At the end of the World Cup the host turned and looked out of the TV at me. Eyeball to eyeball, he said “thank you very much for your company over the last few weeks.”
Ach (blushing bashfully). Don’t mention it. It was only a few minutes, actually, while hoping Poirot might come on, but it does feel like it’s been weeks, you’re right.
Fusspot the Siamese has a message for the presenters. He would like them to know that the very rapid series of highlight shots that they put on at the end of the World Cup (just before starting the ads) was terrible. He kept looking round at it, making a disgusted moue, and looking away again. A cat can’t sleep with that going on, he says, even with the sound turned off.
So now it’s 22:20. Do we get Poirot? (Breathless hush). Oh look, here he is! Bless his whiskery face.