“Sadly,” Zooey said, “The city streets were not made for reckless intellectuals like our dear Mr. Williamson, I’m sure he prefers to stay at home and write lengthy compositions on the recording artist formerly known as Charles Trenet rather than go gallavanting around on our silly adventures.”

“Well, Mr.Williamson is missing out,” Fritz said, “Does he even have a first name by the way? I feel awkward calling him Mr.Whatshamacallsitface all the time.”

“Excuse us for being formal. To be honest I never really thought of that. We’ll figure it out,” Zooey said while digging around the sofa for something to change into.

“Oh, by the way,” she said from under the armchair, “Nasa called me this morning.”

“That guy that looked eerily like the singer from The Smiths?” Fritz asked.

“Morrissey? Yeah, that Nasa guy. Anyway, he’s coming over tonight,” Zooey said, this time from underneath the sofa.

“Ooh, Mr. Williamson’s gonna be jealouss,” Fritz smirked.

“We have an open relationship,” Zooey said.