Lord Ulysses Pleasant Meriwether Plott stared down at the e-reader in his hand with bemused amazement, “Good Lord, whatever will they think of next!” He dabbed at the touch-screen with a blunt forefinger, frowned, and handed it back to Lady Plott. “Think it’s broken. Sorry.”
“It’s really quite simple, once you get the hang.” Lady Philomena Plott showed him how it worked. Again.
“No paper, then?” Lord Plott scowled at the device with reddening cheeks.
Lord Plott’a big old shoulders slumped as he considered their beloved and ever-growing library. “That’s it, then. Books are dead.”
“Not really, dear.” Lady Plott sighed patiently. “People will still have to write the new ones.’
“Suppose so.” Lord Plott slipped the e-reader into his pocket and retreated to the breakfast table. “S’trordinary.”
Concealed behind the upright newspaper came the scrape of butter knife on toast, the chink of teapot against porcelain, the stir of the tea-spoon. All that could be seen of Lord Plott, left and right of each side of the newspaper, were the greying tips of his moustaches.
Lady Plott had never been able to work out how he managed to do it all with just two hands.
“Were you thinking of… um… some gardening today, m’dear?” Lord Plott said from behind the paper.
“Well, I thought I might. It’s quite mild. The broad beans could go in.”
“Splendid. Might write about that, instead.”
Lady Plott went into the kitchen, put on her wellies and tied a scarf over her hair. From the other room came Lord Plott’s cry of delight, “Just found one of your stories, Philly. S’troardinary thing, this.”