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Little Things

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Little Things

~*~

 

[Cabin door opens.]

 

Arthur:

Here we are, gents!  Coffees for pilots.

 

Martin:

Mmm, thank you, Arthur.

 

Arthur:

Brilliant take-off, Douglas!  Best one yet.

 

Douglas:

Best one yet? Do you think so?  It was rather flawless, I suppose. 

Though I don’t know how that makes it any better than my usual.  Do you, Martin?

 

Martin:

[mutters indistinctly, and sips coffee]

 

Arthur:

It was just really great!  I mean… have you ever noticed that bit, in a take-off,

when you get that pressy-back feeling and you think: oh wow?

 

Douglas:

Yes, I have noticed that bit.  So has Martin.  Sometimes he still says wow.

 

Martin:

I do not.

 

Douglas:

Do too.

 

Martin:

Not always.

 

Arthur:

Well, your take-off today was extra-extra-pressy-back.  Big wow!  My favorite.

 

Douglas:

So glad you enjoyed it.

 

Arthur:

We should land and do it again.

 

Martin:

Yes, Arthur, it was breathtaking.  Thank you.  You can stop flattering him now.

 

Douglas:

Oh, Martin.  Leave him be, he’s fine.

 

Arthur:

Am I fine?  Because if I can stay for a bit, chaps, I was thinking… bing bong.

 

Douglas:

I’m sure you were.

 

Arthur:

No, I mean:  bing bong.

 

Martin:

[laughs, teasing] Who’s there?

 

Arthur:

Right!

 

Martin:

What?

 

Arthur:

Who’s there!

 

Douglas:

What?

 

Arthur:

Skip got it right!  “Bing bong.”  “Who’s there?”  Like knock knock, who’s there!  You know:

knock knock, who’s there, me, me who, something funny.  Only: bing bong!

 

Douglas:

Good Lord.

 

Arthur:

I’ve invented bing bong jokes!

 

Martin:

Oh, no.  Have you really?

 

Arthur:

I have!  And they’re brilliant!

 

Douglas:

Well.  That remains to be seen.  Bing bong.

 

Arthur:

[eagerly] Who’s there?

 

Douglas:

You tell me.

 

Arthur:

You-tell-me who?

 

Douglas:

No, you tell me who.  They’re your jokes.

 

Arthur:

Wait.  What?  I thought I knew how these worked.

 

Martin:

[chiding] Douglas.

 

Arthur:

[to himself] …you tell me… you tell me who…

 

Douglas:

My, this is a fiendishly challenging form you’ve invented, Arthur.  Go on, take another try.

 

Arthur:

Okay...  [tentatively]  Bing bong.

 

Martin:

Who’s there?

 

Arthur:

Ooh! It worked!

 

Douglas:

Ooh, it worked, who?

 

Arthur:

What?  Wait.

 

Martin:

[scolding] Douglas.

 

Arthur:

[eagerly] Douglas who?

 

Douglas:

Douglas Richardson.

 

Arthur:

Ha ha ha!  …Oh, wait.

 

Martin:

‘Douglas Richardson’ is a dreadful punch-line.

 

Douglas:

Too true.  ‘Martin Crieff’ will always be a better one.

 

Martin:

Hey!

 

Arthur:

I’m confused.

 

Martin:

I’m not.  Mr. Brilliant Take-off is simply toying with you, Arthur.  Now, go ahead. 

Tell me a bing bong joke.  And you shush, Douglas.

 

Douglas:

Shushing, Captain.

 

Arthur:

Okay.  Bing Bong.

 

Martin:

Who’s there?

 

Arthur:

Doctor.

 

Martin:

Doctor who?

 

Arthur:

Doctor Who!  Ha ha!  In the TARDIS! Because we’re flying, and he’s flying,

and it’s a bing bong joke in an aeroplane!

 

Martin:

Ahaha, yes. Very funny, indeed.  Wasn’t it funny, Douglas?

 

Douglas:

Still shushing, Captain.

 

Martin:

Well, un-shush.

 

Douglas:

Un-shushing, Captain.  Very funny, Arthur.

 

Arthur:

I know!  I thought it up in the night. 

If I keep thinking in the night, I’ll have a million of ‘em.

 

Douglas:

A million.  What fun.

