That's the trouble with some neighbourhoods

At a certain hour a fellow is vulnerable to being caught, admitting that he really isn't doing anything in particular, before he's awake enough to realise that at the other end of the line is Betty Commilfaux, lamenting the default of her evening's extra man, right in the middle of a rubber of bridge. And you, so gainfully contesting with your English Cocker for nesting rights at the foot of the bed, as to ignore the precedent of con-cession your bailing her out will mean, agree to sit in. Ripples of your indiscipline will pervade not one but two memories, even if you do carry the night by delivering Betty her biscuit.