Questionable Taste

A bit of a dust-up as we continue the decorating.

"Perhaps," says Mr Boxe, "in future you might only go shopping when accompanied by a chaperone.'

"You're being a frightful snob," says Mr Foxe.

"Not so," says Mr Boxe. "I merely think it would lead to...awkwardness."

"What on earth do you mean?" says Mr Foxe. "It's a bit of whimsy. Who objects to whimsy? I'm whimsical. You're whimsical. The whole damned house is whimsical."

"My dear," says Mr Boxe, "please consider. We know *actual* gnomes. Our cabinetmaker is a gnome. There's an entire household of the little buggers three doors down."

"So?"

"And they might object to our using one of their own as a garden ornament."

"It's...a tribute," says Mr Foxe. "An homage."

Mr Boxe rubs his eyes with a weary paw.

"May I point out," says Mr Foxe, "that we also know dogs, yet I have raised no fuss over that etching of a nude bull terrier that you wish to hang in the bedroom."

"That is art," says Mr Boxe.

"You really, truly are the most frightful snob," says Mr Foxe.

"Yet here we are," says Mr Boxe.

"Indeed," says Mr Foxe.

"Perhaps you might put it in the greenhouse?" says Mr Boxe.

"Acceptable," says Mr Foxe. "Do we have a deal?"

"Marché conclu," says Mr Boxe.

"What?"

"That's the French for we have a deal," says Mr Boxe.

"Snob," says Mr Foxe.

"Oui," says Mr Boxe.

"Shall I also put the guillotine in the greenhouse?" says Mr Foxe.

"Bite my cake," says Mr Boxe.