Phoebe, after her trout dinner.

'My word' says Phoebe, as a cat flies past the window.

'My word indeed', says her sister, born five minutes earlier than her, rendering her the elder sister.

'How is your trout dahling?'

'Good, but a little bit too existentially motivated for my tastes'

'Yes, I know what you mean. Perhaps breeders should concentrate on quantity not quality a little bit.'


The End

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