Right then, Tom Swifty

"Can you help me prepare the apples?" Tom appealed.

"But I'm nervous about cooking with spices, " she said gingerly.

"We'll just use the one herb," he said sagely.

He opened the cupboard and they stared at the contents.

"Bisto? Oh..." she said gravely.

"Own brand Cream Crackers?" he snapped.

"And where's the tinned pineapple?" she asked fruitlessly.

"I shopped from memory," he said listlessly.

He closed the cupboard door.

"You think I'm dull, don't you?" he said bluntly.

"I think you need to see a doctor," she said patiently.

"Why? Because I'm losing my hair?" he bawled.

"Because you've gained a lot of weight," she said heavily.

"I've had a bad leg," he said lamely.

"Let's change the subject," she said topically.

They surveyed the kitchen.

"When did you last clean this fridge?" he said coolly.

"I have no idea," she said thoughtlessly.

They consulted the recipe book.

"Once upon a time ..." she said grimly.

"You might need glasses?" he speculated.

"Everything in this bloody book is drizzled with sodding oil," she said crudely.

"We could make soft, smooth dumplings," he suggested wantonly.

"Or homemade soup?" she said uncannily.

They gazed at a photo of raspberry tartlets.

"I could eat one hundred and forty-four," he boasted grossly.

"Me, too," she agreed.

"Then we'll have to double the ingredients," he added.
"Perhaps use a little less sugar, darling," she said sweetly.

He moved over to the dresser.

"Shall I play a CD? How about some Crosby," he said probingly.

"He peaks at average," she said meanly.

He took a deep breath.

"I want to date other women!" he said unsteadily.

"You Irishmen are all the same," she said wryly.