 

Arthur:

And even though I’m the inventor of bing bong jokes, I don’t have to be the only thinker of

them.  You chaps could do it, too.  Like one of your word games.  And mum.

 

Douglas:

Lovely thought, very generous, but I could never presume to master the bing bong joke.

 

Arthur:

You’d get the hang of it, Douglas.  You’re very clever.

 

Douglas:

That’s true.  I am.

 

Martin:

[muttering] God.

 

Arthur:

You’re clever, too, Martin!

 

Douglas:

He is, isn’t he?  As clever as he is lucky.

 

Martin:

Ha bloody ha.

 

Arthur:

You’re the two cleverest chaps I know!  And I wonder…maybe

could you give me some advice?

 

Douglas:

Oh, most certainly we can.  What is it, my boy? 

Career advice?  Captain Crieff is a notorious negotiator of salaries. 

The fairer sex?  Our naughty Captain’s skills are legendary.

 

Martin:

[annoyed] Yeah, well… need help with a divorce? 

Douglas has had three of those.

 

Arthur:

I’m… not married, Skip.

 

Douglas:

He’s not married, Martin.

 

Martin:

[snappish] I know that.

 

Douglas:

Nice try, though.

 

Arthur:

But… it is about a girl, in fact.

 

Douglas:

Is it really?

 

Arthur:

Yes.  Her name is Bitsy.  And she’s

 

ALL:

Brilliant.

 

Arthur:

Yeah!  Have you met her?

 

Martin:

[kindly]  No. We just guessed.

 

Douglas:

And what makes young Bitsy so brilliant, pray tell.

 

Arthur:

Well, she makes me laugh, and she’s pretty, and she’s nice to cats,

and she has three horses that aren’t bitey, and she’s allergic to strawberries.

 

Douglas:

Ooh, a strawberry allergy.  Irresistible.

 

Martin:

She sounds lovely, Arthur.

 

Arthur:

She is!  And I asked her to go out with me, and she said yes,

and I want it to be really special, so I need your help.

 

Martin:

How can we help?

 

Douglas:

Ah, m’lad, are you perhaps proposing a romantic Cyrano de Bergerac scheme? 

Silver-tongued second-hand wooing of the fair Roxane?

 

Arthur:

She’s called Bitsy.

 

Douglas:

Indeed.

 

Arthur:

I don’t think she’d like it if I called her Roxane.

 

Douglas:

Certainly not.  So, no Cyrano scenario.

 

Arthur:

I’m…not sure what you mean.  All I want to know, really, is what is an absolutely

perfect date, and how do you make someone fall in love with you.

 

Martin:

[squeaking a little]  That’s all?

 

Douglas:

[blasé] Oh, that’s all.  Child’s play.  Which, since we’re talking

about Arthur, is fortunate.

 

Arthur:

Hooray!  Oh, wait.  Hey.

 

Douglas:

No offense.

 

Martin:

You find it easy, do you?  Arranging ideal dates? 

Making people fall madly in love with you?

 

Douglas:

Of course, Martin.  [false innocence] Don’t you?

 

Martin:

[sarcastic]  Yeah.  Child’s play.  A baby could do it.

 

Arthur:

I knew I came to the right place!

 

Douglas:

The ‘cockpit of love.’

 

Martin:

More like the flight deck of fantasy.

 

Douglas:

Not all of us have to resort to fantasy, Martin.

 

Martin:

Fine, fine.  Congratulations on your active… cockpit.

 

Douglas:

Thank you.

 

Arthur:

So, Douglas, you first.  If I want to do the best date ever, what do I do? 

What do you think is perfect?

 

Douglas:

Arthur, Arthur, you are already asking the wrong questions.  Allow me to turn

this back to you, for Douglas Richardson’s lesson number one in the art of seduction. 

What do you think would be a perfect date?

 

Arthur:

Umm, probably… five rounds of crazy golf, with birthday cake and

my gran’s ice cream for dinner.  And then extra cake for the winner of crazy golf,

who would be me, because I am brilliant at crazy golf. 

Oh, wow, this will be perfect!  I can’t wait!  Thanks, Douglas!

 

Douglas:

Not so fast, mon protégé.  A few more questions, if you please. 

First, does young Bitsy enjoy competitive crazy golf?

 

Arthur:

I don’t know.

 

Douglas:

Does she enjoy meals that consist solely of puddings?

