Kit: Ugh, there's grit in the bed!

Mika: 'Sright! You like?

Kit: You did this?

Mika: Course. No need to thank.

Kit: Mika, we don't want grit in our bed.

Mika: But has to do it! Is vocation now.

Kit: How on earth do you figure that?

Mika: Is on earth and linen both. And fine figure of a cat.

Kit: Okay, let's try this again, sweetie: why do you think you have to put earth in the bed?

Mika: Mika is landscape architect, of course. Is relandscaping our home, deconstructing indoor-outdoor dichotomy. Is avant-garde.

Kit: Hang on - you're a landscape architect? What made you think that?

Mika: Daddy works for landscape architects, yes?

Kit: Yes, he does work at an enviromental consultancy firm, but I don't see how that translates to needing earth in our bed.

Mika: You is slow. Is simple syllogism. Daddy's boss is landscape architects. Mika is Daddy's boss. Ergo, Mika is landscape architect.

Kit: That's not a proper syllogism, baby. It would only work if the first premise was 'All Daddy's bosses are landscape architects.' Actually it's just some of Daddy's bosses. You're a separate category. If you used more articles in your sentences you might have spotted that.

Mika: Fie upon your verbal pedantries. Is not grammarian. Is landscape architect and must express creative self. Have decided to begin by moving some earth from garden to bed.

Kit: Mika, we don't want earth in our bed!

Mika: Shh. Is havin creative moment and you is interruptin the Mews. Go away.