HUGH: God, I hate the bloody blow dryers in the bathroom. Some prat turned it upside down and it completely messed up my hair.
DREW: Don’t worry, Hugh, you still look like the kind of destiny that smells like flowers.
HUGH: Er, thank you. And it’s very nice to see that you’re propping things up this year as well. Nicely done.
DREW: Well, I wanted to be the architect of my own dreams.
HUGH: I see. And in this case, your dreams are your breasts.
DREW: And my breasts are my dreams. It’s beautiful harmony in a brassiere.
HUGH: I’ll say. Because… I mean… bit of a disaster there last year, eh?
DREW: I think people were just startled to see the full extent of my feminine expression coming to blossom.
HUGH: I think they were probably more startled to see them express themselves down by your knees.
DREW: But this year, pink is my soul aura. I truly feel as though I’ve been touched by cotton-candy angels.
HUGH: Indeed, and your aura looks lovely on you. Congratulations on a lesson well learned. Although you might want to put on some sunscreen — the rays from your soul glow appear to be giving you rather a tan.
DREW: No, it’s just my radiant spirit ballerinas pirouetting through my skin. This dress, this night, it all feels like flossing my teeth with tiny threads of joy.
HUGH: Quite. Now I must dash — I’m suddenly in desperate need of a scotch.