#Book a table St Albans

[randombush3]

But She’s A Stranger

florence pugh x footballer!reader

summary: originally titled ‘saved’, because that’s what you and this blonde woman seem to be doing for each other

words: 10048

warnings: none (😮)

notes: okay i know i said no more football fics, but i couldn’t help myself. i really couldn’t and you’re going to have to deal with that!

a few of my fav things about writing this include having to check flo’s instagram to see what hairstyle she’s had at what time, creating multiple timelines of club transfers to keep things consistent, and learning catalan! i speak spanish and quite a bit of french so it could have been worse. i also don’t explicitly say this (i think) but the reader played for wolfsburg when she was in germany.

January is fucking freezing. The wind is biting and it rains a lot, clouds lingering, having had to hide for Christmas. The days are grey and dark, trainings are hard, and you’re miserable about being stuck in England after spending a week in Cuba.

You walk down Portobello Road simply because your sister forced you to watch that Hugh Grant rom-com and you’ve got a bit of time before you need to get back to St. Albans. After exploring most of the main road, you stray into a side street, and then another… and another. Until you’re slightly lost (very lost) and in need of food.

Florence Pugh is having a peaceful cup of coffee to make her feel like she’s had a productive day.

Her head snaps to the door when the bell chimes. People don’t often come in here. You sort-of-stumble inside, first looking as if you’re going to walk right out, then settling.

While she is sitting at her usual table (the one in the corner, always with a tulip in the vase), you are aimlessly flitting from seat to seat, deciding on whether this place is worth your precious time. Something about the confusion in your eyes draws Flo in, try as she might to remain incognito. “It’s good,” is all she says, barely looking up from her book, not wanting to have the safety of anonymity stripped away. You glance at the pale blue ceramic mug sitting on her table, and walk to the counter.

“Please could I have whatever she has,” you tell the barista, who takes a moment to understand what you’ve said and then nods with a smug smile. She had been hoping someone would have a little coffee romance in her café.

“Would you like that to go?”

You check your watch.

Hòstia.

Maybe you got carried away on your adventure.

It’s 3.47pm.

Jonas requested everyone meet for team bowling at four, expecting most of you to have been eating lunch together anyway (as that usually happens on Saturdays with the Arsenal women’s football team). Even if you weren’t known to be the most punctual on the squad, getting to St. Albans for that time when it’s 3.47pm now is impossible.

You smile nervously at the woman serving you, and Flo is now intrigued as to why such a beautiful woman looks so terrified.

“Yeah, to go would be great, thanks.” She nods and you are left waiting there, foot tapping, time ticking, nowhere interesting to look other than into those green eyes peering at you from the other side of the room. “Could you… Could you make it quickly, please?”

Flo snorts.

Someone’s just invaded her little sanctuary and then told the barista to hurry up, and she can’t help but find the awkwardness fucking attractive. Like you’re some action in a tranquil day, a rain cloud in a blue sky.

Zach is going to be listening to a very long rant about this later.

It strikes her that you seem different to anyone else she has ever met, though she can barely say to have met you. The way you carry yourself with an air of importance but a dash of humility, the way an accent she can’t place curls around your words, the way you frown at your phone as you furiously type away text after text at the object of your frustration.

The way your eyes meet hers when you realise you’re being stared at.

Before she can defend herself, give you some bullshit about the wall behind you, the barista hands you your coffee. “Thank you,” you say, smiling, though it feels a little ingenuine considering the speed the words tumble out.

As you switch your phone off and reach out to the machine in front of you, the barista grimaces. “Our card machine is broken, sorry. It’s cash only.”

Well she didn’t mention that before.

You gave your last bits of cash to Jordan, having lost some stupid bet about how many of her shots you could save. She said you’d keep a clean sheet; you were humble and said she’d get one past you.

“Merda,” you mutter. Looking up at the barista, you reply, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t have any cash on me,” a little panicked and ready to risk it all by dashing out of the shop.

You and the barista exchange a helpless look. She needs the money, but you don’t have it. It’s frankly super awkward, and makes Flo squirm in her seat. She really has to put a stop to this, she can’t bear to watch you and the barista be struck dumb any longer.

She stands and walks over to you, “here,” handing the barista a fiver and trying her best to ignore how your jaw goes slack. Have you recognised her?

(No, you’re just wondering how it’s possible to be this attracted to a stranger.)

(Like, this is one of those moments when you truly are no better than a man.)

“Oh!” you exclaim, finding words again. “You don’t—”

“It’s okay,” she says calmly, though she feels anything but. You have eyes that seem to pierce through her. “You can just buy me—”

But whatever smooth remark she is about to make is plucked from her tongue and swallowed by an aggressively abnormal ringtone. It’s a new experience to be shut down by a duck quacking, and an unwelcome one too.

You grimace once again, finding that this supposedly simple detour has caused more chaos than £5.00 coffee is worth. The caller in question is Beth Mead, recently granted close-friend status after she found you mid panic attack in the gym having been overwhelmed by the watt bike, having to constantly use your third language, and the fact that Ona was being a little standoffish the last time you spoke (you were being dramatic — she hung up on you in favour of going clubbing with her own team). Beth won’t tell you this, but Jonas realised you were struggling in London at the start of the season and asked her to keep an eye on you.

Keeping an eye on you has, apparently, turned her into your mother.

“Where are you?” is what she greets you with, her annoyance drowning out the faint sounds of a bowling alley in the background. “You can’t skip mandatory team bonding.” After a pause, the woman on the other end of the line seems to soften. “Are you okay? You’re not lost, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you sigh, glancing at the stranger who you are now in debt to. She’s retreated back to her table, accepting defeat, allowing the universe to quell her potential one-night-stand or more. “I’m in Notting Hill. I got distracted by a café, but I’ll be on my way shortly.”

“You’ll be here in an hour, then,” says Beth, unimpressed. “I’m telling Jonas that you got lost, it’ll save you a lecture.”

“Thank you.” You’re grateful for Beth. “I’ll call a taxi now.”

Florence looks at you dumbly. You spare her a concerned look, but then realise she may have been… No, that’s absurd.

“Thank you,” you say once more, this time directed at the blonde, the curve of your lips undeniably attractive and the glint in your eye even more so. Flo nods curtly, attempting to save face, and then forces her eyes back onto Dune. It’s far less interesting than that entire interaction, but what can she do?

The door of the café shuts with a little click, the bell chiming once more, but Flo refuses to watch you leave. That’s creepy, she tells herself.

In truth, as you get into the taxi pulled up outside, you glance back at her, wondering who she is. Why does she look familiar?

You’re seconds away from figuring it out, having a right old lesbian ponder in the car, when Beth pops her head through the abruptly opened car door. “Hola,” she tries, “estas aqui, finalmente.”

“Sí, estoy aqui,” you reply, grinning. She realises your smile might be slightly mocking, pride replaced with slight frustration. “You tried. I’m sure you will improve.”

“It’s not fair if I’m trying to make you more comfortable and you keep talking to me in English,” she groans, but you wave her off.

“I’m grateful, but I need to practice my English.” The pretty blonde woman is worth the struggle. Not that you’re going to talk to her anytime soon. Because you don’t have her number. Or know her name. So really this is all a fantasy, and you’re being a little wistful and probably very horny. Thinking about it, the last time you slept with someone was at least two months ago, and even then it wasn’t the most mind-blowing night of your life. It’s not like the pretty blonde woman is your soulmate.

- - -

She becomes a dream for about a month, something that maybe happened but has become somewhat a fantasy.

As usual, your mother nags you about needing to date someone every time you call her, but unlike previous times where you find it easy to protest and defend your independence (loneliness), you understand what she means.

It’s so fucking stupid that you’re obsessed with a stranger, but it’s the truth.

How embarrassing.

On the 27th February, you forgo playing against Liverpool in favour of attending a big fundraiser for a mental health charity; an event your brother has strongly encouraged you to go to.

You realise why when you get there.

The banner adorning the entrance to the venue clearly states who tonight’s host is: Tomàs L/n. There is the same picture of him plastered around the place; chest puffed out proudly, his Barcelona kit underneath a blazer. No wonder he was so mysterious about this thing. His lack of warning means you actually have to do little interviews, wondering if anyone really cares what you have to say.

“How do you feel about your brother’s recent increase in his involvement with this charity?” a reporter asks you, mic held to your face as if you have an opinion on this.

“I think it’s good,” you reply vaguely. “It’s good to support something you are passionate about.” You can’t say anything else because you haven’t been briefed by his (admittedly over-bearing) publicist.

“You’re missing a match for this, despite playing time being hard to get for goalkeepers. Is family more important to you than your career — seeing as you need the minutes to be selected for the upcoming Euros?”

An odd question, but okay.

Minutes are difficult, but you’ve been first choice all season. The Euros squad will be finalised in early June, though your agent is confident in your selection. “I think that supporting my family should always come first.” You smile. You’re on camera. “And it is a good cause.”

There’s a surge of movement behind you, shuffling and shouting, clamouring for attention. Cameras begin to flash excessively, and before you can turn around, your brother is beside you.

“Hi,” he greets the reporter, grinning with sparkling teeth and a glint in his eye. “Could I borrow her, thanks!” He places a hand on your shoulder and steers you further into the crowd until you reach a corner that isn’t deserted enough to draw attention to the two of you. It being towards the back of the venue makes it somewhere that feels less exposed than the edges nearing the press

“Fuck you,” you hiss in Catalan, happy to switch back to something natural now that you’re alone. “You’re such a dickhead.” He came all the way from Spain to host this event, but you suspect this isn’t the actual reason for his trip.

“Am not,” comes his indignant reply. You scoff, rolling your eyes at his ridiculous ensemble. “Oh, you don’t like the suit? Cèlia said the same. Dolce&Gabbana sent it.”

“Yeah, well, your wife and I are right. It’s awful.” It’s very… loud. Crimson with golden roses. “I’m getting a headache just looking at you.”

“No,” he waves off with a smirk, “that’s from hitting your head against the goalpost.”

“You saw that?” you ask, scrunching your nose up at the memory. You had saved the ball at the price of a few brain cells, luckily scraping a pass in the concussion test you were forced to sit through.

“I’ve started watching your games more,” he admits earnestly. “Barça want you back, you know. You could come home.”

So this is why he’s here.

“To not be played at all?” you retort, walls going right up.

“They’d be crazy to not put you in goal now, and it’s good to play with the national team in the league. That’s easier if you’re actually in the country.” National camps have been going just fine. “I mean, haven’t you had enough of hiding abroad?”

You think about it for a moment. “Not really, no.” An indignant scoff follows, and then, “I have been back, you know. I flew to Barcelona that one time — and then I got the train from there to Madrid.” Plus, your old teammates (and national teammates) go on enough holidays for you to scrape by nervously in Ibiza and Mallorca, and relax in countries further away.

“Y/n, she left the country four years ago. You couldn’t possibly run into her.”

“My chances of that are even smaller in England,” you state firmly. You spent three years in Germany and she still managed to find you twice, conveniently appearing in her stupid, American law firm’s Munich office.. Away from mainland Europe is a safer bet, surely. “Maybe you could copy me and transfer to Arsenal, just like you copied me when I got into the Barcelona academy.”

- - -

Florence hates events held by footballers.

She rarely goes, and doesn’t if avoidable, but the cause is a good one and her publicist wants the media to paint her as a passive advocate for mental health awareness. Nothing too abrasive, but a quiet reminder of her support. It’s quite clever, really.

Sulking in the corner, she sips her martini with a scowl, watching the crowd wearily. The invitees are not her type of people and most seem to have cleared out Dolce&Gabbana’s SALE rack. The guy in front of her is the perfect example, golden roses sprawling across the back of his crimson blazer.

Internally, she rolls her eyes, taking another sip of her drink. This is unbelievable and won’t get interesting until the auction in two hours.

The man in front of her steps to the side slightly, revealing that he hasn’t been talking to himself but rather to someone who looks strangely familiar.

Your eyes meet hers and there’s a moment where you both go into mild panic mode. The recognition in your stare quickly turns into desperation as your mouth moves rapidly to reply to your brother’s opinions. Florence doesn’t understand the conversation at all, but realises she’s being asked for help.

The confidence people see in her usually isn’t real, but she squares her shoulders and walks up to you and the man.

“There you are!” She’s an actress for a reason. “I was just about to get another drink — I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

Your brother’s eyes narrow.

She slips an arm around your waist, hiding any shock about your muscular form, pretending she knows your name. You lean into her.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Flo has half a mind to send him a glare, but you do it for her. “Tomàs, no hi tonaré.”

The venom in your tone does something to Flo’s blood pressure. It’s sort of… sexy.

“What was that about?” she asks once you’re by the bar, snapping you out of a moody trance.

“My brother?” Your brother is Tomàs L/n. Interesting. (If Flo knew the first thing about the football world, she’d have realised who you were by now, but she doesn’t and so you remain nameless.) “He was being stupid. It doesn’t matter now. Thank you for saving me.”

She finds that she would’ve done it again in a heartbeat, which is a little weird considering she doesn’t know who you are. Flo secretly decides to chalk that one down to having just gotten out of a long-term relationship and needing someone to latch onto.

“No problem,” she replies with a smile. “I believe you owe me a drink…”

You smile. “Two martinis, please.” The bartender nods, looking exasperated by the demands of the overflowing bar.

“That’s my favourite,” Flo says — sort of whispers — as she bashfully looks away. The faint blush creeping up her neck and cheeks is hidden well enough by the blue lighting of the place. “How was your coffee?”

For a moment, you look at her blankly and her heart drops with embarrassment. Then, you let out a little laugh.

“I didn’t drink it. It spilled all over me in the taxi!”

“All that stress for nothing, huh?”

Not nothing, you think, but you’re not brave enough to tell her that. “I was recently introduced to Café Nero, and that tastes the most—”

“No!” Flo explains, pressing her hand to her heart. “That’s unacceptable.” You shake your head, laughing more, and she wants nothing but to hear it on repeat for the rest of her life.

“British coffee is unacceptable,” you answer, rolling your eyes. “But I found this place called Reinetta the other day. Very Spanish, very brilliant.”

“Are you from Spain?”

What a genius.

Your incredulous look quickly goes when you realise she’s serious.

“Yeah!” She notices how your smile grows wider but your eyes become a little haunted. “Hablo español,” you say with a smirk, sending her a superfluous wink.

And, if the bartender hadn’t interrupted by serving you your drinks, you would be well aware of how red she goes.

She takes a sip, groaning in appreciation. “This is a good—” She turns around suddenly, squinting at the woman waving at her in the crowd looking furious. “Fuck, I can’t believe I forgot. I’ve got to go.” You catch sight of the person she’s looking at; a stern-faced publicist wading her way through the mass of people to get to her client. In a last ditch attempt of actually getting to know you, she throws out, “you should totally show me this Spanish coffee place,” and rushes off to meet her publicist.

You stand stock-still. Stunned. Oh, that definitely gave you goosebumps.

The rest of your evening is mostly passive aggressive. With hardly anyone else to talk to, you end up hovering in whatever conversation circle your brother is in.

At the soonest possible moment, you leave and join the late-night recovery dinner at Beth’s house, earning wolf-whistles from everyone as you bundle through the door in your formal attire. Beth tells you to change almost immediately, throwing you a t-shirt and jog pants. “Recovery is all about wearing pyjamas,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And eating.”

“What have you made?”

She gives you a wry grin. “Come find out.”

