Understanding tea that floats on a Sunday morning

Given that it is Sunday today, it was surprising that any of us woke before Mrs Beetleman opposite. Even more surprising was that Mrs Beetleman didn't surface at all. This caused us some alarm at first but we convinced ourselves that we were indeed awake - and alive - by reciting poetry none of us understood. Margaret is convinced that only when one is dead does one fully understand anything. I was happy to believe her this morning, given the circumstances.

I don't normally go to see Felix on a Sunday owing to his not drinking tea on the Sabbath. I asked him today why he didn't, as he has never followed religious doctrine of any sort. He said he had been to visit friends in Ireland one Sunday and discovered they had all taken to drifting aimlessly on logs in their local lake. Since they had survived the day without tea, he decided that it was safe to abscond on the Lord's day, whether or not he was around, which, I suppose, makes sense.

It makes me think just what wonderful things there are to discover from one's closest friends on Sundays that begin with a shock. I'm sure there's something in that.