Morning, Cyril - what's the trouble?
CYRIL: Just bewailing my lost youth.
RUPERT: But You're only one.
CYRIL: Yes - but in forty-nine years time I shall be fifty. Imagine - I'm nearly fifty! Then it's but a step 'til I'm a hundred and three, And then I won't be able to walk.
RUPERT: Well you can't walk now!
CYRIL: Yes, but when I'm old I won't even be able to crawl along the mantlepiece and be sick in the clock.
RUPERT: I don't see why not - my grandfather does.
HUGH: Oh, go on - cheer up - would you like some milk from my bottle?
CYRIL: No thanks - I'm trying to give it up. I've got three chins already. How ever many will I have when I'm fifty?
HUGH: You shouldn't eat so much.
CYRIL: It's my only vice. I don't smoke - I don't drink - and I can't.
RUPERT: Here comes your old bag again, Cyril.
CYRIL: Let's give her Test Three.
ALL THREE: Moo, moo, moo!
CYRIL'S MUM: Well what's the game, children - can you see a moo-cow, den?
CYRIL: She is so stupid!