That's all I have to eat first, shall we? Milk? Thank you. Sugar? Oh no. No, thank you. I say what delicious looking scones. They're scotch scones. About this little talk you wanted to have with me. A speciality of mine, copied from a recipe of my grandmother's. You're quite a little housewife, aren't you? Something of a litrific atoo. She fences herself as a poetest, you know, goes to evening class to learn about meat or all that rubbish. George? Well, they look quite delicious. May I try one? Help yourself. Then what we used to call girdle scones. Or trups scones. It's awfully important not to let the oven get too hot. Otherwise the outside of the scones will be brown before the inside is cooked. These are lovely even colour. Well, I was cool in a towel. Do you? Yes. And I wait until the bubbles rise to the surface before I turn them over. Well, they're very successful. Well, I use half a level teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda. Oh. Now you're giving away trade secrets. And one level teaspoon full of cream of tartar. Shut up. And one egg. Shut up. Some people prefer two eggs, but I think one's enough. Shut up! Then girls. Girls. She hates me to talk about food. She's the wee bit overrought. Oh, bullshit. Oh! Oh! Oh, don't they make a lovely cup? They do, they really do. I'm surprised you haven't eaten the plunge. Still waiting for Mr. Wright to come along, are you? Well, it was a young man once you know what time it was. He was in the RAF. Killed over Berlin. Ah, well, that's a good boy. He went that way. Lovely boys. Ah, that they were. Ah, they certainly were.