 

Arthur:

I don’t know.

 

Douglas:

Arthur, remind me, what flavour of ice cream is your gran’s specialty?

 

Arthur:

Strawberry.

 

Douglas:

Yes.  So, from these simple questions, can you extrapolate the key point

of lesson number one?

 

Arthur:

What’s extrapolate?

 

Martin:

Infer.  Deduce.  Surmise.

 

Arthur:

Hm?

 

Martin:

Guess.

 

Arthur:

Oh!  Then… no.  What’s the point of lesson one?

 

Douglas:

Give me strength.  The lesson, child, is that it doesn’t matter what I think

is the perfect date, or what you think, or what Martin thinks. 

The only thing that matters is what the target of your seduction--

 

Martin:

Ahem.

 

Douglas:

--the object of your affection thinks.

 

Arthur:

Oh!  I see!  So I should ask Bitsy what to do?

 

Douglas:

You could.  But what’s far better is not to ask, but simply to know.

 

Arthur:

But I don’t know!  That’s why I’m asking!

 

Martin:

What he means, Arthur, is that you should think about Bitsy and

 plan something especially with her in mind. What have you learnt

about her?  What does she truly enjoy?

 

Arthur:

Well, like I said, she truly enjoys cats, horses, being nice, and not strawberries. 

Oh!  So, I won’t feed her gran’s ice cream.

 

Douglas:

Good plan.

 

Arthur:

But…is that all?  If our perfect date is petting cats, riding horses,

and not eating ice cream together, then we’ve already

been perfect-dating for a month.

 

Douglas:

Which brings us to lesson two.

 

Arthur:

Wait, I ought to take notes.

 

Douglas:

No need.  Lesson two may be summed up thus:  observe.

 

Arthur:

Observe what?

 

Douglas:

Observe her.

 

Arthur:

Doing what?

 

Martin:

Ew, lesson two isn’t a peeping tom thing, is it?  Because I think that’s wrong.

 

Douglas:

No, Martin, there is no peeping

Lesson two is simple:  Observe.  Listen.  Attend.

 

Martin:

Analyse weakness.  Calculate.  Strategise.

 

Douglas:

Martin.  This is Arthur we’re talking about.

 

Martin:

It was you I was talking about.

 

Douglas:

…Fair enough.

 

Arthur:

So, all I have to do look at Bitsy and listen to her.

 

Douglas:

Yes, and pay close attention.

 

Martin:

Douglas.  This is Arthur we’re talking about.

 

Arthur:

Hey!  I pay attention!

 

Douglas:

I’m sure you do.  So think.  Think beyond the obvious kitties and ponies. 

Has she mentioned things in passing?  Favourite foods, flowers, places to travel? 

Favourite colour, or book, or song?  What have you observed?  Has she a passion

for sport, or art?  Paying attention, Arthur, is an enormous turn-on. 

If you can plan a date that shows you’ve truly been listening,

your young lover will eat from your hand.

 

Arthur:

Wow.  Like a horse.

 

Douglas:

Eh… yes.  Somewhat.  So ask yourself:  What are the little things

you know about her?  She’ll be very flattered if you’ve noticed the little things.

 

Arthur:

Right.  The little things.  Little… things. I may need to think about that for a bit. 

Teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy things.  …Bitsy things!  About Bitsy!

 

Douglas:

…Right.

 

Arthur:

…tiny… things…

 

Martin:

Don’t strain yourself, Arthur.  You have plenty of time this trip to think it over.

 

Arthur:

What are your tiny things, Martin?

 

Douglas:

All of Martin’s things are tiny.

 

Martin:

Hey!

 

Douglas:

Sorry, cheap shot, couldn’t resist.  Allow me to answer, Arthur. 

If I were to attempt to woo our fetching young captain—

 

Martin:

[angrily]  Douglas, how would you like it if I made jokes about your, your, your—

 

Douglas:

My what?

 

Martin:

—your, your… you.  Your height, your size, your physical… parts.

 

Douglas:

The size of my parts is not remotely comical, but feel free to exercise your wit.

 

Martin:

Well, maybe I will!

 

Douglas:

[unconcerned]  Fine.

 

Martin:

Fine!  And my parts aren’t small!

 

Douglas:

Oh, Martin, really.  Don’t be so sensitive.  I said I’m sorry.  It was just an easy quip.

