Mrs. Pickwick, looking down at a fresh scone in dismay: “I do so wish we had some clotted cream for these.”
Fr. Pickwick, sympathetically: “I’m sorry…”
Mrs. Pickwick: “…that we don’t live in mid to late nineteenth century England? Yeah. Me too.”
Fr Pickwick glances around for sources of comforting inspiration: “Well, we have this cute baby. We have this teapot that was made in England. And we have a monk in our house. Our life is not so bad.”

Aforementioned visiting monk: “You know what I really miss? I mean, not that I was actually born when they were around, but…Pedal Pianos. What I wouldn’t give for a good pedal piano. If we only had a pedal piano at the monastery, I could, well…”

Small Pickwick bursts into liturgical music. Visiting monk listens appreciatively: “I find it interesting that she is actually singing the melody. Most children would sing the discant.” Fr Pickwick beams, Mrs. Pickwick blushes remembering that she has accidentally sung the discant at least three Sundays running, and had previously been confident that No One Else On Earth (besides Fr Pickwick) could possibly notice.