RUPERT:
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!