 

Arthur:

He didn’t mean to be mean, Skip.  He thinks you’re fetching.

 

Martin:

What?

 

Arthur:

Douglas, I want to hear about how you’d woo Martin.

 

Martin:

What?!

 

Arthur:

You got a bit shouty, just as Douglas was going to tell us about

the little-things date he would plan for you.

 

Martin:

What??!

 

Douglas:

Too true.  You clearly didn’t hear me over the furious roar – or shrill whine –

of your wounded pride.  I was about to describe your perfect date.

 

Martin:

You were, were you?  Like you’d know.

 

Douglas:

Oh, I may be off the mark, certainly.  I trust you’ll let me know if I am.

 

Martin:

I will.

 

Douglas:

Very well.  Our day begins thus.

 

Arthur:

Ooh, I’m really excited.  Shall I make popcorn?

 

Douglas:

No.  Our day, Martin, begins thus:  I pick you up rather early, around 8:30 or so. 

While I enjoy a nice lie-in, you tend to rise early, especially when in Fitton. 

Your aged futon has developed a few lumps, and your back hurts if you sleep too long.

 

Martin:

How did you—

 

Douglas:

Hush.  I am driving my Lexus, in which you like to ride.  The seats adjust easily,

and the sound system is excellent – two things your van cannot boast.  I’m playing

a CD of American bluegrass, a style of music you secretly fancy,

though you don’t get to hear it often.

 

Martin:

How—

 

Douglas:

You’ve wanted to purchase a recording, but you won’t spend the money. 

I’ll give you this CD at the end of our date.

 

I’ve asked you to dress casually but nicely, and it’s given you the opportunity

to wear your favourite denims. They’re newish, and they suit you, but they’re too nice

for man-with-a-vanning, and you rarely wear them on trips because you prefer

to wear your captain’s uniform, or variations thereof, whenever you fly. 

So, a chance to wear your jeans!  You’re quite comfortable, yet a bit more fashionable

than usual, in a button-down shirt and jacket.  Probably in shades of green and brown,

colours that give you confidence, for they flatter your eyes and your hair.

 

Martin:

…flatter…?

 

Arthur:

Wow.

 

Douglas:

We’re going for a leisurely drive, and I’ve brought an excellent dark-roast coffee

along in the car, and several of the lemon scones from Mrs. B’s shop.

 

Martin:

I love those!

 

Douglas:

I know.  Our destination is no great surprise.  It’s Duxford, of course,

but though you’ve toured the air museum several times before,

you have always done it alone.  You have never gone with a fellow pilot,

nor have you had the pleasure of a private tour from Clive,

a staff curator for the museum and a personal friend of mine.

 

Martin:

[faintly]  Private tour?

 

 Douglas:

Clive provides us a fascinating look behind the scenes, granting rare access

to a few of the aeroplanes, even opportunities for you, Martin, to sit in a vintage

cockpit or two.  I’ve coached Clive beforehand to let you do most of the talking. 

So instead of spending the day nodding frantically as Clive lectures about aircraft

and aviation, you rattle on at us with obscure trivia and history and interminable anecdotes,

 and – with gentle smiles – Clive and I allow it.  And we listen. 

For as long as you choose to speak.

 

Martin:

[soft gasp]

 

Arthur:

Are you all right, Martin?  You look fainty.

 

Martin:

I…

 

Douglas:

He’s fine, Arthur.  To resume:  Your passion for flight has sustained you

throughout the day, Martin, but by the end of our lavish tour, you have realized

you’re famished.  We take our leave of Duxford.  Your voice has begun to rasp a bit,

as it sometimes does after much talking.  I knew that it would, and I planned accordingly.

Clive’s assistant, who adores me, has prepared, at my request, a thermos of hot tea

with heather honey.  You’ve tasted pure heather honey one time before in your life,

Martin, and it nearly made you weep.  You now taste it again.

 

Arthur:

Gosh, that’s really sweet, Douglas.  Ha!  Honey!  Sweet!

 

Douglas:

Yes.  Well.  Young Martin goes quiet for a while, drinking honeyed tea and

listening to bluegrass as we drive.  He assumes I’ll stop at a pub along the way,

or perhaps we’ll try the new Italian restaurant back in Fitton, but no. 