The girls are sitting around her table, eagerly awaiting your arrival so they can tuck in. Jordan, Katie, Jen, Steph, and (surprisingly) Viv are all eyeing the food like starving wolves would look at a herd of sheep. It smells good and familiar and like Beth has kidnapped your abuela and chained her to a paella pan…?

You seem to fill with energy at the sight of the dish, and Katie announces she’s done being patient, spooning a hefty portion onto her plate and prompting Steph to do the same. They begin eating while you remain a little taken aback.

Beth nudges you. “I called Less and practically begged her to give me Ona’s number last week, sending her a text once I got it — to which your friend took bloody ages to reply. And then she was very difficult about when she could FaceTime, so when we eventually could I ended up making a mini version of her paella and memorising the recipe.” Her rambling is nervous. “But I sent her a picture of this one and she said it looked delicious.”

“Déu n’hi do, it looks delicious,” you agree, sitting down as quickly as possible and piling some onto your plate. Mouth now full, you continue, “it tastes like my mother’s cooking! It’s great, Beth, really.”

“She can cook,” Katie proclaims proudly, directing her statement at Viv; you think, for a moment, that she is going to list all of her positive qualities. Your eyes narrow and Beth shoots you a look that says ‘later’. “Y/n, can you cook?”

You almost choke on a prawn. “I can make pesto pasta. That’s it.”

Jen’s jaw drops. “You’ve only been eating pesto pasta this season?!” she asks, sounding scared.

“Yes, because I chose a club without Ona.” At Wolfsburg, you didn’t live on your own. Here you do. “I don’t mind. But Beth might have to make this weekly.”

“Absolutely not. This drained me more than any game of football ever could.” Beth motions at everyone to keep on eating, feeling accomplished that the meal is good. “Katie scored twice today.”

“Did you now?” She nods her head very proudly. “I bet I could’ve scored today.”

The laughter turns into silence as you eat contently, something that is broken when Jen goes, “where were you?”

The thought of having to talk about it causes you to grip your fork tighter, earning Beth’s hand on your shoulder. “Some charity event, right?” she replies for you. “Tomàs hosted it.”

“He came from Spain?”

“Yes,” you answer, and the girls hear how badly you don’t want to talk about this.

No one here knows exactly what happened, but when you abruptly transferred from Barcelona to Wolfsburg four years ago, you allegedly haven’t been back to Barcelona for longer than a day. Ona was saying to Beth the other day that with some convincing you can be persuaded to Ibiza (you’re about to be invited to two trips to the Balearic Islands), but anything on the mainland is strictly business — camps, games, the like.

Everyone has their theories, but Katie and Jenny think something happened between you and your brother. It’s not like you didn’t say outright in an interview that you have had a far better career than him despite being younger, yet he’s the one being paid €12 million a year.

“Guess what Ruesha fucking did yesterday,” Katie changes the topic.

Everyone groans.

“No one cares, Katie. Like I couldn’t care less.” Beth bites her lip to not laugh at Jen’s words. “Y/n, what’s happening in your love life? Got a girl, boy, cat?”

Feeling a bit like a deer caught in headlights, you look up from your plate. “I met a girl in a coffee shop in January. She was pretty.” You wonder how her interviews went. “I saw her today, actually. But I don’t date so—”

“You don’t date?” Steph asks, eyes widened a little.

“Yeah, because, like, it’s hard… with football.” They look at you like you’re a dog tearing apart a slipper: so unbelievably unimpressed. “Because it’s time consuming?”

In reality, you don’t date because your ex is the reason you can’t even be in mainland Europe, but they do not have to know that.

“So what’s this girl’s name and how did you go out with her if you were at an event?” Beth asks and it sounds a bit too much like a police interrogation for you to feel comfortable.

You shift your weight in your seat.

“I don’t know. She was just there.”

- - -

It’s the middle of March when you’re back in Notting Hill. With training sessions left, right, and centre, you’d been pretty much confined to St. Alban’s and Beth’s house for social activity. Today is a rare day-off, coincidentally aligning with both Manchester United’s schedule and Manchester City’s. Ona has dragged Leila, Laia, and Vicky down to London to see you.

“I can’t believe we had to come to you,” is the first thing Vicky says when you meet them at Euston.

“Wow, not even a ‘hello’,” you say back. “Come on, we’re going to a market.”

They roll their eyes. All of them. At the same time.

You wonder why you ever missed them.

Laia is the only one interested in Portobello, darting from stall to stall to another, excitedly giving you a rundown on her life while she does. Leila is hungry, and ruthlessly cuts her off.

“We get it. You felt sad for a week. I need coffee, Y/n, take me to a coffee shop.”

“It was more than sad,” Laia protests, but acquiesces to the group’s change of plans.

You lead them to the place you found in January — maybe this time you’ll actually get to try the coffee. But on the way there, Laia finds a mildly creepy clothes shop and manages to herd you inside. She flings clothes at the girls, while glaring at you for flirting with the shop assistant instead of letting the woman do her job and help.

You’re halfway to getting her number when there’s a commotion outside and the mood lighting of the shop is ruined by bright camera flashes.

For a moment, you wonder if they’re for you. People could have thought your brother was here, and the paparazzi love him.

But there’s something familiar about the voice shouting at them to back off; the rasp, the accent. Curiously, you look out of the window.

It’s her.

With brown hair?

Flo catches your eye immediately, and it doesn’t take much thinking for you to dash out of the shop to grab her hand and pull her inside.

The paparazzi have no choice but to crowd around the window, except none of their shots will turn out well once the shop assistant closes the blinds.

“Gracias,” Flo pants, out of breath.

Leila’s eyebrows shoot right up, closely followed by the rest of the girls. “Y/n, that’s Florence Pugh,” she blurts, thankfully in Spanish.

“Y/n?” Flo tries. Now she knows your name and her stomach feels settled with endearance. Your name suits you. “Thank you for saving me. I needed it.”

“I owed you,” comes your reply as you shrug.

“Y/n saves things for a living!” Ona butts in.

(Is she sabotaging you or being your wingwoman?)

There’s a tense silence, of which no one knows what to fill it with, until the shop assistant opens the blinds and informs Flo that the coast is clear. It takes that statement then to be repeated to snap you and Flo out of the mildly creepy eye contact you’re sharing, but once it does she can’t seem to look at you again.

She inhales and resets herself. “Right. I’ll be off. Things to do, people to see.”

“Yes,” you reply, beginning to feel embarrassed in front of your friends’ keen and watchful eyes. “Yes, yeah. Bye.”

“Bye, Y/n.”

With that, you let the woman you’ve been thinking about for months walk away, out of the shop, and down the street. You give yourself an internal kick for lacking the game you know you have in three other languages, but rub it better because now you know her name.

Florence Pugh. Like the actress from that creepy cult film Obi was obsessed with. And the girl from that Marvel movie.

You pause.

“The actress Florence Pugh?” Your question has Leila shoving her Wikipedia in your face. British actress, born in Oxford on 3rd January 1996. Florence Rose Pugh. Maybe you’d heard someone call her Flo before? “Oh, this is the girl I’ve been meaning to tell you about.”

“The girl with no name is Florence fucking Pugh?” Leila shrieks, hands on your shoulders, shaking you. “You know I love Marvel!”

“Sorry,” you chuckle, amused by her overreaction.

Vicky catches your eye, looking like she wants to say something.

Laia does it for her.

“You need to learn how to flirt in English, because that was atrocious.”

You glare at them both. Partly because it’s true.

“The Y/n who fucked four women in a week at the grand old age of eighteen did not just say — no, splutter — ‘yes, yeah, bye’ because she was looking at a pretty girl,” Vicky adds, smugly. “We have finally found the language barrier between Y/n and sex! Round of applause please!”

“Alright, alright,” Ona says, coming to the rescue. “Stop teasing her when she looks like a lovesick puppy.”

Fuck you too, Ona.

“Florence Pugh is practically a stranger.” You look at Leila, “we are not getting married.” You look at Vicky, “she is not being invited to dinner tonight.” You look at Laia, “she will not be upgrading your train tickets to first class.” And finally, you look at Señorita Ona Battle; the woman who has been your closest friend for years. “I am not in love.”

“I’m sure she’s in love too,” Ona says, pushing it.

“But she’s a stranger!”

Your friends are delusional because you’ve been over it in your head millions of times, clinging onto the shreds of interaction, and you can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve met the woman. Florence Pugh can possibly be categorised as a celebrity crush at best. What Ona is talking about is way too serious.

- - -

Flo is certain that Ibiza is a good idea. Or so she tells herself.

And, well, Harris tells her.

He thinks she’s been in a bit of a slump since she and Zach broke up. While Flo can barely talk about it without wanting to cry, she mourns the loss in a very vocal manner to her closest friends. She misses him quite a bit.

Harris allows her a month of moaning before putting his foot down; vetoing Flo not joining them in Ibiza because she is sad. “You’re single, you’re hot, and you’re one of the most sought-after actresses and you don’t want to go on a hot-girl vacation…?” His puzzlement is almost comical when he asks. “It’s for my birthday, babe. You can’t not come.”

Her valid apprehension is quelled with the promise of lots of alcohol and sun, and so this is how she ends up on the Spanish island. Harris calls this a ‘come-back curve’ — when you let loose again after being in a long-term relationship.

It’s fun, really. The beach, the time with friends, the drinking. This is the kind of life she had coveted during her youth; the one most believe comes with the fame. When there aren’t any cameras in her face, she feels at peace with her situation.

(Is this what getting over someone feels like?)

Except for one, tiny problem.

Whenever Will drags them all to a nightclub and pumps her full of vodka, she manages to avoid the gaze of every pair of eyes looking for someone to sleep with. Usually, Flo after ten vodka shots would be on top of someone or on her way out, but the days go by and she can’t help but cockblock herself.

She racks her brains to figure out the cause, the reason, but there is nothing in it apart from the echo of your laughter and the sound of you speaking Spanish. She closes her eyes and she can picture you, clear as day, grinning right back at her. She is not okay with it.

Obviously.

Despite the idea of you throwing her off her game, she is still easily convinced to venture out to nightclubs. Leading her here.

Paraíso.

It’s sticky inside; surfaces, people, floor. And packed. Bodies pressed to other bodies, hair trapped, shouting, screaming, singing.

For an already drunk group of people, it’s perfect.

Crammed into a booth in the heart of the club, Flo and her friends do two rounds of lemon drops, the sugar going everywhere. When her nose scrunches at the bitter taste of the rind, Harris snaps a picture, says he’ll post it later.

Good, she thinks. Maybe you will see her having fun.

If one was to ask, and Flo decided not to lie, it would be revealed that she has spent every night this week making her way through articles about you. Your Instagram didn’t take long to find, nor to scroll through, but it saddens her slightly to discover how little people write about you, and how much they write about your brother.

She is dignified enough to refrain from scouring your Wikipedia page.

Funnily enough, you have been doing the same, though the material to get through is significantly more substantial. Mapi has taken to calling it your ‘bedtime reading’, prompting you to announce very loudly to every guest sitting in your family villa in Ibiza that you own the place.

Well, your dad does. (Same thing though.)

Housed in said villa are Mapi and Ingrid, Ona, Laia, Leila, Patri, and Pina. Beth, Jordan, Leah and a few of their England teammates have come along too, staying in a boutique hotel not far away; about a fifteen minute walk. The groups merged very quickly after a bottle of wine.

As you get further into the holiday, you dive deeper into Florence Pugh’s digital footprint, and everyone else is very over it.

“This obsession isn’t cute,” Patri teases, snatching your phone as you spread out on the sofa. “But Leila wanted me to let you know that Florence Pugh is in Ibiza.” Your heart clenches hard; this could be a heart attack. “Oh, and we’re all going out tonight. England girls and us lot. Ingrid is also banning Spanish in case they think we’re talking about them, Pina broke the shower on the third floor, and Laia has fed that stray cat so much that it is now curled up in her bed.”

You glare.

Many of those things are so unbelievably far from ideal.

Patri raises her hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

In time, you wish you had and that your evening was being wasted away in jail, because this place is loud and busy and it is far from acceptable for you to go back to internet-stalking Florence Pugh around such interesting company.

The England girls have chosen a club called Paraíso, though you wouldn’t have known from the way they pronounced it. Most of them are dancing, but Beth, cheeks flushed from a few vodka sodas, has sat next to you in the booth, looking like she’s about to pour her heart out.

You turn to her. “Go on, then. Tell me about you and Viv.” And she grins like that’s the best thing she’s ever heard, launching you into a timeline of events that have you feeling disappointed in yourself about your situation.

If it all hadn’t been ruined, you could have been able to reciprocate the conversation.

It’s a bit like a knife to the stomach to be reminded of something you don’t have.

Eventually, Beth is finished, eyes shining because she is so happy with her and you are so supportive of it. She cares what you think, and is glad you approve.

“I’m going to get a drink,” you say, deciding there’s not enough alcohol in the world to make you feel better but that you can at least try. Beth nods and finds the others on the dance floor.

The bar is well staffed, and it takes all of two minutes for you to place an order of three Jägerbombs. All for you, but you hesitate to tell the bartender that.

Someone brushes your arm and your stomach drops to the floor.

“Hi,” she says, practically sparkling under the club lighting.

This is why you don’t come home. Fucking hell.

“¿Inglés?” you question, raising an eyebrow. Adela used to hate having to learn the language.

“Vivo en Nueva York en la actualidad.”

Tomàs was right. She doesn’t live in Spain anymore. So why is she here? Why is she in the last slice of your home country you can be persuaded to let loose in? Why does she have to ruin everything?

Though time feels frozen, someone else has placed their hand on your waist. You tense as you turn around, but hope Adela doesn’t see it.

When you realise it’s Florence Pugh, you are very close to running away to Australia in search of complete isolation.

“Hey, babe,” Florence drawls casually. She’s an actress, you remind yourself. Improvisation is a skill she’ll be great at. “You alright?” Her hand squeezes your waist in reassurance.

Flo’s hair is blonde again. It looks nice.

“Yeah,” you breathe, feeling a heat pulse through your body. “Just waiting on some Jägerbombs.”

Flo stands her ground. She wants to wait with you. She doesn’t want to leave you alone with the beautiful woman who’s got you on edge.

Is it wrong to feel protective over a stranger?

(Neither of you feel like such — a consequence of extreme internet-stalking on both ends.)

“¿Tu novia?” Adela asks. You smirk at the flash of jealousy in her eyes. “Pensé que estabas follando a todos a la vista como siempre.”

“No, es mi novia. ¿Tienes un problema con eso?” She shakes her head. “Bueno.”

“Sí.” She looks Flo dead in the eyes. “Adiós.”

The two of you let the silence take over, both aware of how she’s still got her hand on your waist, now with her body pressed up against yours.

“Your ex?” Flo asks, praying it doesn’t sound hopeful. There’s no way you’re not into women, right?

“Yeah,” you answer miserably.

She adjusts herself so that you’re now facing each other, but it only aids you both in feeling a little turned on. Seeing the other looking just as flustered does nothing to quell the possibility of where this night is going.

“Want to get out of here?”

She grins. You take that as a yes.

Her hands are sweaty as they cling to yours, but the club is packed now and she’d get lost if she didn’t hold on. Getting outside is like a rebirth, fresh air washing away the grime and a soft breeze cooling her down. That is until you look at her, biting your bottom lip.

