Thinking about puns, I come across a line of W.H. Auden's, "... Good poets have a weakness for bad puns..." which, as sucker for bad puns, I find a consolation.
At four o'clock this afternoon I am enjoying a cup of tea and some buttered toast in a cafe when in come four people who ask for "all day breakfasts".
In Hall's book shop, today, the conversation turns to knitting. Suddenly I remember how as a child, when I was once confined to my sick bed, my mother, to keep me occupied, gave me thick wooden knitting needles and a ball of string with instructions on how to knit dishcloths.