A far more personal meal has been planned.

 

Martin:

Wha?

 

Douglas:

You see, Arthur, Martin likes Italian food, but he’s weary of pasta.  He enjoys pub fare,

but he grew up on fried fish and shepherd’s pie.  What Martin craves,

what he truly yearns for, awaits him at my place.

 

Arthur:

Crikey.

 

Douglas:

Steak.  A thick, seasoned rib eye steak, a treat he never, ever allows himself

due to expense.  I am grilling it, flawlessly medium rare, together with fresh

asparagus and mushrooms.  Martin is also keen on those, though he thinks of them

 as indulgences and won’t usually pay the price.  All of this is accompanied

by my own béarnaise sauce, which Martin has never had before. 

I prepare it exquisitely.  It will bring him to his knees.

 

Martin:

[faint squeak]

 

Arthur:

Golly.

 

Douglas:

And the Napa cabernet sauvignon I have chosen for him is superb.

 

What you may not know about Martin, Arthur, is that he is a secret romantic

and a closet sensualist.  This succulent meal, chosen especially for him and

served on a candlelit balcony (weather permitting), is the stuff of dreams. 

Or it would be the stuff of dreams, if he ever allowed himself to imagine being courted. 

Martin spends far more time imagining himself failing at courting others,

rather than envisioning being wooed.

 

Martin:

I—

 

Douglas:

Don’t deny it, Martin.

 

Now, as we sit upon my balcony at our lovely table for two,

and as you stammer out your heartfelt praise of my culinary skills,

I smoothly pour more wine for you, and sparkling water for myself. 

I lift my glass and look into your eyes, and say—

 

Arthur:

“Cheers!”

 

Douglas:

No.  I lift my glass and say—

 

Arthur:

“Bottom’s up!”

 

Douglas:

Mm, no.  No.  I look into Martin’s eyes, and I simply say,

“To you, my captain.”  And we drink.

 

Martin:

[silence]

 

Arthur:

And then the music swells, and the crowd says, “Ahhh!”

and you kiss each other, and—

 

Douglas:

Oh, I think we can fade to black at this point.

 

Arthur:

Aw, Douglas, that was brilliant.  What a perfect date! 

Wasn’t it perfect, Martin?

 

Martin:

[silence]

 

Arthur:

Anyway, it gives me loads of great ideas for Bitsy, and the nice little

sorts of things she might like.  You’re really good at this, Douglas! 

You should teach a class on wooing people in Ipswich!

 

Douglas:

Thank you, Arthur.  [thoughtfully]  Now you mention it,

I have quite successfully wooed a person or two in Ipswich.

 

Arthur:

See?  You’d be great!  Thanks, chaps, I knew you’d have the best advice. 

I have lots to think about now.

 

Douglas:

Off you go then, my lad, to ponder these things in your heart. 

The fair Bitsy shall be as putty in your hands.

 

Arthur:

Putty!  Hooray!  [The cabin door opens.] 

Putty’s fun.  [The cabin door closes.]

 

[Silence]

 

Martin:

Weather report was a bit iffy around Prague.  I think I’ll radio ahead for an update.

 

Douglas:

If you like.  I’m not concerned, though, and it’s my flight.

 

Martin:

Still, better to be prepared, so… so I think I’ll call.

 

Douglas:

Okay.

 

[Silence]

 

Douglas:

Martin, are you all right?

 

Martin:

Of course I am, I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be fine?  I’m fine.

 

Douglas:

That’s good.

 

[Silence]

 

Douglas:

Martin, I don’t think you’re fine.

 

Martin:

[sounding near tears]  Well, why would I be?  That was cruel, Douglas. 

I think it’s the meanest thing you’ve ever done to me.

 

Douglas:

Oh, good heavens, why is that.  I’ve done far “meaner” things, surely,

if you’re going to call it that.  And anyway, I thought you’d be flattered.

 

Martin:

Flattered.  At being dissected and manipulated for a game, just to prove you could? 

And the worst thing is that… [his voice falters]  The worst thing is…

 

Well, you’re right, aren’t you, I’ve never imagined someone wooing me,

being kind to me, being thoughtful, and lovely, to me.  But now – how lucky! –

I have a stupid romantic fantasy to torture myself with! 

