Hopped upon the window sill
Cocked his shining eye and said:
“Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head!” ...
Actually that didn't happen and not just because the birdies around here aren't great conversationalists. It's more that if they are planning on making housecalls they bypass my abode and head next door. All the feathered friends around here know Margaret's place is where you go for mince. It's a bit like a McDrive through. They arrive at the window and she dispenses their orders. Rumple prefers to eat in rather than take away. He runs through the front door and jumps on Margaret's lap to get his meal. I'm pretty sure the people at Coles must think she has an unusual passion for spag bol or beef pies given the extraordinary amount of mince one octogenarian goes through in a week, every week. Still it's an arrangement that seems to suit all of them and given Margaret is normally up and at that window at 4am (or so she tells me. I am never in a position to independently verify that information) there's no chance the birdies with the yellow bills will have to chastise her for sleeping in.
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