“You can if you want,” she whispers as you sort of back yourselves into the alley beside the building. You place your hands firmly on her waist.

You smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And with that you close the space between you, pressing your lips against hers and a hand against the wall to support you both. She kisses back desperately, opening her mouth, clashing her teeth on yours. Her hands run up your back, wrapping around your neck.

You make out for a while, before she pulls away.

“I’ll call a taxi to my hotel.” She gives you the opportunity to text Ona.

You: no volveré esta noche

You’re about to tell your friend where the spare keys to your villa are, before Flo kisses you again, capturing your attention in order to direct you to the taxi.

From there, it’s a downhill slope of ripped clothing, walking into things, and being fucked into oblivion.

The morning comes brightly, unforgiving of any hangovers.

Her suite is really nice, but is partially destroyed by last night’s storm of a hookup. The sofa cushions litter the living area’s floor when you try to find her.

She is sitting on the sofa, hair wet, lazily watching the TV. As you laugh at the program, she snaps out of her brood.

“Do you understand what they’re saying?” you ask through your giggles. It’s a pretty crass show to have on at 10am.

“No,” she sheepishly replies. Her eyes tear from the screen to focus on you, examining your body from head to toe, resulting in a frown. “I went out and bought you something to wear.” She directs your attention to a shopping bag on the coffee table.

“You didn’t have to.”

“It was nothing, really.”

You pause.

She looks beautiful. You wish you hadn’t been so drunk. Now all this will be is a one-night stand.

“I’ve got to go. I thought I texted my friend where the spare keys were but I didn't, so they've all crashed at our friends’ hotel, and they’re not happy about it.” Flo laughs, recalling giving you enough time to let everyone know of your changed plans. Maybe you were too caught up in staring at her.

“No worries,” she says easily. “I’m headed to breakfast, but feel free to use the bathroom to clean up.”

There’s a stagnant silence.

Neither of you are going to further this interaction. Alright.

It will be fine. She’s less of a stranger now, and no interview could ever inform you on what your name sounds like as she moans it over and over again.

You tell yourself this again as you approach the England girls’ hotel, bar the last bit. (Though it does remind you of the game you once had.)

Everybody is waiting for you in the small restaurant, the group practically filling the space. There are many colourful words, both in Spanish and Catalan, being muttered as you walk in.

It’s fair for them to feel irritated, and you did leave as soon as possible to allow them back in. You probably would have slept in that expensive hotel bed for the rest of the day if Pina’s seventh phone call hadn’t awoken you.

“You are unbelievable,” is the first thing Mapi says, ignoring the questioning looks from the English girls. None of them speak Spanish, though you’ve heard that Lucy is learning. “Where were you? Pina says she saw Adela as soon as we walked in, and was about to go looking for you to get you out of there.”

“Well Pina didn’t do that,” you reply, folding your arms. Clàudia looks away guiltily. “And I spoke to Adela.”

“So you have a run-in with her and you take off? As if the years haven’t made a difference? As if you’re not over her?”

You clench your fists. “No, I was with a girl.”

“Which girl?” Ona excitedly interjects. “Do we know her?”

“Yeah,” you say, but intend to give them nothing else. “I just came back from her hotel. Would you like to get back to the villa or not?”

“Y/n, you’re such a dickhead.”

Beth asks for a translation.

Before you can omit the parts you don’t want her to hear, the whole of the group is made aware of what you got up to last night. Patri skips over the background information about Adela once she catches the way you are looking at her. If looks could kill, she’d be long gone by now.

The conversation evolves naturally into something more general, until everyone is gathering their things and leaving the hotel to walk to your place. With a group of fifteen, the pavement is cramped, meaning Ona and you pull ahead.

She nudges you when you go quiet for a bit.

“So…” Ona begins, smirking. “Tell me about your night.”

“My night was too scandalous for Onita to handle,” you tease, ultimately avoiding the question. Her eyes narrow and she grabs your wrist to stop you from crossing the road. “I’m not going to run away.”

“But you love running away!”

You sigh. “My night was good, Ona. Really good.”

Ona is clever enough to piece together a story in her head. Adela has a way of disrupting the flow of your life, and a certain someone is in town.

“Fucking hell, Y/n. You slept with Florence Pugh?!” she exclaims.

“Keep your voice down,” you say loudly, shaking your head as to not let the others know. “It was a one-time thing. A mistake.”

She studies your expression, realising how your regret was easily confused for sternness earlier. “You wanted it.”

“It’s a celebrity crush!”

“Not if you’ve actually met her. Then it’s just a crush.”

“You’re just a crush,” you retort. Ona bursts out laughing.

“You slept with your crush and it’s a mistake because she thinks it’s a one-night stand.” Your friend shakes her head in disbelief. “Now I remember why we stopped talking about your love life. It’s chaos!”

Technically, it’s because your love life went very dry once you reached Germany, but you laugh along with Ona because she’s right.

Your hushed Spanish is safe from the ears of the others, but when you lay your phone on the kitchen worktop in the villa, Beth notices two Instagram notifications.

@florencepugh has started following you.

And a DM.

+44 7701 923892 xx

Flo throws her phone across the room once she clicks send, and hides under the covers from a cackling huddle of her best friends.

- - -

Somehow, you are persuaded to cancel your flight to Gatwick and follow the girls to Barcelona. Now that Adela herself has told you she isn’t in your home city anymore, maybe you can visit for longer than five hours again.

When you knock on the door of your family home, you’re tackled to the ground by your mother. Though you didn’t go radio silent on them, the only time they really get to see you is when you’re playing a home game for the national team. Even then, it isn’t guaranteed.

“You’re home?” she asks, pinching your arm to see if you’re real. “My baby was driven out of the country by some stupid girl, so is this stupid girl dead or…”

“Mamá!” You frown and step past her to get inside. It smells like your little sister has found out what incense sticks are and burnt them everywhere. “I thought I’d visit before the Euros. I was in Ibiza anyway.”

“I know,” she says matter-of-factly, making your stomach turn with guilt. “Eva showed me how to work the Instagram.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise you checked.”

She smiles softly and it feels like everything you have been missing has always been here.

“Of course I check to see what you’re up to. Wherever you are. Especially since you stopped calling as much.” You shake your head as if it will make it better. You’ve been busy in a new country. You assumed having Eva and Tomàs was enough to keep her hands full. She seems to read your mind. “While your brother and sister are a lot, I’ve missed you.”

You’re suddenly fighting back tears.

“I’ve missed you too, Mamá.”

She pulls you into a calmer, firmer hug. The moment is ruined when Eva comes charging down the stairs, screaming at the sight of you.

The last time you saw her in person was when the Barça academy took her team on tour to Germany last year, but she’s acting as if you’ve come back from the dead.

She alerts the attention of everyone else in the house, meaning your grandma and dad flock to the kitchen, dropping whatever they’re doing. You can hardly blame them. You must have become a myth.

Plans are quickly made to go out to the usual spot for dinner with Tomàs and his family. Your older brother has a wife and three children that you never actually see. You haven’t met his youngest because he was born just before the pandemic started (as if you’d have visited anyway).

With that, you are integrated back into your old life.

You dust off your motorbike from the garage and go on rides through your city, watching the sunset from the rooftop of your friend’s old apartment building with Eva. She tells you about how her football is going; how everyone thinks it’s odd she plays neither in goal nor as a striker.

Growing up, you were forced to save Tomàs’ incessant (but increasingly more accurate) shots, meaning you’d had a fair amount of goalkeeping experience by the time your dad put you onto the football team he coached. You played what you knew. Tomàs hated being on the same team as you, but it didn’t last long when you were scouted and put in Barça’s academy. He followed soon after.

Eva, however, decided to stay away from her older brother and sister’s constant practice. She ended up on your dad’s football team too, scouted again by Barça, her name written down like you and Tomàs had done before her. At seventeen, she might be on track to be signing for the senior team next season. You promise to get the girls round and introduce her to them.

In turn, you tell your sister about the woman you keep on running into. How her eyes looked more grey in January than they did in May. How she makes you nervous, makes you forget how to do things. How you slept together five days before you arrived home.

You have her number, and you show your little sister. She begs you to call it, but you quietly admit you’re scared. She leaves you to move at your own pace, even if she finds it painfully slow.

As the days go by, you become Eva’s chauffeur. She finds it exciting to be driven about on your motorbike, and you have nothing to do but wait for the final Euros squads to be announced.

Your little sister often has places to be. Today it’s The Museu Picasso. Apparently, she’s ‘cultured’ and ‘sophisticated’ and will be getting high as a kite before entry. Makes the experience better.

As you weave through taxis and try not to run over any tourists, a certain blonde catches your eye. She sits dejectedly on a bench with her phone held loosely in her hand. You pull over without a second thought.

“Lost?” you tease, taking off your helmet. Florence startles and almost drops her phone, before coming to her senses and recognising you.

“Very,” she sighs. “My driver cancelled and I’m stranded.”

“Need a ride? She’s getting off here anyway.” You nod to Eva, who is looking affronted by the suggestion of that.

“Jo sóc?”

“Sí, Eva.” She stares at you blankly. “Baixes de la puta moto.”

“Ah. Aquesta és ella.”

You hum in confirmation. “Ara aneu a escampar la boira.”

Flo watches the conversation trying not to blush. The Catalan might be sexier than the Spanish.

After a second of rebellion, Eva gives in and gets off the bike, thrusting her helmet into your stomach bitterly. The museum really isn’t far away — about a ten minute walk — but it’s the principle. What happened to sisterhood?

You get off as well, unsure of whether Flo knows how to get on. She does, thankfully, meaning you don’t have to fumble your way through that. Dodged a bullet there.

At first she keeps her arms loosely wrapped around you, awkwardly holding on. When you speed up, she squeezes you tighter. If she hadn’t squeezed tighter and pulled you out of thought, you’d have been pancaked by an oncoming lorry (they’re memories — it makes it worse).

“Where am I taking you?” you ask, shouting to be heard.

“Coffee!” she replies, amusement audible. “There’s this woman I like who owes me one!”

You pretend you didn’t hear her second sentence, focusing on the road in front of you instead.

Florence relaxes quickly, enjoying the way the people change from tourists to locals; the buildings become more homely and less commercial. Barcelona is beautiful. Your eyes are brighter than when she last looked in them.

The coffee shop you take her to is the one you’ve been going to for years, though the colour scheme has changed from blue to red since the last time you came. The staff are fresh-faced and young, but the manager pulls you into a hug immediately. Flo hangs back, feeling like an elephant among the mice. She doesn’t understand what you say, and takes a minute to realise you want to know her order. Even then, she’s uncomfortable with reading anything off the menu and shrugs.

The manager, Pablo, is the son of the owner, and has worked here longer than you’ve been alive. When you first sat down for a coffee fifteen years ago, exhausted from a 10k run, he gave you a free biscuit on the side. You’ve been close ever since.

Naturally he asks who Flo is. Why is she here?

You can only shrug, say she’s a friend, and deal with his unconvinced expression.

Sitting opposite her on a wobbly table starts the first conversation you have intentionally had. One not tainted by alcohol or put in place to distract from an unwanted discussion. It’s now not a failsafe or emergency, but something you want to happen. It’s weird.

“Thank you,” she says earnestly. “I was a lot more panicked than I looked.”

You laugh. “You looked pretty panicked.”

“New city. Haven’t had a chance to get my bearings.” You wonder why she’s here. What do actresses do for fun? Would Florence go to a museum? “My flight got in yesterday, so it’s really new.”

“This is where I grew up.” She figured as such.

“I went to one of your games, you know,” she blurts. “The last one of the season. My friend was looking to invest, and I only put the pieces together once I saw you from the stands.”

“So you don’t know who Tomàs is?” She shakes her head and you look at her with horror. “Do you not like football?” you ask, eyes wide.

“Do you like musicals?”

“Touché.”

The corners of her lips twitch upwards into a smile. “French as well?”

“My talents don’t extend that far.” Innuendo settles in your words. Oh, she knows exactly where your talents lie. “In Ibiza…”

“Who was she?”

“An ex-girlfriend.” She raises her eyebrows. “The ex-girlfriend.”

“We all have one of those,” Flo says with a sly smile. “Mine got me kicked out of the school choir when I was fifteen. Yours?”

Your leg shakes anxiously. There is something so incredibly unfair about having to feel so horrible every time she’s brought up. As if she feels the same way. Your life was the one that was obliterated; the collateral damage.

Flo listens carefully when you talk about signing for Barça’s senior team and moving out. About the lifestyle you adopted from your brother; the parties and the drinking and the constant meaningless sex. And then, when you tell her that Adela seemed so mature, that she had her own place that was quiet, she actually understands. Zach felt like that. An example, a teacher. Someone who was safe and quiet and knew what they were doing.

You would sit quietly in Adela’s little flat while she did her work for her law degree, unwinding and relaxing. She’d stroke your hair and do yoga with you after rough games.

But Adela got tired of it. She was sick of always coming home to either an empty flat or you being exhausted, and she couldn’t handle how much she had to put her own life on hold because of your football. She had been offered a training contract at a big American law firm’s Spanish branch, which would require her to move to Madrid and work like a dog.

She said you were holding her back.

It was the most heartbreaking thing you ever had to do, because she gave you a choice: her or football. And you chose football. But you loved her a lot, and her leaving was like losing your favourite teddy. You became stuck in a dark place; you couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Barça became concerned by your playing standard and you were replaced by another keeper. When the transfer window came, you ran off to Germany without so much as a goodbye to Barcelona and hoped to never have to run into Adela again.

“Good thing she now thinks you’ve got a super sexy, hot, famous new girlfriend,” Flo jokes when you finish, attempting to diffuse the tension.

It only adds to it.

“Did Ibiza mean anything to you?” you ask quietly, nervously. She catches your eyes and holds them, trying to make you feel better. Safer. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you for months,” she confesses, almost a whisper. “Before I even knew your name.”

“I should have called.”

“No, it’s okay. That was very bold of me.” She took a shot before sending it. “I’m not in Barcelona very long, but I have a hotel room and my hotel room has wine. And a—”

“Do we need a bed?” Your wink makes her cross her legs. “First, let me introduce myself, yeah? So we’re not strangers.” She nods. “I’m Y/n, and I saw you in that overpriced coffee shop in Notting Hill.” Pablo pretends to not be listening.

“Hola,” she tries valiantly. “Soy Florence. Call me Flo. Um, that’s the extent of my Spanish.”

“It was good,” you lie. She hits your arm lightly. “No, really! I’m sure you’ll learn some.”

“Oh, I did.” Her smirk is unsettling. “Dámelo más duro,” she moans, imitating you.

Your blush makes your face feel like it is on fire.

“We have got to leave this place right now, oh my god.” She gladly stands. You hand Pablo €20 because you’re not focused on how much money this will cost you. “You’ve got to never do that again. Especially not on the motorcycle. I’ll crash.”

“Yeah, I noticed how you nearly killed us earlier.” You don’t get to make a witty comeback, because she firmly plants her hands on your waist and kisses you hard.

Your heart soars.

- - -

It has taken six months for you and the mystery blonde woman to go on a date, but it’s perfect. You eat out at an Italian place, followed by a different kind of eating out later into the night.

On the 15th June the national team for the Euros is confirmed, she is at your family home, halfway through helping your mother to prepare lunch. The whole family swarm the kitchen to congratulate you on being the first choice of goalkeeper. They couldn’t be prouder.