Because no one’s ever going to…  No one will ever

 

[with sudden disgust]  Like you say, it’s the stuff of dreams

I am so, so glad to have dreams, Douglas,

thank you so very much for that.

 

Douglas:

… You’re welcome.

 

Martin:

I didn’t mean it!  Don’t you recognise sarcasm, for god’s sake?  

You’re a master of sarcasm, you’d think you could perceive it

when it’s pitched in your pompous face!

 

Douglas:

Hm, more like sprayed in my face.  You’ve gone a bit spittlely.

 

Martin:

That’s not even a word.

 

Douglas:

It should be.

 

Martin:

[wearily]  Fine. Great!  Maybe that’s our next ‘fun’ game.

 Words that aren’t words but should be.

 

Douglas:

Sounds viable.

 

Martin:

You’ll win, of course.

 

Douglas:

Of course.

 

Martin:

[sighs, sad and resigned]  …Agh, my coffee’s cold.  And my throat hurts.  

I’m going to go make myself some tea.  [nastily]  Too bad I don’t have any

‘pure heather honey’ to make me weep.  I’m off to the galley. 

Give me a shout if we’re about to crash. 

[Martin unbuckles his seatbelt and rises.]

 

Douglas:

Flight bag.

 

Martin:

What?

 

Douglas:

There is heather honey in my flight bag.

 

Martin:

What?

 

Douglas:

There’s a charming disc of bluegrass music there, as well.

 

Martin:

What?!

 

Douglas:

Oh, lord, not this again.  [mockingly] “What, what, what?” 

I have thoughtful, well-chosen gifts for you in my flight bag. 

Please, help yourself to them, as I am rather busy flying an aeroplane.

 

Martin:

You…you…  But… why?  Why, why?  Why?

 

Douglas:

You’re rather like a repetitive parrot sometimes, aren’t you. 

I bought gifts for you, Martin, because I wanted to. 

Ah, I do so love doing things I want to, it’s my favourite.

 

Martin:

But…but…

 

Douglas:

Oh, there is something else I want to do.  I’ve been wondering, Martin. 

Would you like to go to Duxford with me next week?  I have an old friend

who curates there, and he gives a smashing insider’s tour.  You’d love it.

 

Martin:

Douglas…

 

Douglas:

Do say yes, won’t you?  Tell you what, to sweeten the deal,

I’ll do the driving and I’ll cook dinner.  I promise to make something

you’ll especially like.  Don’t ask for details, now, I want it to be a surprise.

 

Martin:

[silence]

 

Douglas:

…Martin?  Perhaps you should sit down.  [Martin sits.]

 

Martin:

Is this a joke?

 

Douglas:

No.  It isn’t.

 

Martin:

Ahhh, wow.  Um.  Okay.  Duxford sounds fun.

 

Douglas:

It will be.

 

Martin:

Yes. Well. Oh, my.  I - I'll look forward to it… Douglas.

 

Douglas:

As will I.  Goodness, Captain, look at you.  You seem all… flustery.

 

Martin:

[laughs softly]  That’s not a word.

 

Douglas:

[smiling]  It should be.

 

[Cabin door slams open.]

 

Arthur:

Chaps!  Chaps!

 

Douglas:

Arthur!  How delightful to see you.

 

Arthur:

I was thinking!

 

Douglas:

Were you?

 

Arthur:

Yes, and… bing bong!

 

Martin:

Who’s there?

 

Arthur:

Roger!

 

Martin:

Roger who?

 

Arthur:

Roger wilco, over and out!  See?  That is a classic

bing bong joke on an aeroplane.

 

Douglas:

And it is painfully amusing.

 

Arthur:

Ha ha, I know!  I have to go back and think of lots more clever ones. 

And I have to think about Bitsy some more.  And think about

getting some dinner on.  That’s a lot of thinking!

 

Martin:

Arthur, I do believe you’re up to the task.

 

Arthur:

Thank you, Skip!  Right ho!  Off to think!  ‘Bye, Douglas.

 

Douglas:

Au revoir, Arthur.  Until we meet again.

 

[Cabin door closes.]

 

Douglas:

Elate-able, isn’t he?

 

Martin:

Positively filled with gleement.

 

Douglas:

He’s exultastic.

 

Martin:

He’s happyrific!

 

Douglas:

[satisfied sigh]  I think I know the feeling.

 

 

~THE END~