'Looking a bit grim out there,' said Mick.
'Grimmer than a grimoire of grimness,' said Larry.
'?' said Mick.
'Well, you know,' said Larry.
Mick went to the fridge. He pulled out a can of Irn Bru. As he did so, the can clattered against some glass jars full of a cloudy, slightly viscous liquid.
Larry said, 'What would those glass jars full of a cloudy, slightly viscous liquid be, Mick?'
'They,' said Mick, 'would be the glass jars of saliva which we have been saving for just such a day as this is turning out to be.'
'And what sort of day would that be, friend Mick?' said Larry.
Mick scratched his chin. 'Ow!' he said, as he caught a fingernail on a spot.
'Never mind,' said Larry. 'Pass one of the jars here.'
Mick did so.
Larry removed the lid from the jar and stuck a finger into the contents.
'Eugh,' said Mick, by way of response, as he attempted to staunch the flow of blood from his freshly wounded chin with a bit of fluff he had found behind the radiator.
'I second your "eugh",' said Larry, as he removed his finger from the jar, replaced the lid and returned the jar to Mick, who, in turn, returned it to the fridge and closed the fridge door.
'Remind me,' Larry then said, 'why have we been saving our saliva?'
'In case it rains,' said Mick.
'I fail to see the sense in this,' said Larry.
'I must confess,' said Mick, 'that upon the imminence of a day of undesirable meteorological conditions, I also fail to perceive the relevance of the storage of spittle.'
'Shall we bin it?' said Larry.
'Nahh,' said Mick.
'Why not?' said Larry.
'It might snow,' said Mick.
[ fin ]