When you kiss her in front of most of the crowd at the last game of the group stages, she has to wipe away your tears. While everyone else appreciates the effort of your clean sheet, your teammates are thankful you’ve found someone. They knew you seemed different the whole tournament.

Obviously, the quarter-finals are conflicting for Flo. She dons an England shirt, but while her friends seek out their Lionesses afterwards (famous people always think sports teams want to see them), she searches for you instead. You sob into her embrace and she knows how stressful the tournament has been for the whole squad. She supports you fully when you and fifteen other Spanish players email the Football Federation with complaints of the manager.

In September, she’s thrown into the middle of the current hottest scandal in Hollywood. You’re there for her to rant to, scream at, and talk with — even if most of the time it’s over the phone. She misses you the most when you’re away for matches, so for her to be filming in Budapest takes a toll.

Flo tells you that she loves you when you pick her up from Heathrow terminal three, something your little sister goes feral over (another Hugh Grant romcom, apparently).

You say it back without hesitating.

You say it over and over again until it’s your most commonly said phrase. The girls tease you for being obvious about when you get laid, because you can’t keep the smile off your face the next day. In truth, you grin anytime you see her.

Christmas and New Year’s with the Pughs makes you love her more, and you reflect on how far you’ve come since January. How she once didn’t know your name, but now can sort out your bills if you asked. Florence Rose Pugh means more than a Wikipedia page because you say it when you propose, and she manages to say yes in Spanish through her tears. It makes the 29th December a special day forever, and it’s still too cold in England for your liking but it’s an excuse to bury yourselves in blankets that night. And for all the nights to come.

She’s no longer a stranger but she has always been so much more than that anyway.

tags: @pewpughpew @ridleypugh @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take @delfiore @yelenabelovasbxtch @xsophiesx @slut4milfs69 @sunshadesnrainbowz @karsonromanoff

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This time is different

Found a new obsession as I'm taking a short break from DC fanfiction. Discretion is advised as this fic is steamy af 😉

Diego Sechi x female reader

You had rotten luck with men lately. Since your shitty ex left you high a dry 4 years ago, not a complete lose as your little boy, Oliver, is a complete angel.

You worked your way up the ladder in the entertainment industry, mostly behind the scenes. But every opportunity that came knocking, you took it.

It was 6 weeks of working away from home and in Central London with high end models. Thinking they were better than you cause they were skinny, flat stomachs, salad eating bitches. You had no idea what to expect, but you missed Oliver like crazy. Your best friend, Alison, was looking after him.

You were just heading from King's Cross to st Alban's when you got a video call from Alison.

'Hey' you said answering with a bright smile,

'Little chap wants to say goodnight' Alison said as Oliver's face appeared on screen.

'Hey little angel' you said smiling at him,

'Mummy I miss you' he said, 'when will be home?'.

'Not long Ollie, few more weeks. Auntie Ali looking after you ok? I love you' you said, Oliver blew kisses at the screen.

'I love you too mummy' he said, though he was only 4, he was light years ahead with intelligence.

...

2 weeks you'd been here and you were getting homesick so badly. You just wanted to cry, didn't help that the woman staying in the room next to yours in the hotel was wheeling her son around. Made you homesick 2000 times more.

You weren't paying attention to where you were going obviously, that's when you bumped into this guy. Knocking his books out of his arms.

'I'm sorry' you squealed as the books sent a thud to the floor,

'That's ok, I wasn't looking where I was going' the stranger said as he picked them up. He stood up, pushing his glasses up his face and smiled shyly at you.

'I wasn't looking either, was just...nevermind, sorry again. I'm y/n' you smiled, holding out your hand. The man smiled and took your hand and shook it.

'Diego' he said, he was tall, blonde, strong jaw and from what you could see through his jumper. Quite muscular.

'What book is that?' You ask, pointing to the top one.

'The theory of quantum physics and string theory. And how they are connected' Diego replied. Damn, hot nerd alert.

'Most I read up on is how the heroic mouse saved Christmas' you chuckled, Diego gave you a confused look. 'I have a four year old son' you said.

'I see, well, must be hard to be away from him' Diego said, you looked at him.

'How did you know that?' You asked, Diego shrugged.

'Seen you before, never a kid though. Just assumed'.

'Well, you are correct. And yes it's very hard to be away from him. But he's in good hands' you replied.

'His dad' Diego shot back, you winced a little.

'No actually, my friend Alison. His dad left shortly before I gave birth. Haven't seen or heard from him since' you explained. Diego gasped a little.

'Sorry, I assumed again' you waved him off.

'No problem, happens all the time. By the way, what is your accent?' You ask, Diego laughs a little.

'Italian' he replies. Even bloody hotter you thought to yourself.

'Well, I better get to this studio if I want to keep my job. Which I do' you chuckle a little as Diego steps aside for you to leave.

'See you around' he calls out.

...

Models everywhere with next to nothing on getting interviewed, most of them dumb as shit, some extra dumb. Mostly just pretty people with 0% personality. You were doing up reports and statuses when a man's voice creeps up from behind you.

'Completely intolerable aren't they?' You jump and turn around, to find a hot blonde in nothing but swimming trunks.

'Kind of' you reply shy, the model starts laughing which confuses you.

'Y/n, it's me' he says, wait...Italian accent. 'It's Diego'.

'Holy shit you look...different' you exclaim. Diego laughs more as you turn red.

'Sorry I can't help it. I knew you didn't recognise me. The glasses and jumper' Diego said as he stifled laughter.

'Actually the fact you were wearing clothes was what threw me off' you say folding your arms.

'Ok ok, was wondering what you're doing after this' Diego asked you seriously. You looked at him shocked,

'Nothing really, why?' You asked.

'There's this lovely Italian restaurant not far from here, when I feel homesick I go there. Food is close enough to home. Want to go?' He asks you. The fact he was on full display with only trunks on made you flustered. And let's be honest, you wouldn't say no.

'I would love to' you smile, Diego does a little dance of joy.

'Awesome, I'll grab you from your room. Have to get clothes on' Diego says with a wink.

...

As promised, Diego came to get you and took you out to dinner. You got to ride in his sports car. Drink wine on a balcony under the sunset, plus the fact that Diego was talking to the waiters in Italian made it even more romantic. They say French is the language of love, but Italian is definitely up there.

Diego took you back to your room like a true gentleman.

'Want to come in for coffee?' You asked, Diego went shy and nodded.

'I'd love to' he almost whispered. As you walked in with him behind you, you took a breath. It had been 4 years since you had touched a man.

'Can I ask you a question?' You asked as you handed Diego his coffee while he sat at the little table and chairs, he nodded. 'Why are you a model? I mean, you're smart, like really smart' you said, Diego smiled.

'I started this to pay for my tuition, like how some people become waiters or strippers to pay for college. I grew up in a small town in Sicily, so I'm not from a wealthy family. I always loved science as a kid, so this is temporary' you briefly touched Diego's hand as you grabbed your mug.

'I get that, you are fitting for the role. But, you seem different to everyone else' you said as you sipped your coffee.

'You mean I'm not stuck up, in love with myself or thick as shit' Diego chuckles, you nod. 'Yeah, that's why I don't date models, they're too much into themselves as models and not as women'.

'I also get that, Oliver's dad was a fitness instructor. So all he cared about was being the biggest guy in the room'.

'Was he as big as me?' Diego asked you as he slid his chair round the table closer to you.

'No, smaller' you smiled, Diego leant into you closer.

'Can I steal a kiss?' Diego whispered, you leant in as to say yes. Diego closed the gap between the two of you and kissed you hard. You were so lost in the moment until a thought crossed your mind, you pulled away to look at Diego.

'Me having a son doesn't bother you?' You asked sincere, every guy you tried to date would leave after the first or second date. Because you have a kid.

'Should it?' He asked you, you smiled and grabbed his face. Pulling him in and kissing him again.

Diego picked you up and carried you over to the bed, throwing you down and kissing you more. On your jaw line, neck and chest.

'Don't stop' you whispered, you didn't realise how long it had been since you had been with someone. Too long.

'Only when you tell me to' Diego whispers back, Diego removes his clothes, then he removes yours.

'Wait' you say as you leant up and rubbed Diego's abs, which makes him laugh deeply, throwing his head back.

...

Lying in bed, the two of you have kissed for a while now. You were aching for him, he was aching for some release.

'You ready?' Diego asked as he hovered over you, you bit your lip as you nodded.

Diego slid his manhood into you slowly, allowing you to adjust to his size. Then as you breathed, Diego began to thrust slowly into you.

'Uh' you moaned out in delight...finally some release from something other than a vibrators or your fingers.

Diego bit your neck and collar bone as his thrusts got deeper and harder. You were a writhing mess underneath him. Diego grunted with each thrust, kissing you again as he placed one hand on your thigh and the other on your hip.

'Switch over' Diego said as he rolled over and pulled you up, you now on top of him.

You slid back down onto his piece as you began to get a rhythm. Diego smiled at you as your rhythm got faster. Diego pounded into you from below.

'Fuck, y/n I'm close' Diego breathed out, you kept going finding your spot, you found it quick from your angle and sped up, going harder too.

'Me too' you breathed, Diego leant up and kissed at your tits as you grabbed onto his shoulders.

'Fuck' Diego said as he slammed back down, cumming into you. You following suit as you rolled your hips out, enjoying the last of your high.

You collapsed next to Diego smiling as he kissed your head, rubbing circles on your shoulder.

'Been a while since I've done that, almost forgot how good it can be' you whispered, Diego kissed you again.

'Will you be mine?' He asked you, you looked shocked and bit your lip again.

'Are you sure?' You asked, Diego smiled and nodded.

'Of course' you smiled and buried your face into Diego's chest. 'I also can't wait to meet Oliver' Diego said which got your attention.

This is it, this time is different, different to the rest. He's not running, he's staying. Staying with you, always.

[secret-blacklight-domain777]

Ralph Chubb, The Golden City.

Ralph Chubb, The Golden City. (Posthumously published, 1961, in an edition of 18).

Current selling price £3,000+

Ralph Chubb (1892 - 1960) has been called a modern day William Blake, partly because most of his books were exquisitely hand printed in tiny editions, some of which were hand coloured by the artist, and partly because he is seen as an anti-science, visionary Utopian whose principal theme was the redemption of Albion. Unlike Blake, he was a solipsist who placed himself at the centre of a mythology in which golden lads in their teens, cavort through endless sunny afternoons in an earthly paradise of prepubescent innocence. While Chubb’s Uranian verse drew inspiration from people like Walt Whitman, his paintings, many of which are now in public collections, suggest that the painter of naked youth, Henry Scott Tuke, was also an influence.

Chubb is a genuine maverick ---an isolated figure in twentieth century English art, but there is a strong demand for his best work from a devoted, even fanatical, following. An early book, The Sun Spirit, is currently available at $7,500. One avid collector, the Oscar-winning, swinging sixties cinematographer, David Watkin ( The Knack, Help, The Bed Sitting Room ),who died in 2008, owned a number of Chubb titles.

One of the few interesting people to have been born in Harpenden, Chubb moved from the town to nearby St Albans while still a baby and became a pupil (Stephen Hawkin was a later product ), at St Albans School before going up to Selwyn College, Cambridge in 1910. At the outbreak of war he served as an officer with distinction, before being invalided out. In 1919 the army, it would seem, paid for him to attend the Slade School of Art, where he met the print-maker Leon Underwood. His family, who by then were living in Curridge, Berkshire, encouraged him to exhibit his paintings, built a press for him, and a sister helped him get a job as an art teacher in a local school.

Throughout the twenties Chubb produced a string of publications, three of which were commercially printed. One of these, The Book of God’s Madness, explored Manichean ideas reminiscent of Blake. Towards the end of the decade Chubb’s Uranian activities, both in Hampshire and in London, caused a scandal in his village and he was forced to resign from his teaching post. He and his family moved and made their new home at Fair Oak Cottage, among the woods near Ashford Hill, east of Kingsclere. In 1929 Chubb was emboldened to publish his sexual manifesto, An Appendix, using a crude duplicating machine. Soon afterwards he acquired a lithographic press, which he continued using until his death. Like Blake before him, he was now able to integrate drawings and text and publish his controversial work without fear of editorial interference.

Partly because of the Uranian content of these publications, partly because the editions were so miniscule, Chubb has never been regarded as a ‘ fine printer ‘ in the tradition of the Doves Press, Gregynog, and the rest, but was seen more of a visionary and polemicist who happened to work in this exclusive field. His refusal to curb his sexual politics meant that he lived in poverty for most of his working life. His books were hardly money-spinners and his paintings, though praised, lacked the appeal of those by Henry Scott Tuke, and did not sell. Working in his shed studio on the edge of Benskins Wood, haunted by an idyllic childhood and becoming more paranoiac by the year, he ploughed a lonely furrow in the immediate post-war world. During his final years he donated many of his books to the national libraries of the UK.

Chubb may have seen his final project, The Golden City, which contains some of his most engaging poetry, as a possible commercial success, and therefore kept its boy-love content to the minimum. Unfortunately, he did not live to see it finished. At his death in 1960 only the graphic element of the book had been completed, and it was left to his devoted sister Muriel to engage a professional lithographer to complete the printing of the title page, table of contents and colophon. The edition of only 18 copies were then bound by Sangorski and Sutcliffe and dispersed to various interested parties. Today, only five copies are known to exist outside public collections, and these are the uncoloured ones. In fact, The Golden City is so rare that one international dealer in the genre has confessed to never having seen a copy. Other dealers only know it as a legendary ultra-rarity. In the years that followed her brother’s death Muriel also managed to get two other, far less ambitious projects published. The Day of St Alban appeared in 1965 and this was followed by Autumn Leaves (1970). Both are more common, but less sought after than his magnum opus. Perhaps, however, they may be good bets as investments. [R. M. Healey]

Many thanks Robin. Always great to find a Chubb but sadly such finds are infrequent. Last one seen was bound in corduroy, seldom used in binding - there is not even a limited edition of Adrian Bell's 1930 book 'Corduroy' thus bound. The photo of Chubb is enigmatic - does he look bashful or haunted or possibly burning with Pater's 'hard gem-like flame'? There is a definite resemblance to the young Gene Wilder. Are they related?

[softspaceboibrian]

Journeys End in Lovers Meeting (Chapter 1)

Pairing: Professor!Gwilym Lee x student!reader

Summary: Reader is a new student at Harvard University and, on her first day, she does something she might regret. Or maybe not.

Warnings: swearing

Wc: 2044

A/N: hey, guys, so, I've been working on this fic for a while now and I just decided to post it. please, let me know what you think! if you have suggestions or would like to be tagged in future chapters, let me know!

Other chapters: 2 - 3 - 4 - 5

Finding the class for the first lesson of the day was definitely not easy. It was your first day there, in the new University, and you got lost at least three times. Luckily, people where kind, maybe due to you foreign accent, or maybe for other reasons, who knew.

“Professor Lee? Oh, I see, you chose your courses carefully” told you your roommate the night before. Her name was Rose, charismatic, easy-going, determined, humorous, dark skin, black eyes, a little thick, but so confident that people didn’t even notice it. On the other hand, you was clumsy, introverted, anxious, quiet, shy, always so conscious about your aspect: the exact opposite.

“What do you mean by that?” you asked, confused by your friend’s statement.

