Setting: a dew-dropped day in an English garden
“Alasdair! Good of you to have us ’round. How were your travels? Memphis, was it? A spot of recording?”
“Nashville, Clive.”
“Thank you, Abigail! All done, then? Another masterpiece?”
“He’s home, isn’t he? Honestly. Alasdair, the chrysanthemums came up lovely this year. Pass the sugar, Clive.”
“Honoured. Still called ‘The Clientele,’ my boy?”
“Yes, and rather enigmatic of him, I must say. Let’s have a bit of the new album then, shall we?”
“Let’s!”
“Oh, but it’s brilliant. Bit Kinks-y, don’t you think?”
“But I love the Kinks!”
“Of course you do, naughty man. Ah, lovely bit there, what’s the swoopish thing?”
“Pedal steel, Abigail.”
“Of course it is. Alasdair, your voice quite reminds me of, oh, the skinny one, what’s he called?”
“George Harrison, Abby. God rest him. But this one’s a bit more ‘Odyssey and Oracle,’ don’t you think?”
“Clive?”
“The Zombies, love. Brilliant group.”
“Of course they are, stop whining about it. God Save The Clientele! Any biscuits left, Alasdair?”