When I was younger, in the evening before my dad got home, I would sort out my day so that I could tell him every bit. There was an urgency involved, like I just really HAD to tell him. I would follow him to his bedroom, and assail him, or what I thought to be regail him, with my days ponderings and doings. He was patient, though not very responsive. One day though, he looked at me and said: "Rachael, there is a point where talk is just prattle." I was crest-fallen, because I felt that if he loved me like he should, he would want to know every thought, and interaction, and meal, and game, and discourse that my day had offered. True to form, it didn't stop me. I still talked, and once it hit the point that he could hear me no more, he would just interject with "prattle." and I would stop. I couldn't, and still probably can't, discern the substance from the prattle. Contributing, is the fact that I still think there is nothing wrong with prattling. I cherish a prattler. Tell me what sort of sauce you used on your burrito, because I want to know. You can tell me about the bad smell on the lady who tried to give you that weird sausage sample at the grocery store, too.