bliss was it

The avenue dappled with sunlight as we drove towards the old chateau on a day rich with the promise of Summer .
"I'm going to put that nudy picture by Mariana Gabor in the hall," sez I.
"You are not," sez the Mammy.
"Why not?"
"Because it's horrible."
"Think about it mother. It'll completely revitalise the other pictures. I mean you'll really appreciate the old landscapes you have hanging there. They'll take on a new freshness if old Breastor is hanging among them."
The Mammy snorted.
It was not a snort of approval.
A little ahead of us Aunty Mary's hens had sauntered out of a hedge like a group of troublesome teens in search of mischief. They strolled along the avenue in front of us as we drove.
Verily folks, these are small town hens with a big city attitude.
As we pulled up to the chateau mother and son espied the sister known as Petal sitting on the doorstep.
She was wearing something funny on her head.
"What do you think of my new cloche hat?" she called.
I favoured her with a speculative look.
"It makes you look like a bell," I told her. "You cloche eared bint."
The sisters peroration of reply rhymed freely with the sounds Aunty Mary's hens make.
A prophet is never welcome at his own chateau.