“Well, you know, I have a few friends that followed his lessons and, apparently, he’s a really charming man. Many students fall for his looks” she explained, looking at you, sitting right across from you at your kitchen’s table. “but that is not the case for you. I mean, I’ve known you for only a couple months now, but I’ve got to know you pretty well and I can tell you’re not the kind of person that falls for a man just because he’s sexy.” That last comment made you blush.

In the end, after running from one side of the campus to the other because you had definitely entered the wrong building and turned in the wrong corridor, you found the classroom. And, as Rose warned you, the first two rows where already filled with girls wearing the most scandalous tops, bright red lipsticks, big lashes. With your simple jeans and old, oversized sweater, you walked to the side of the room, sitting alone with your notebook already opened in front of you. It was only a few minutes later when a tall, really tall guy walked in, making every girl in the front rows sigh in appreciation. So, that’s the professor, you thought to yourself. Isn’t he a little too young to be teaching at Harvard? For some strange reason you were expecting an old man with grey hair, old clothes and wrinkly hands, not someone like that.

A few minutes later the lesson started and, well, it was going great, until Mister Lee, that poor man, made that little mistake. And you, obviously, being the meticulous person you were, could not manage to keep your mouth shut: you had to correct him. The professor. On your first day of University. Great. Just great.

Actually,” You said without even waiting for him to give you permission to talk. When King Henry VI succeeded his father and became King of England, he was only nine months old, not ten. It was 1422.” You kept rambling on, everyone’s eyes, professor’s included, were on you. “And it was May 22nd of 1455 the day Richard of York marched against King Henry at St. Albans.” You didn’t mean to be impolite or anything, you just wanted to be precise. But the silence that followed was embarrassing to say the least. For the both of you.

“And you are?” asked the man, crossing his arms in front of his chest, a subtle smirk forming on his lips.

“Ehm... fuck” You whispered to yourself, before tell the man your name. The man kept his gaze on you for a little longer, before going back to his lesson. Yep, that was embarrassing.

Finally, the lesson was over. Not that it wasn’t interesting. On the contrary, it was probably the most interesting lesson you had ever attended, but having the professor gazing at you constantly was, well, awkward.

As soon as you were free to go, you collected your things, stuffing them in your bag as quickly as possible, hoping the professor would leave in the meantime. Obviously, he didn’t. So you quickly checked at the back of the room for a secondary exit, a door, a safe way to get out of there. But, sadly, there was only one way out and the professor was right next to it. He was still sitting at his desk, writing something on some papers. Good, you thought, that’s my chance to run out of here. If I do it quickly enough, he won’t see me. Well, you obviously didn’t think this through well enough.

“Miss” the professor called out your name right before you could step outside of the classroom. “May I have a word with you, alone? Maybe in my office?” Failure. The plan was a failure.

“I suppose” you murmured, adjusting your sweater and lowering your eyes, still too embarrassed to look at him.

“Don’t worry, it won’t take long.” He smiled, walking out of the room, making sure she was following him. They had to walk for about five minutes before arriving at his office, which wasn’t a lot given how much she had to walk that morning to reach the classroom, but it definitely seemed a lot more since they walked side by side, in silence, with the eyes of hundreds of students on them through the entire building. “So, you’re not from around here” he said while closing the door of the office behind you.

“Well, yes” Your voice was so soft that the words almost came out as a whisper. “But neither are you” What was he? Welsh? Yes, he definitely sounded Welsh.

Professor Lee grinned, apparently ignoring your comment, and walking over to his desk to lay his books on it, before turning around to face you. You were visibly scared, you were fidgeting with your necklace, eyes low on the carpet, as if you found more interesting the pattern of it rather than everything else. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to get scold off or anything for what you did” His voice was comforting, a gentle smile formed on his lips. “I was just curious. You seem to know a lot more about English literature than most of my students, even the older ones. Why didn’t you choose an advanced course? It would have probably been more interesting or fitted for a girl like you.” A girl like you? What kind of girl did he think you were? “Please, don’t tell me you’re one of those students that follow my classes just because they think I’m somewhat handsome.”

“No! Absolutely not!” You jumped up, finally looking at him. “Wait, no, I didn’t want to say that you are not… I mean, you are… But… oh, fuck…” You ended up murmuring to yourself, sitting on a chair and putting your hands in your hair. You were messing up big time, that’s for sure.

All you could hear afterwards was the professor trying hard not to laugh. “Don’t worry, I get it. You didn’t choose this course because of me.” He giggled. “And I’m kind of relieved to hear that”

“I didn’t even know what you looked like before you walked inside the classroom.” You smiled at the man, brushing your hair out of your face, tucking the strands behind your ear.

“Well, that’s good because, otherwise, it would have been weird for us to work together if you had a crush on me, since I asked you if we could talk so that I could offer you the position of teacher assistant. My assistant.”

Those words came as a surprise to you. It was your first day there and a professor was already offering you the role of his assistant. “Wow…” That was the only thing you managed to say. What should one say?

“You obviously don’t have to answer me right away”

“I accept” you interrupted him, leaving him speechless, in a positive way. He saw something in you, something interesting. “I only have one question: precisely, what does an assistant do?”

“Don’t worry” He smiled. “It won’t be anything too hard or demanding. You will meet me here in my office every morning before the beginning of the lessons. You will have to skip some of your other classes if your assistance is required, but don’t worry, you will be excused from them. You will have like a special permit.” He winked, making you laugh. It was the kind of laugh that echoes in a room, contagious, the kind of laugh that most people would try to hide, but you didn’t. And he liked it.

“That is fine by me. My only problem is that I share my car with my flat mate. Well, actually the car’s hers and she uses it every morning to go to work, which is on the other side of town. So, hopefully, if the bus isn’t running late, I will be able to get here half an hour before the beginning of classes. If not, I will get here only ten minutes before the bell rings and I really hope that is not a problem for you, Professor Lee.” You quickly explained.

“Call me Gwilym.” He smiled” We’re going to work together, after all.” He was sitting on his desk, the blazer, being the perfect fit, was tight enough around his arms to enhance his built. “Anyway, that is definitely not a problem. I could give you my number and, if you need anything, you’re running late or something else, you could just send me a message.”

You nodded, a little smile making its way on your face, your cheeks turning slightly pinkish, given that you had found yourself staring at him for a bit too long. But he didn’t seem to notice, or at least, he didn’t seem to mind. You spent the rest of the time laughing, talking about why you chose that University and those courses and why he decided to become an English literature professor, getting to know each other. The next time you checked the time, it was time for you to go home. “If you don’t have anything for me to do today, I think I should probably get going. There’s a bus coming in 10 minutes, and if I miss it, I will have to wait at least 40 minutes before another one comes.”

“Sure, you can go.” Said the man while brushing his dark brown hair out of his face, before standing up and picking up his stuff. “I should go home myself.” He smiled, walking beside you outside the office. “I guess I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

You nodded, adjusting your messenger bag on your shoulder, smiling one last time towards the man, with a soft “Bye, Professor Lee”, before turning around and starting to walk towards your destination.

Well, as everyone surely knows, Murphy’s Law says that, in any field of endeavour, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong: that was exactly what happened that afternoon. First of all, the bus you had to take changed the route because of an accident, so it wasn’t going to stop in front of your building, meaning that, if you wanted to take that one, you had to run to the other side of the campus, which would have taken you at least twenty minutes. Secondly, that morning you must have forgotten your keys at home because you couldn’t find them anywhere inside your bag. Furthermore, you didn’t have enough money to get a cab and your flatmate was still working, so she couldn’t come and pick you up. Last but not least, it began to rain. And, guess what, you didn’t have an umbrella. Why would you? That morning the sky was so clear that you almost thought it was still the middle of summer. But no.

At that point, you decided to start walking, you would find a café or a bookshop, go inside and wait for Rose to finish working, so she could come and pick you up. That sounded like a great plan, but something happened. You had been walking for only a couple minutes, when a shiny black Audi Q5 pulled up in the side of the road, right next to you. Accustomed to hearing all these sad stories about girls being picked up on the side of the road by strangers and then their corpse being found somewhere outside town a few weeks afterwards, you immediately started walking faster, fearing that something similar might happen to you too. What surprised you was to hear a familiar voice call out for your name. You stopped and looked inside the car: Professor Gwilym Lee.

[jflashandclash]

Traitors of Olympus IV: Fall of the Sun

Forty-Eight: Calex

A Punch of Home

              After Calex shot Python with a split arrow of desire and abhorrence, he figured he would die the most respectable way for a hero: falling flat on his face off a two story shield, screaming swears that would make his hooligan cousin blush.

           All he could remember from the fall was thinking about how dumb it had been to stand on the edge without any sort of net or rope. Then the world had gone white.

           When he first heard voices, especially considering what they were talking about, he thought he was dreaming.

“Wait, are you dating Anubis or Walt? Are you dating two guys?”

           After months in the states, he had finally become accustomed to waking in an unfamiliar surrounding with foreign accents. That’s why he was so surprised when he heard a crisp British accent responding, “No. And yes? Anubis is inside Walt’s head.”

           “And babe, I thought I had problems.”

           Calex’s body felt heavy, like he’d run a marathon while giving Frank Zhang a piggyback ride. The room smelled sterile, like he was back in his mother’s clinic. Someone had a hand clutching his tightly.

           That’s when it hit him: this was the first time in months he’d woken so calmly. No nightmares. No panic.

           The British voice continued, “Oh, us special pharaoh children have all lost our minds, what with the voices of gods in our heads.  Some people say it’s because of the incest in our lineage.”

           Calex really wanted out of this chat. He tried to roll onto his back and only managed a grunt.

           “I think the teddy bear is up,” someone hummed beside him. The grip on his hand loosened. He could hear water splashing into a container. The familiar scent of black tea gave him the strength to blurrily open his eyes.

           Merry smiled down at him. When she leaned forward to inspect him, the scent of her shampoo mixed with the bitterness of the tea: something sweet and raspberry. The sunlight trickling through a window made the auburn in her hair more prominent and her honey skin glow. She wore a clean Camp Half-Blood T-shirt.

           Her face had deep bruises. Two pieces of medical tape were stretched across her cheek.

           She waved a cup of tea under his nose, like a wake-up elixir. Her smile was playful, but didn’t stretch as far as it normally did.

           “Merry,” his words came out as a croak. He tried to smile back, and found half his face hurt to move. “How did I deserve to end up in Elysium?”

           “Wow there, Teddy Bear. No Elysium for you yet.” She set the tea cup down to squeeze his hand again. His gut wretched to recognize the extent of her bruises. “Just setting a world record on making an anti-worrier worry. You’ve been asleep for roughly twenty hours.”

           Twenty hours? Calex’s eyes widened. He glanced around the room. He was on the floor, in a sleeping bag. Merry knelt beside him. On Merry’s other side, someone else was tucked into a sleeping bag with strawberry blonde hair spilling across the pillow.

           Calex breathed in relief to recognize Kally.

           The IV stand beside her made his stomach twist further.

           On Kally’s other side, someone was burrowed in a ball in their sleeping bag—presumably Pax. Last in the corner was a sickeningly pale figure with wires sticking out of its mouth, like a Frankenstein contraption. Another IV stand loomed there, making Calex think about Kakata.

There was a chair at the foot of that sleeping bag. A disgruntled middle-aged man sat in it, reading a book with a pistol in his lap. Dr. Howard Claymore didn’t look up once as he turned the page.

           Before Calex could roll to look at the other side of the room, someone appeared beside Merry and smacked him across the face.

           Calex made a muffled sound. Getting assaulted first thing when you wake up was unpleasant. Maybe worse, Calex felt the skin on his forehead crack. A scab he didn’t know he had busted.

           “You, Calex Rupin McKenzie, are the thickest bloke I’ve EVER met!” a tiny blonde with pink streaks in her hair exploded at him.

           Calex wanted to give her a proper greeting of, “How do you do? Please piss off,” but he was stumped with the strange sense that he knew this girl.

           Merry wasn’t reacting like the girl was a threat. She looked more amused as she moved out of the girl’s way.

           The name popped into his head. “Sadie,” Calex said, stunned, “Sadie Kane.”

           She was obviously several kilometers ahead of him on the think train. “Yes! Sadie Kane. Do you have ANY idea how much you’ve freaked out Gretchen and your dad? They both think you’re dead! Since we were kids, I always assumed there wasn’t much a brain behind that stupidly handsome face, but, seriously! How could you be so thick? Not a word? Not one bloody phone call?!”

           Calex’s mind was scrambling. Sadie Kane. He vaguely remembered it. Before they moved to St. Albans out of London, his little sister, Gretchen, was in the second stage of her primary education. She had three annoying little schoolmates, Sadie, Emma, and… Liz? Was Liz the one that almost fainted every time he walked in the room? Or was that Emma?

           But that had been years ago. Gretchen only saw Sadie every few months, and that had become sparse to almost nonexistent since—

           “Emma and Liz gave me a ring and told me to check on Gretchen. And here we have the Jerk of the Year all fine and well—”

           “Uh, Lady Sadie, dude still looks like he was stampeded by a pack of Party Ponies,” someone said. A hand appeared on Sadie’s shoulder to pull her back a little.

           Calex could see Leo’s crazy hair sticking out. He didn’t look amused when he made eye contact with Calex. The glance turned into a frown when his eyes trailed to where Calex assumed Pax was curled into a ball.

           Calex’s wanted to vomit. Gretchen? His Dad?

           Another sight made Calex’s stomach pitch even further down, potentially proving it had stayed with Kaos when the rest of him left.

           There was another occupant in the room behind Sadie and Leo. The person sat in a chair by the door and a small table. Despite being chained to the chair and gagged, the sight still gave Calex shivers. The boy was probably 15 with a blue-tipped Mohawk. His burgundy dress shirt and leather vest were covered in dirt and dust. Blood soaked his right pant leg and one of his eyes was swollen shut.

           Lapis Pax flicked Calex off in greeting as best he could with his restraints.

           Before Calex could panic, Sadie huffed, “He’s about as dangerous as a piece of lint right now. I’m the one you need to worry about.”

           That could only mean one thing: Sadie, Leo, and Jason must have successfully rescued Hemera from Lapis. Eris’ plans must have crumbled.

           But, if they put Calex and his friends in the same room as Lapis, that also meant…

           Calex glanced at the other side of the room. Axel was passed out in a sleeping bag beside Calex. On his other side, there appeared to be a mini garden lot. After a moment of scrutiny, he could discern Euna’s form, curled up on a mound of moss and flowers. Kronos’s scythe was tied tightly to her hand with vines.

           In that far corner, there was a shuddering, towel-covered bird cage.

           Other than Euna, everyone was unarmed.

           Calex swallowed to finish the thought, If they put us in the same room as this crazed bloke, they still don’t know if we’re allies or enemies. Leo and Sadie are probably here to keep us in cue. They should have been over this ally vs. traitor thing, right? Though, Calex had just helped Euna steal a piece of Kaos, and, judging by his lack of nightmares, he guessed—and really hoped—she’d used it to fight Phobetor. Was God murder illegal?    

           “Gretchen and Mr. McKenzie had to move in with your granddad and nan since they couldn’t afford the flat in St. Albans. At least they had some closure with Mrs. McKenzie and Tom.” Tears rimmed Sadie’s eyes and Calex felt the emotions that he’d repressed for months threaten to crumble him. “But your body was never accounted for. All they heard was your other, daft granddad ranting that you’d be taken by an angel.”

