All: it's a bit cold, in it?
Archdruid: The year is poised like a bird on a telephone wire, neither day nor night has sway.
All: it's really rather parky. Can't we do this in the Moot House?
Archdruid: As the prophet wrote, "the summer is over and we are not yet saved."
All: Given your sermons that's not surprising. Can we go in the warm now, please, Eileen?
Archdruid: The emblazoned leaves fall from the trees.
All: That's ash die-back. We told you - you should have consulted Defra at the time.
Archdruid: Dying! Dying! The year is dying!
All: That's more like it. Bit of serious melodrama. Much better for the whole gloomy atmosphere.
Archdruid: And now, Hnaef will once again attempt his Equinoctial a Feat of Balance on the tightrope above the Duck Pond, after which we will return to the Great House for baked apples.
All: Baked apples! Why didn't you say?
All may immediately leave for the Great House, to discover there's proper custard as well.
Hnaef: Hello? Is there anybody there? I daren't look down. Can anybody help me?