At Number 36

It is time for elevenses at 39 Eglantine Crescent.

"We've new neighbors," says Mr Foxe, peering out from behind the curtains. "It seems Number 36 has been let at last."

"Very jolly," says Mr Boxe, setting down his newspaper. "How do they look?"

"Like a bunch of fairies," says Mr Foxe.

'"Is that any way to speak of the Kettle, Mr Pot?"

"No," says Mr Foxe. "Actual fairies. The genuine article. Flitting in the moonlight and pals with Peter Pan and whatnot."

"By jove, you're right," says Mr Boxe, elbowing his way into the window.

"Sharing a wall with Number 38," giggles Mr Foxe. "Mrs Kumar is going to pop like a firework."

"Three of them!" says Mr Boxe. "About the same age, from the looks of it. Brothers, do you suppose? Cousins?"

"Or Just Very Good Friends," says Mr Foxe.

"Or all of the above," says Mr Boxe.

"If you're going to be vulgar you shan't have any more of Enid's cake."

"I've already eaten all the cake," says Mr Boxe.

"Then you shall have none tomorrow," says Mr Foxe.

"Oh bother," says Mr Boxe. "They've spotted me and are waving. What do I do?"

"Clap your hands," says Mr Foxe, "to show that you believe in them."

"Shut up," says Mr Boxe, waving.