           Your body…

           Calex could hardly breathe. With Tiwa and Tom slowly succumbing to death and the nonstop madness that ensued, Calex hadn’t though as much about what had happened to his living family. Just that he was ashamed of facing them after he abandoned—

Calex swallowed and corrected himself. Not after he abandoned his Mom and brother. After he tried to save his family from an inevitable fate. His biological father, Eros, and Axel had reminded him he wasn’t a coward for failing and running from something as unstoppable as Death.

           Still, how could he forget what that would do to Gretchen and Winston? He really was that thick? Shame clogged his throat.

Calex focused on the one good thing in that rant. “Grandad’s alive?” his voice shook.

The idea of that crazy old man poking him out of bed with a walking cane and an anecdote about how laziness doesn’t bring prosper…

           Tears streamed down Calex’s cheeks. He didn’t realize how bad they were until he felt Merry’s hand clasp back over his. He tried to keep them quiet, but a hiccup choked his throat.

           “Maybe you’d know that if you’d have given them a call!” Sadie snapped, though, her anger seemed to break at his demeanor.

           Calex wished her anger wouldn’t go away. He deserved her rage and so much worse. “Oh gods, I missed their funerals,” he choked. The hole in his stomach felt like it was expanding to encompass his whole body. If it kept going, there would be nothing left of him.

           “Hey,” Merry said. She raised a hand towards Sadie that Calex knew to be threatening Shut up, or I’ll have you doing the hokey-pokey. Gently, she pulled Calex up and dragged him against her. Calex burrowed his face into her skin and let the sobs go. He’d been holding so many for so long, mad at himself and at Death itself. Now, he could just be sad Tom and Tiwa weren’t here and never would be here. With Sadie around, everything felt more real. Someone who knew his parents and siblings personally. Someone else cared—really cared—that two wonderful people had left this world to go to Elysium.

           “Teddy Bear,” Merry hummed into his hair. “We had a lot going on here. Remember? Getting kidnapped by Santiago. All our quests. Being on the run. From what I heard Thalia say, you’ve even been busying yourself with two different Underworlds.”

           “That doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, thinking of Gretchen sobbing as she and Winston went through his, Tom’s, and Tiwa’s stuff as they left the flat Winston and Tiwa had been so proud to live in with their combined salaries. Their home. How Gretchen and Winston’s life would have been collapsing around them, losing their family, their home, probably Gretchen’s school.

           “I know it doesn’t make it any easier,” Merry whispered, her own voice breaking. “But, we can’t change what we’ve done in the past. We can’t pretend it didn’t happen. We should let ourselves cry. But, we can’t get consumed thinking about what we could have done differently. We need to focus on what we can do in the future. And, you, your sister, and your dad will still have a future together.” Her tone took on a distant quality and Calex could feel her shake.

           Calex was horrified to realize he hadn’t asked about her quest to save Percy’s little sister from Hiro. Had he really been that dense all over again? He didn’t know if Merry succeeded in rescuing the baby or if Hiro had given her those bruises. He’d even forgotten, in all his stupidity, that Merry didn’t like to be touched by men.

           Calex choked back some of his sobs and tried to withdraw.

           “Uh-uh,” Merry said, clutching him tighter, “You’re staying right here. I need a Teddy Bear, too.”

           Sadie cleared her throat. Her voice was quieter and gentler. “They had memorial services. Last I heard, your granddad was quarantined in Kakata, but, I’ll admit, that was a bit ago.”

           Calex managed to twist away from Merry a little, to see Sadie’s expression. Her face had puffed up from tears. Leo turned away from them, awkwardly toying with some wires in his lap. Mr. Claymore hadn’t looked up from his book, but Calex also noted that he hadn’t turned a page during the whole conversation.

           Calex had expected Lapis to be rolling his dark eyes. Instead, he saw Lapis’ eyes were also red rimmed. His hands had tightened into fists. If Lapis could have cast magic with his gaze, his glare would have melted Merry from existence.

           “I need to head back to Brooklyn House, but you’re making me a promise before I leave. Once you get all this nonsense sorted, really, by the end of the day, you’re going to contact Gretchen and Mr. McKenzie,” Sadie informed him.

           Calex tried to speak. At first, his throat felt too thick. After a few swallows, he managed, “I’ll do you one better. By the end of the week, I’ll also make sure I can see them in person.”

           Merry flinched.

           Calex pulled one hand out of his sleeping bag to squeeze her shoulder. “I’m not gone for good, but I need to do this.” What exactly, he wasn’t sure. There was no way to make up for disappearing without explanation. Despite Merry reminding him about all their trials, he could have called. Hell, he could have written them a bloody letter in that timeframe.

           “Thank you,” was all he could find for Sadie.

           His heart was still a torrent of emotions, but—if he was really leaving Camp Half-Blood soon—he needed to keep it together a little longer. Calex sat up, taking most of his weight off Merry. He hadn’t realized until then how much she’d been struggling to keep them both up. Any longer, and they likely would have collapsed back onto Kally’s sleeping bag and this wasn’t that kind of slumber party.

           Sadie huffed, rubbing the back of her hand under her eyes. “Look at you, Mr. Calex McKenzie, thinking you’re so important. You’re not the only one in here that I need to chat with.”

           What she did next made Calex blink, wondering if he was dreaming or if Sadie was a total lunatic.

           Sadie stood up, withdrew a can of Fancy Feast from her pocket, cracked it open, and set it beside Axel’s sleeping bag. She took a step back, folded her arms, and tapped her foot impatiently.

           Leo spun back around, grinning. He stood beside Sadie, and Calex couldn’t help but think there was a bit of malice in his grin.

           Their leader was flopped on his face, sleeping much more peacefully then Calex had ever seen. Axel’s tufted ears were visible at the edge of his sleeping bag. They twitched.

           Calex was about to say that the Fancy Feast can seemed a bit rude when Axel rose in a very feminine, un-Axel like stretch. He made a low purring noise that Calex had never heard him make.

           “Mmm, Sadie, you do know how to provide a balanced breakfast,”[1] Axel said. When he sat up, Axel winced and touched his chest. When the sleeping bag slipped down, Calex could see bandages stretched across the skin and a blood-soaked blotch towards the center. Axel looked quite pleased. “That was quite a close call. I’ve never had someone literally rip my host out of me before.”

           Axel reached out to pick up the can of Fancy Feast.

           Sadie and Leo exchanged a glance.

           Merry made a face.

           “Mate,” Calex said, “No.”

           Even Lapis coughed a laugh into his gag when Axel started chomping down. Giggles erupted from the balled form of a supposedly sleeping Pax.

           “You two… know each other?” Calex asked, glancing to Sadie and the bizarrely acting Axel.

           Sadie sighed. “I do tend to know everyone important. But no. I know the goddess that’s highjacked your mate’s body. One that was supposed to leave once we got the battle sorted.”

           Axel licked his lips, then the back of his hand, using it to wipe off the rest of his face and behind his ears.

           By now, the laughter from Pax’s balled form was unrelenting.

           “Dude, this is great!” Leo cheered. “We should have brought a camera. You think the Romans will be scared of the Leonis Caput if they see this?”

           “You should know, napping and hygiene are sacred for cats,” Axel said, “It’s not a joking matter.”

           “Bast, drop him,” Sadie chided like Axel was a mouse the goddess had proudly kidnapped. “He doesn’t belong to you. He’s not even Egyptian.”

           “I’ve told you before. I’m a cat; everything belongs to me,” Axel said with a coy grin.  

           Some of Calex’s anguish cracked. He couldn’t help but choke back a laugh. This was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen, and he was a demigod. That was definitely not his mate and he could only image how Axel would feel when he found out what was said or that he’d demolished a can of cat food.

           “Besides,” Axel—Bast continued, “He is still a cat, at least in some manner, so he does belong to me, as he is part of my domain. And…” Axel raised one hand to stroke his goatee, then rolled his fingers across the part of his chest that wasn’t covered in bandages. “I’m very fond of this host body.”

           Axel held out his hands and admired his missing claws with the same fondness a Jersey shore girl might admire her nails.

           Someone cleared their throat from the doorway.

           Calex felt his jaw drop. Even Merry jumped.

           Will Solace stood there in a long doctor’s lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck. He looked exhausted. Dark circles encased his eyes and he was pale. In a towel bundle in his arms, mewing kittens squirmed.

           “Hi,” he said with a tired smile.

 Thanks for reading! I hope you guys enjoyed! Stay tuned next week for another Calex chapter, Not Enough Lollipops.

[1] Yes, it’s cute that Riordan has Bast eat Fancy Feast. But this is not a balanced diet for your kitty.

[bcminutes]

2020 Minutes

Bishop’s Committee Minutes — 2-9-1020

For this meeting: Old Business

Deacon Dan opened with prayer.

Minutes were accepted.

Ron will clean vanities in the restrooms before the Braden Celebration. We will seek to replace them sometime thereafter.

Mary reports that no police report will be used to help with costs to replace railing destroyed by auto accident. We will pay for repairs since deductible is more than the cost of repair.

Mary is inquiring about the Bishop’s next visit.

Mary reports 65 boxes were given out for the Christmas program offered by St. George’s and St. Matthews. St. Alban didn’t contribute knitted items this year.

Mary reports that we continue to wait on Trustees and Council’s decision regarding the gym roof.

For this meeting: New Business

Mary reported on the 2020 budget and some revisions were made to it.

Anne Braden Celebration is scheduled for March 7.

Lisa says we will have an Urban League sponsored person to work for us. She and Pamela and decide on duties and select the person.

Vestry Assignments for 2020: Finance Chair (Bookkeeper) Bernadette, Treasurer: Eldra, Senior Warden: Mary, Minutes Keeper: Dan.

Lisa nominated Ron for Junior Warden and he was approved. She will check with Fred to see if there is any conflict with him in doing this.

Respectfully submitted,

Deacon Dan

Before the next meeting: See underlined sections above.

Bishop’s Committee Minutes. 7-16-2020

Attendees via teleconference: Valerie, Mary, Deacon Dan, Lisa, Donald, Ed, Bernadette, Carla, Ron, Karla, Pamela,

Old Business: Property Management

—A discussion ensued regarding money available for repairs. Valerie reported that a total of $67000 resides in the West Louisville Now fund. It is distinct from the $150000 sent to the diocese from the National Church. The reasons for the gift from the National Church are as follows: The Executive Council of the Episcopal Church has made a gift of $150,000 to the Diocese of Kentucky, to further our commitment to dismantle racist systems, building justice and peace for all.

Valerie suggested we get additional quotes from contractors other that Raoul, who has done work for us in the past. She stated that Bill Steeley of St. Matthews has offered to get involved as a contractor.

Donald stated he was suspicious of people wanting to get involved now that money is coming into our church. He wondered why they weren’t ready to help earlier. He and others suggested we might focus on using Raoul’s services, supplemented by genuine West End companies.

The discussion was tabled until our next meeting. The dilemma, as I understand it, seems to revolve around incorporating all those interested in supporting our renovation efforts while remaining true to those individuals who have been there for us during the difficult times or whose participation we want to include to stimulate West End development.

—Mary reports she is working on Mission Funding. The deadline for submission is July 31, 2020

New Business: Re-Opening

—St. George’s Mission Statement was mentioned. Mary said she would share it with Valerie and others as required.

—Valerie read the Bishop’s Reopening Statement. If it’s protocol can be followed we hope to reopen on August 2, 2020. Anyone not comfortable attending need not feel obligated to do so.

—Valerie is working on a grant the value of which is $10000. She would like for BC members to be thinking of good uses for the money that she can identify in the grant, which she must submit by August 15.

—Valerie hopes to begin making one-on-one contact with BC members in the near future. She can be reached at valerie@episcopalky.org.

The meeting was concluded with an Early Evening Devotion.

Bishop’s Committee Meeting 8-9-2020

Attendees: Valerie, Deacon Dan, Ed, Bernadette, Ron, Carla, Mary, Doris, Pamela, Karla, Jean

Old Business

Agenda—Agenda was accepted. Mary approved and Ed seconded her approval.

Gym Roof—A discussion took place in which it was proposed that work start on the gym roof since funds had been allocated and received in the amount needed to complete work. BC voted on and approved the start of work. Ed made the motion and Mary seconded it. No negative votes were made.

Technology Grant—Valerie outlined the grant she is writing. BC agreed to going forward on it and including OMS in it.

Deep Cleaning of Church—Tabled for the time being.

New Business

Assessment—Mary said our church assessment will be less next year, 283.91. This represents 13% of our budget as per diocesan rule expectations.

Training—BC voted for training opportunities, Safeguarding Our Children, technology help, etc.

Truck Repair—Ron’s truck, needed for Dare to Care distribution, needs transmission work. The BC asked Ron to get an estimate on repair costs and get back to the committee.

Dare to Care—Pamela reported that 1255 individuals were served in July, 319 families were helped, and 100 food boxes were given out on Thursdays. We will return to serving only our designated area as the Shilo Dare to Care outlet has re-opened.

ZOOM— A practice session on ZOOM will occur before we move to it as our means of worshipping on Sunday mornings.

Respectfully submitted,

Deacon Dan

Bishop’s Committee Meeting 9-13-2020

Attendees: Valerie, Deacon Dan, Ed, Bernadette, Ron, Carla, Doris, Pamela, Karla, Jean, Lisa, Donald

Old Business

Agenda—Agenda was accepted.

Gym Roof and HVAC system for DTC—Completed.

Technology Grant—Valerie outlined grant she has written.

Mission Funding—Has been modified from original ask of $2500 to ask of $10,000.

Deep Cleaning of Church—Resurfaced after having been tabled last month. A desire was expressed to allow a Speed Museum event in the Community Center. Lisa will make use of waiver forms for attendees to protect the Church against lawsuits dealing with contracting COVID-19. Bernadette made a motion that all three buildings be deep cleaned ($500) and that ongoing cleanings occur for 6hr/ week at a wage of $20/hr. This motion was seconded. When this will commence has not been determined.

Truck Repair—Ron’s truck, needed for Dare to Care distribution, has been repaired.

Training—Safeguarding Our Children will be available soon from the Rev. Katherine Doyle.

Dare to Care—Pamela and Lisa offered their report to the committee.

ZOOM—BC Committee members stated their approval to continue worship services using ZOOM.

New Business

New Stucco Damage: RAM Roofing has brought to light additional damage that needs being addressed. It’s estimated cost is $8725. There was confusion about the location of this damage so Ed, Ron, and Donald agreed to walk the building with Raul of RAM to reassess the situation.

Dare to Care—A discussion on its ongoing ministry and leadership needs has been requested for a future meeting.

Next Sunday—Dean Matt Bradley will lead worship online for St. George’s Episcopal Church.

Convention—Bernadette has volunteered to be our delegate, Lisa will be our alternate, and Valerie Victoria Mayo will be our youth representative.

Respectfully submitted,

Deacon Dan

Bishop’s Committee Meeting 12-13-2020

Old Business

Ed read the governing statement.

Dan offered prayer.

Agenda—Motion to approve was offered by Mary and seconded by Ron.

RAM roof payment complete. RAM stucco work is done, Valerie getting payment from diocese to give to RAM.

Eldra and Alyce will be the first two to get laptops. UP will provide, including internet access.

Doris, Charlene, Shirley, Fred, and June have also been named as those needing a laptop. The Diocese will provide. It anticipates providing 4 computers in 2021.

Ron is cleaning 3 days each week, 2 hours each visit.

