'So it's a big occasion.'
'Oh, yes, Pooh. None bigger.'
'What's the official name again?'
'The Platignum Jubilee.'
'Platignum, eh? Meaning?'
'Meaning the nation's admiration.'
'Because?'
'Well obviously because she's taken good care of the same fountain pen for seventy years.'
'Fancy that. So...much celebrificalibration.'
'Bound to be, Pooh.'
'Street parties and such.'
'Ah, no...street meal.'
'Meal?'
'Where we are now, Pooh.'
'Meaning?'
'Well back in the mists you'd have had street parties. Now everyone in each street will be asked to contribute the one thing they could afford that week, and it'll be put on a single street plate.'
'Not cooked?'
'Cooked, he says. Cooked. Requiring gas. Electrics. Where've you been, Pooh? Get with the pugwash.'
'So they'll eat the stuff raw?'
'Yes...well, when I say "they" - '
'No, I said that.'
'Well, when you say and I repeat "they", diners will be selected by raffle.'
'Ah, the good old stromboli.'
'Tombola.'
'I thought he was the new T20 captain.'
'Yes, well, they might have a celebrity to pick the tickets.'
'What about those who aren't winners?'
'Oh, there'll be plenty of other attractions.'
'Always assuming that a hundred people watching half-a-dozen other people eating vegetables al-dirtyden is attractive.'
'Well, yes...but, you know, there'll be trips down memory lane. Old films.'
'Such as?'
'Oh, footage of some chap filling up on a forecourt, paying, coming out with change.'
'I see.'
'Or maybe some archive nugget of all four gas rings burning for a good minute.'
'Mercy. I wonder what she'll choose.'
'Choose, Pooh?'
'Which uncooked vegetable she'll eat off her street plate. 'Course, she might not get a winning ticket.'
'Not get...? Oh, Pooh. Bless.'
