Dinner table conversations in our family are increasingly odd. The dogs lurked beneath the table in the hope of scraps. (Pavlovian theory suggest that by now the dogs should have realized that their efforts are pointless; that squeezing between the chairs does not bring any reward other than causing them discomfort. Either Pavlov was wrong, or someone feeds them under the table).
“Your coat is lovely and silken, Bella.”
“Wasn’t there someone called Silken Thomas?”
“Wasn’t he around in Cromwell’s time?”
“Or was it during the English Civil War?”