A discussion ensued regarding insurance for our three vehicles. The desire to minimize expenses was expressed. A decision will need to be made regarding the sale or give away of the old van.

Insurance estimates from Mary:

Refrigerator Truck: $3000 per year.

New Van: $1300 per year.

Old Van: $1100 per year. (Blue Book of old van: $874)

Ed made a motion that $500 be an acceptable price for the van. Mary seconded this motion.

Respectfully submitted,

Deacon Dan

[downtownmooresville]

Good evening from the Mooresville Downtown Commission!

As we approach Thanksgiving, don't forget that "Shopping Small" is the right thing to do! Did you know that approximately 67 cents of every dollar spent at a U.S. small business remains in that local community? Supporting local businesses makes a difference for the independently owned business but also for your community! We'll be back in touch before Small Business Saturday with details on what's going on in Downtown Mooresville specific to Small Business Saturday. 

Until then, here's our November events listing:

November 1 thru 14 - Mooresville Arts | Mooresville Arts 37th Annual Artoberfest, judged show & competition continue through 11/14. 103 W. Center Ave. 

November 1 - Our Town Stage | Presents “The Hit Men”; Relive rocks greatest hits with the men who created them! 6pm cocktail hour with the show beginning at 7pm. Charles Mack Citizens Center (215 N. Main Street). Brought to you by the Town of Mooresville. Our Town Stage. 

November 2 - 43rd Annual Working Fingers Craft Show | Join us for a curated craft fair featuring seasonal gifts, tasty treats, handcrafted goods, unique treasures and live music all under one roof. We anticipate over 100 vendors for this 43rd annual handmade holiday market! 10am-5pm in the Charles Mack Citizens Center. Brought to you by the Town of Mooresville, call 704-663-9026 for additional details. 

November 6 - MDC Board Meeting | Meeting of the Mooresville Downtown Commission Board of Directors, Committee Members and volunteers. Open to the Public. 1pm, Charles Mack Citizens Center. 

November 4 thru 12 - Mooresville Veterans Celebration | A weeklong list of events to honor and celebrate Veterans. Brought to you by the Town of Mooresville. Details at Mooresville Veterans Celebration. 

November 11 - Mooresville Veterans Parade | Parade kicks off at 1pm from Town of Mooresville Town Hall (413 N. Main St.). The parade will travel south to McLelland Ave., where it will end. Parade will include Veterans, Classic Cars, Military Vehicles & more. Details at Mooresville Veterans Celebration. 

November 22 - Mooresville Arts | Opening Reception for Featured Artists: Natalia Leigh, Marcia Maki, PK Donson and Give the Gift of Art Holiday sale. 103 W. Center Ave., 6-8pm

November 26 - Mooresville Christmas Parade | The 75th Annual Mooresville Christmas Parade kicks off at 3:00pm.  Watch from the sidewalks on Main Street but get there early to save a spot – thousands will watch marching bands; floats & then Santa wraps up the parade! Main Street is closed from North of Town Hall to South of Wilson Ave.  More details at: Mooresville Christmas Parade

November 29 - “Downtown’s Holiday Light Spectacular” | An orchestrated light show that includes over 150,000 lights set to music. Begins November 27 and runs nightly through late December, starting each evening at dusk. On the lawn at Town Hall - 413 N. Main St. Free!

November 30 - National "Small Business Saturday" | Downtown Mooresville is the place to shop local and we will be celebrating Small Business Saturday with retail specials and festivities. Help spread the word on the importance of supporting locally owned, independent businesses and encourage friends and family to Shop Small!

NOVEMBER BUSINESS EVENTS:

202 NORTH MAIN FINE WINES | 202 N. Main Street | 704-663-5445

November 1 - Live Music with “John Sullivan & Friends”. 9pm, $5 cover, bring a friend for free

November 2 - Live Music with “Currie Wayne Clayton Jr”. 8:30pm, no cover

November 8 - Live Music with “Rock Onyx”. 9pm, $5 cover, bring a friend for free

November 9 - Live Music with “Jimmy Fallon”. 8:30pm, no cover

November 14 - Whitney Myers Of Advantage Distributing, 7pm, $15

November 15 - Live Music with “Delta Fire”. 9pm, $5 cover

November 16 - Live Music with “Matt Alban”. 8:30pm, no cover

November 22 - Live Music with “Werkin Man Band”. 9pm, $5 cover, bring a friend for free

November 23 - Live Music with “Lori & Korki Acoustic Duo”. 8:30pm, no cover

November 29 - Live Music with “KatKandu”. 9pm, $5 cover, bring a friend for free

 BIG TINY'S BBQ | 179 N. Main Street | 704-658-1409

November 2 - Half price beer all day & live music with Tony Gallo from 5:30-9:00pm

 FOUR CORNERS FRAMING GALLERY | 148 N. Main Street | 704-662-7154 

November 3 - Book Launch & Author Signing with Frank Saraco for “Life in the Grand Pause”. Join us at 4pm to mingle and munch on some tasty treats. A special dramatic presentation will happen at 4:40 pm, followed by author signing. There will be a limited number of books available for purchase or you may order in advance. 4pm-4:45pm Mingle, munch & purchase book.  4:40pm – 5pm Dramatic Performance and Read. 5pm – 6pm Book signing and photos.

November 9 - Gia in the Gallery. Art show, mixed media. Free, light refreshments will be served, Noon-6pm

November 15 - Artisan Jewelry by Lori Neill. Free, light refreshments will be served, 6-8pm

November 16 - Artisan Jewelry by Lori Neill. Free, light refreshments will be served ,10am-4pm

November 22 - Vamos al Ecuador! Please join us in the Gallery to visit Ecuador with the Crespo family! Food, Drink, Photo Images, Jewelry, Musical Instruments, Textiles and Art for sale and more.  Immerse yourself in all that is Ecuador! Free, 6-8pm.

 NAILED IT DIY | 248 N. Main Street | 704-402-4612

November 14 - Small Business Sign Night, 6pm – 8pm

 ON TAP CRAFTY BREWS | 188 N. Main Street | 704-660-BEER (2337)

Monday’s: Open Mic Night, 8pm

Tuesday’s: Trivia, 7:30pm

Wednesday’s: $2 of all drafts, all day long & Run Club at 6:30pm

Thursday’s: Yoga, 6pm, $10 includes class and a draft

Sunday’s: $15, bottomless mimosas

November 5 - Game of Thrones trivia (full theme edition), 7:30pm

November 7 - Pets, paints & pints, 6pm

November 24 - Friendsgiving, 6pm

November 28 - After Turkey Trot 5k open for bottomless mimosas & covered dish brunch and turkey frying!

TIM'S TABLE | 133 N. Main Street | 704-663-7333

Friday’s - Live music, 7pm

URBAN GRIND ROASTERS | 239 W. Center Avenue | 980-266-2180

November 23 - Coffee with a Cop. Urban Grind Roasters is proud to host & sponsor our Police Officers. The mission of this event is to break down barriers between Police Officers & the community they serve. It provides the opportunity for our community members & our Police Officers to get to know each other a little better while enjoying the most delicious coffee in town! 9:30am – 11am

WAGAMUFFINS DOG BOUTIQUE | 152 N. Main Street | 704-773-5624

November 9 - Buttercup Meet & Greet: Instagram star Buttercup of @threecrazycorgis will be in the store for a Meet & Greet with her family. They will be teaching the community about what it’s like to care for a specially-abled wheelchair bound pup and how their Buttercup pillows and keychains are making an impact with hospitalized sick and special needs children all over the country! 11am – 1pm

November 15 - Pallets, Paws and Painting: Join Sweet Southern Pallet Designs for a super fun hands-on experience creating your own house décor…with a dog theme! Pick your design and reserve your spot. Spaces are limited! All paints and supplies will be provided so you just have to show up ready to get crafty! Light refreshments will be available and you can enjoy a 10% off store-wide discount at Wagamuffins for attending the event! 6pm – 8pm

November 22 - Low Cost Vaccination Clinic:  The team at Mooresville Animal Hospital will be in-store offering a low-cost vaccination clinic offering vaccinations for Rabies, Distemper-Parvo, Influenza, Leptospirosis, Lyme, and more! No registration required, first come first served. More info, including pricing, can be provided by calling Mooresville Animal Hospital at 704-664-4087. 1pm – 6pm

November 29 - Dogs on Deployment Information Event: Dogs on Deployment is a national 501(c)(3) non-profit providing a central network for military members to find volunteers willing to board their pets while they are deployed or have other service commitments, making them unable to temporarily care for their pets. If you’ve been looking for ways to help active military members in a unique way in their time of need, consider joining us for an informational event with Carol Knight, the Charlotte Regional Coordinator for Dogs on Deployment. She will be in-store providing information on ways to donate, fundraise, sponsor, and promote this wonderful organization! 6pm – 8pm

November 30 - Small Business Saturday: Enjoy extended shopping hours as you browse our awesome Made in America collection of handmade and small business made products for your friends and family - especially the 4-legged kind! We’ll be showcasing many of the unique products we have and offering a store-wide 15% discount. Come early and grab yourself some coffee and delicious donuts!

WELCOME HOME VETERANS AT RICHARD’S COFFEE SHOP | 165 N. Main St | 704-663-0488  - Saturday morning music jam. Free, every Saturday at 9am.

WFV DESIGNS | 128 N. Broad Street | 980-293-4333

November 9 - Annual Holiday Open House! We will have refreshments, lots of raffle items & 10% off your purchase! 10am to 5pm!

SEE YOU IN DOWNTOWN MOORESVILLE!

[ellafryme]

Raj Of India is an Indian Restaurant and Takeaway in Welwyn Garden City AL7. Located in the heart of St Albans, Raj Of India offers fresh Indian food and fast service for delivery & collection Order takeaway food and book a table online from Raj Of India through ChefOnline in just a few clicks.

[glitteryyouthstudentworld]

To those that know and also, to those that don’t, I should point out that my title is indeed a reference to Stephen Hawking’s, ‘A brief history of time’. However, the only mention of General Relativity in this article, will be if an ex-governor or minister shared the same name.

I have always had an interest in history, especially in the history of our prisons. My passion for history, and researching, arose from the first and only English Pope, Adrian IV, real name Nicholas Breakspear, who was born in Abbots Langley near St Albans. – which, coincidentally, is where Stephen Hawking grew up after moving there with his family as an 8-year-old.  Another link to Nicholas was Henry II, although by the time of 1166, Nicholas had passed away. He died on September 1, 1159, allegedly choking on a fly in his wine.

Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=226378

It is in 1166, and with Henry II, where I begin part one of my look at the history of the prison system of England and Wales. 

˜

One hundred years after the Battle of Hastings, King Henry II orders the building of prisons. One of the first prisons to be built in London was Newgate. A prison that once occupied the site where the Old Bailey now sits. Newgate opened in 1188 and was active until closing in 1902, with the prison being demolished in 1904. It was during Henry’s reign that the precursor to common law was created and in order to settle land disputes, the jury system was created.

You will soon be able to read a ‘Guide to London Prisons: Past & Present’ via the website:

London Crime

Which includes:

More details on Newgate, along with information; on those still in active use (in and around the capital) and the plethora of London prisons that no longer exist.

London Crime is an intriguing, gritty and captivating subject. London, England has a crime history that is full of real-life escapades, robberies, murders and other fascinating stories of criminal intent. BUT! Our intention is not to glamorise crime, this site is not about the London crime news of today, other news sites can do that!  although we are behind some great organisations that are aiming to reduce knife crime in the capital and beyond. We are providing fact (check out the A TO Z) films, documentaries, fiction books and non-fiction books, gifts and areas that you can research We at londoncrime.co.uk do not condone criminal activity and we fully support all of the London Police areas with their continuing mission to make the streets of London safe. An extremely tough job! 

A historic event that took place on the 15th June 1215, the signing of the Magna Carta, would see the early beginnings of judicial rights in England.

It included Article 39:

“No free man shall be arrested, or imprisoned, or deprived of his property, or outlawed, or exiled, or in any way destroyed, nor shall we go against him or send against him, unless by legal judgement of his peers, or by the law of the land.”

The 14th century saw people being locked up for refusing to be tried by jury. The prison conditions were extremely primitive, with prisoners expected to sleep on bare floors. Fed bread and water and, only on every other day. The jailers would charge prisoners for everything, this included the removal of the prisoner’s restraints. As we head into the 15th century vagrancy was a massive social problem, the ‘Bridewell’ or House of Corrections was established to deal with the problem.

“The London Bridewell, set up in 1555, was the first ‘House of Correction’ and the term was often used henceforth to describe such institutions. The 16th cent. saw a massive increase in the numbers of poor and indigent, and houses of correction, with stern regimes of hard work, were used for the punishment and reformation of petty offenders or groups who were regarded as anti-social or idle, such as players of unlawful games, fortune-tellers, minstrels, tinkers and pedlars, hedge-breakers, vagabonds, and gypsies. In 1610 houses of correction were set up generally throughout England. The distinction between them and prisons was abolished in 1865.”

Mulholland, M. (2015). Bridewell. In The Oxford Companion to British History. : Oxford University Press,. Retrieved 8 Jun. 2019, from https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780199677832.001.0001/acref-9780199677832-e-599.

Prisons at this time were also full of the ‘idle poor’, individuals locked up who were considered lazy, left to sit in prison until a magistrate decided they could be released. The gallows were a destination for even the pettiest of crimes, but in the 1600’s juries started to refuse to hand out the death penalty for low-level crimes, this meant prison numbers began to grow exponentially. A pardon was on offer for any petty crook caught who would enlist in the Army or Navy.

The 1700’s saw the start of the ‘Industrial Revolution’, however, as the century was ending and the revolution slowing down, citizens had been, and were, being displaced, debt became a huge problem, once again prisons had to deal with overcrowding. Then, with the ‘Napoleonic Wars’ of 1803 – 1815 where we would have an influx of POW’s, overcrowding worsened. ‘Hulks’ or derelict ships, used to house prisoners, began to be seen on the Thames and in the ports of southern England.

To ease pressure on our prisons, and in a move considered somewhat more humane than the death penalty, prisoners were ‘transported’ to North America. A practice that continued until the ‘American War of Independence’ of 1775 – 1783, a point at which up to 50,000 former prisoners had settled. However, it would only cease to America, as Australia would become the new destination.

A story I was told years ago, has now found a use in my life. As the American War of Independence put an end to transportation to North America, and before we began sending ships to Australia. Prisoners, awaiting transportation, were held in ships on the Thames. One of these ships bound for Australia was moored at Millbank prison in London, on the shirt pockets of prisoners aboard this ship were the initials P.O.M prisoner of Millbank.

A plan of the emigrant ship St Vincent. © National Maritime Museum, London

The first ship left for Australia a few years after the War of Independence had ended. The last convict ship to leave England for Australia was the ‘St Vincent’. She arrived in 1853. However, transportation continued to Western Australia until, in 1867 the ‘Hougoumont’ would be the last ship to leave these shores, she arrived in WA in January 1868. Between 1788 and 1868 over 800 ships carried more than 150,000 halfway around the world.

In 1777, the High Sheriff of Bedfordshire – the man who the Howard League for Penal Reform is named after – John Howard publishes the ‘State of the Prisons in England and Wales’, following a 17 year study of prison conditions. 1791 would see English philosopher Jeremy Bentham design his infamous ‘Panopticon’, his vision of an ideal prison. A design where prisoners could be unobserved, unaware, by guards. His design was never put to use; however, the model was used to build a few prisons, Pentonville and Millbank – which, opened in 1816, and was the first state prison in England – among them.

