Zulus, Sarge, thousands of 'em").'

'That's even worse.'

'How so?'

'You're not a Zulu. And it's not right to claim--'

'How do you know?'

'What?'

'How do you know I haven't been channelling my essential Zulu-ness on our homeward walks?'

'For pity's sake, Pooh --'

'What?'

'You're just Pooh!'

'I see. So now I'm a victim of your mono-descriptoral malfeasance.'

'My what??'

'You're a fascia!'

'It's fascist, Pooh. I've told you--'

'Now don't you try baffling me with your high tone and semantications. I suspect that you need re-educating.'

'Do I, now?'

'Oh, yes. You need training out of your unconscious Gonzales Byass.'

'And what on earth might that involve?'

'For a start, a free crate-of-twelve...and with Christmas coming up...'

'And where does the unconscious bit come in?'

'I'll repeat it slowly, Piglet...A. Crate. Of. Twelve.'

'Please, Pooh, just stick with (he / him / his).'

'You do know how annoying that shushiness is...'

The last-chance spittoon

 

'So, Piglet.'

'So, Pooh.'

'COP 26.'

'Happening right now.'

'What does it refer to?'

'Whom, Pooh.'

'Whom?'

'Specifically, PC Jamie MacGillivray of Coatbridge.'

'Ah...you mean he's in charge of security--'

'He is security.'

'Goodness...big responsibility.'

'Oh, yes...all that sitting around...listening.'

'Sitting and listening?'

'That's what each one-cop security contingent has to do at these farragoes. Listen to all the speeches and arrange them in rank order.'

'I see.'

'So, next time, whoever comes top starts off and whoever comes bottom tries to make themselves heard amid all the departing Range Rovers and bijou jets.'

'Ah...so I suppose whoever comes bottom would have to change their tune for next time, to avoid--'

'Can't be done.'

'No?'

'Speeches have to stay the same, by law.'

'Oh, I see.'

'They have to declare that everyone is...now, what's the phrase?...gobbing in the last-chance spittoon.'

'Good grief.'

'Plus a lot about our children's children not forgiving them.'

'How will they know they won't forgive them?'

'Oh, they'll jet into the future, turn up all breathless, ask "So how's the forgiveness thing?" and a bunch of semi-skeletons in the red wastes will say "Nul points" and they'll jet back just in time to see PC MacGillivray draining the last of his thermos.'

'I see. Still, it begs the question...'

'Just one?'

'For now. I mean, if all the speeches stay the same, no-one can change their place in the order next time.'

'Ah, now, that's a matter of taste.'

'Taste?'

'Oh yes. Rhetoricorically-wise, Cop Twenty-Six might be, well, differently attuned to, say, Gendarme Vingt-Sept or Polizist Achtundzwanzig...or indeed يىگىرمە توققۇز ساقچى .'

'I'm sorry, Piglet?'

'Cop twenty-nine...in Uyghur.'

'Hmm...but the chances of Uyghurs having any say in climate--'

'About the same as having any say in how they draw breath.'

'Nul points?'