  Source: http://www.victorianlondon.org

 One of Howard’s proposals made in 1777 was that jailers were to no longer charge prisoners for anything. In 1815 jailers begin to be paid, finally, by the government. It was the duty of a magistrate to inspect prisons but in 1835, prison inspectors, who would report back to parliament, were introduced. By 1877 all prison staff were not only salaried, but also, employed on merit.

I have served a number of years in HMP Norwich, where two of the wings still carry the names Fry and Gurney, although they are still referred to as that by the, for want of a better phrase, hackneyed staff, they are now known as single letter wings.

Elizabeth Fry and her brother Joseph John Gurney are two people I greatly admire and respect. In 1817, they were responsible for the creation of prison schools for children, with their mothers, behind bars. They also persuaded Home Secretary, Sir Robert Peel to introduce reform. Elizabeth was also the founder of the Association for the Improvement of the Female Prisoners in Newgate. In 2002 Elizabeth Fry started to appear on five-pound notes.

“The Prisons Act of 1877 transferred complete control to the Home Office. At the same time the prison environment was made increasingly harsh in the belief that prisons should act as a deterrent to criminal behaviour.”

https://www.parliament.uk/about/living-heritage/transformingsociety/laworder/policeprisons/overview/centralcontrol/

John Howard’s reforms were accepted, the prisons came under national control, overseen by the Prison Commission. Who were tasked to report annually to the Home Office. The ‘ACT’ also saw two new methods introduced: ‘Decarceration’ – This replaced prison time with punishment to be served in the community. ‘Therapeutic Incarceration’ – Introduced to minimise the punishment element. Makes one think as to how much has really changed since.

Table showing the % number of cases of illness to the number of prisoners passing through each of the Metropolitan Convict Prisons in 1854.

 Number of Convicts passing through the Prison during the year.

Number of Cases of Illness during the year. % of Illness to the Number of Prisoners.PENTONVILLE9251,732187.2BRIXTON66415523.3HULKS (“Defence” and “Warrior”)1,51372347.7MILLBANK (including females)2,65911,890447.1TOTAL5,76114,500251.7

Source: http://www.victorianlondon.org 

 As we head into the 20th century we see a lot of changes to our criminal justice system. Voluntary organisations began sending missionaries to the police courts, defendants would be released with the condition they reported to the missionary and accepted guidance, this would be the precursor to the modern-day probation service. In 1907 this was turned into what we now know as probation orders and this year would see the first community sentences. One later, with the Prevention of Crime Act 1908, the borstal system was created, this act recognised that adults and children should be held separately – I was fortunate that the borstal system ended in 1983, I entered the system as a 14 year old in 1985, although they were then called Youth Custody Centres, I can assure you the old system and values were still alive – In 1919, jailers become known as prison officers for the first time. The practice of separate confinement, which was criticised for creating high levels of insanity among prisoners was abolished in 1922, a year which also saw 400 volunteer teachers begin working in prisons. In 1933 the first open prison opened at New Hall near Wakefield. Prison officers were slow in implementing reform, so in 1935 the first staff training began at Wakefield prison. The outbreak, and years, of the second world war would also see a rise of female prison officers. 1948 would see an act introduced that is the model for prisons today, the Criminal Justice Act which ended flogging, penal servitude and hard labour.

HMP Wormwood Scrubs was taken over by the War Department for the war effort during WW2, the prisoners shipped out to other prisons. The prison was then used as offices during the war, housing among others, members of MI5 and MI8.

Coming up in part 2, I look at penal life following the introduction of the 1948 Criminal Justice Act and what the map of our prisons looks like now. Before I go, here’s a video from British Pathé, showing various shots, with no sound, of the buildings of Dartmoor Prison in 1950.

EXPLORE OUR ONLINE CHANNEL, BRITISH PATHÉ TV. IT’S FULL OF GREAT DOCUMENTARIES, FASCINATING INTERVIEWS, AND CLASSIC MOVIES. http://www.britishpathe.tv/

History of 'TIME' part 1. "in 1867 the 'Hougoumont' would be the last ship to leave these shores, she arrived in WA in January 1868. Between 1788 and 1868 over 800 ships carried more than 150,000 halfway around the world." To those that know and also, to those that don't, I should point out that my title is indeed a reference to Stephen Hawking's, 'A brief history of time'. 

[jeddowneymusic-blog]

Assimilate @ The Horns 2/1/17

Last night, I ventured out to Watford to catch some quality Metal at the hands of alternative metallers Assimilate. Hosted by Peter Curtis at The Horns every Monday, Oxygen is a showcase night for originals artists based around Hertfordshire and beyond and a great time to catch some interesting acts.

This show had been announced only two days before, and involved the original opening act cancelling at short notice. Unable to find a fitting act in time, this led to a contrast in genre between the two acts, but the difference wasn’t unwelcome, the turnout was fab and the show went on in style.

Opening the show for Assimilate were Midnight Trio, a three piece blues band from Watford comprised of Vocalist/Guitarist Alex White, Bassist Matt Dinnadge and Drummer Jono Pamplin. I had seen this band many times before, and they never fail to lose the interest of the audience. If you ever wish to see incredible musicianship, then this band is definitely for you. These guys can read each other like books, making every note feel spontaneous but always exactly where it needed to be, keeping the crowd captivated in the anticipation of the next stop or transition. Highlights of the set include such gems as their soulful, chilled out cover of The Four Seasons’ Beggin’ and original songs Untitled and In The Blue. If you see this band, always expect cheeky bass and drum fills, smoky lead vocals, soothing harmonies and some beautiful solos.

After a short break, Assimilate took to the stage. Made up of Vocalist Jake Aston, Jack Harvey and Chris Dixon on Guitar, Jack Cox on bass and Drummer Chris Rush, Assimilate still hold up to be one of the most insane local shows to attend. From Rush telling jokes to having a room of people sing and shout along to most of their own material, the band’s ability to keep the crowd in their palm is beautiful. Just a couple of weeks ago, they tore up the Horn in St Albans, with Jake climbing the bar and fans crowdsurfing and moshing consistently throughout the set. Although the awkward shaping of The Horns would seem to squash their explosive ways, they adapted to the size of stage and made the room feel massive, climbing on shoulders, monitors and the tables. Highlights of the set boast the original songs Nothing to Lose and All You Do, as well as their encore in the form of an amped up version of Pass Out by Tinie Tempah. If you see this band, expect roaring vocals, aggressive riffage, tight as nails bass and drum work and also a solid night out.

You can hear more of these bands here:

Assimilate: https://assimilate.bandcamp.com/

Midnight Trio: https://soundcloud.com/midnighttrio

Also, here’s a link to The Horns’ contact details if you fancy playing there:

http://www.thehornswatford.co.uk/index.php/music/want-to-play-here

On Saturday 7th January, I’ll be at the Green Door Store in Brighton, which will be celebrating its 6th birthday with acts such as TRAAMS, Gang, Fuoco, DITZ and Spill set to play, so expect a post about that soon!

[bookloversofbath]

Mercer Chronometers: History, Maintenance & Repair :: Tony Mercer soon to be presented for sale on the outstanding BookLovers of Bath web site!

Ashbourne: Mayfield Books, 2003, Hardback in dust wrapper.

Contains: Black & white photographs; Diagrams; Tables; Frontispiece; Exploded drawings; Appendices [5];

From the cover: This book is a history of the firm of Thomas Mercer Ltd, which made chronometers, clocks, instruments and measuring equipment in London and St Albansfrom 1858 to 1984.

Thomas Mercer began as a watchmaker in Liverpool, but moved to Clerkenwell, London, the centre of the horological industry, where he began to manufacture marine chronometers. Initial success in the Kew Chronometer Trials led him to expand his business to St Albans, where the factory soon began to dominate chronometer manufacture, producing them for many other makers world-wide. As well as marine and survey chronometers, regulator clocks and precision timekeepers of many other types were produced, especially chronometer-controlled master clock systems for both cargo sh…

Very Good+ in Very Good+ Dust Wrapper.

239 pages. Index. Bibliography. 10″ x 7¾”.

Of course, if you don’t like this one, may I lure you to view a further assortment that features in my Horology catalogue?

Always buying books in the Bath & Bristol area…

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j howard jacobson jonathan cape 9780224101974

more than a game the story of crickets early years john major harperpress 9780007183647

quayside bristol the city and its port in recent years frank shipsides robert wall redcliffe press 1872971962

flora britannica the definitive new guide to wild flowers plants and trees richard mabey sinclair stevenson 18561937721

irek mukhamedov the authorised biography jeffery taylor fourth estate 185702074x

the opium eater selections from the autobiography thomas de quincey the cresset press

frank richards the chap behind the chums mary cadogan viking 0 670 81946 8

a midnight clear william wharton jonathan cape 0224020501

meriwether nevin tom doherty associates 0 312 86307 1

Champions in Conflict The Bath Rugby Revolution Dick Tugwell Robson Books 1 86105 213 8

for fuhrer and fatherland ss murder and mayhem in wartime britain roderick de normann sutton publishing 0750912820

Mercer Chronometers: History, Maintenance & Repair :: Tony Mercer Mercer Chronometers: History, Maintenance & Repair :: Tony Mercer soon to be presented for sale on the…

[mhsn033]

Coronavirus: ‘Mixed emotions’ as soft play gets green light

Image copyright DJ Jungles

Image caption Enhanced cleansing is below plan at DJ Jungles in Hemel Hempstead and St Albans

Soft play operators ranking told of their reduction at news they might be able to reopen – however notify they face a substantial process to build in contemporary safety measures.

The Authorities announced on Thursday that kid’s play centres can delivery their doors from Saturday.

But stringent measures along side pre-booking methods and contemporary air waft necessities mean it ought to be several weeks sooner than most are compliant.

At the very least 35 tender play firms ranking closed permanently as a result of lockdown.

“There might perhaps be going to be very strict protocols in predicament – this is not only a easy opening,” acknowledged Paul Kelly, chief executive of The British Association of Leisure Parks, Piers and Attractions (BALPPA).

The foundations verbalize the first play frames must characteristic at 40 per cent capability to permit for social distancing, with overall capability inner centres dramatically reduced. Families will even ranking to guide their locations with enhanced cleansing to happen between classes.

“Quite quite a bit of this records turned into ideal chanced on this morning. I peaceable ponder we’re on a knife edge,” acknowledged Mr Kelly.

“There will seemingly be ample residence to social distance. The residence is there – it’s the utility of it that’s shared accountability between the operator and dad and mom.”

Image copyright DJ Jungles

Image caption Socially-distant tables in a position to welcome pre-booked families

Alastair Hick says it’d be some weeks sooner than he can reopen his branches of Hickory Dickorys Playhouse in Birmingham and Derby.

“We’re very elated it’s received the inexperienced gentle however I’m in a position to not imagine we ideal received 24 hours behold,” he acknowledged.

“Now we ranking received to implement a pre-booking plot with our restricted IT expertise, put in signage, guarantee our capability will seemingly be compliant as correctly as put collectively workers and kind PPE.

“All we are in a position to assemble is characteristic responsibly. But the ideal apprehension is that if the capability is at a level the build it’s simply not viable, then that’s going to be a subject. So it’s blended feelings, truly.”

Kevin Grubb, who runs Creativeness Avenue in Redditch, acknowledged he turned into “flabbergasted” when the news came thru gradual on Thursday.

He acknowledged he had lost £400,000 by being shut down since March.

Image copyright Creativeness Avenue

Image caption Kevin Grubb says he is in a position to digest the manager pointers sooner than reopening

“I turned into so skittish after I had a flash on my cell phone at 22: 45 last evening to voice that we are in a position to reopen,” he acknowledged.

“I’m exasperated for the employees, and I’m exasperated for the prospects. Now we ranking been ready goodbye for this. Now we ranking received plenty stuff in predicament already, however there’s more peaceable to assemble.”

Helen Whittington, of DJ Jungles in St Albans and Hemel Hempstead, acknowledged she hoped to reopen next week, with sanitiser stations, online bookings and enhanced cleansing routines.

She acknowledged there ranking been “enormous restrictions that ranking an impress on the substitute mannequin, however we are in a position to implement them to get delivery”.

Image copyright DJ Jungles

Image caption Helen Whittington is in a position to delivery next week

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[cowboyking80-blog]

How Nobility Created The Fly Fisherman

The Expert fly Fisherman to the Newby

Tell me, what was it that made you want to try fly fishing? Did you see someone fly fishing on a river as you drove by and found yourself intrigued by it? Were you bait fishing and watched the guy next to you catch twice the amount of fish on his fly rod than you with your bait? However you got into the sport it is important to understand what makes fly fishing such a unique way to catch fish. It is also important to know how much you will need to spend to enjoy the sport at its finest. 

Fly fishing has been a sport for the wealthy and higher class since at least the 13th century when it is referenced in an article called, “The Treatyse of Fysshynge With an Angle”, published in the Book of St. Albans in 1496. 

You as a fly fisherman may be able to explain the main reasons why fly fishing is so expensive, like the science that goes into the different types of fly rods and what types work best with what kind of fish or environment it is designed to fish in. But if you were shown the business side of the sport would the reasonings you give be relevant? As the sport has evolved many companies involved in the sell of fly fishing equipment have learned how best to make money for themselves. They have done this by making their equipment with cheaper quality materials. In turn this gives the appearance that the sport can be fairly affordable but there is something else that these companies do which makes them money. With their more expensive equipment, in an effort to keep life long customers, they implement a lifetime warranty which covers something if it breaks. They will simply replace that broken item for their customer without charging a single penny. They can afford this because of what they do with they cheaper equipment. They do not offer the same lifetime warranty with their cheaper equipment which is what makes them the most money. If something is broken, the company will not replace it without charging the customer the same price that the customer paid for the original item.

So tell me as a fly fisherman if you think this is fair. 

This is fair for companies to practice. It gives the companies the means to experiment with better types of equipment or better materials that may be cheaper but work just as well. This helps the sport be kept among those who really respect it as a sport and not just a hoe hum hobby. If you want to practice the sport while saving money you have to have the right amount of money to begin with. That is a fairly high price but it is much better than the walmart mentality of spending a little amount of money over and over again on cheaper quality items that don’t last, which will add up to much more than what it would cost to buy and use the better quality equipment. You pay the $300 dollars now and get a lifetime of equipment rather than $50 dollars every time you want to go out and fly fish.

Because of the noblemen of the old days the group that practices the sport today is of the same class or mentality. It has never changed from then to now and the business behind the sport maintains this mentality with who they sell to and for how high they set the price. So keep improving the sport and finding ways to expand it to a much wider audience. The sport deserves the respect that the noblemen of the past had given it.

Environmentalist to Fly Fisherman

The history of Fly Fishing as a sport, which has been around for tens of centuries, has become a kind of mentality. To only catch the fish for the experience and then let it go to try to catch it another day. This is where the modern day acronym CPR (catch, picture, release) comes into play. Most fly fishermen in this modern time have adopted it in an effort to preserve the fish they so addimately go after for sport. There are many ways that fly fishing has helped save so many different species of fish throughout the world. The sport has helped bring an awareness to what happens if a river or lake is overfished. Regulations have been put into place to protect some species of fish in many places. But because many of these fly fisherman practice “CPR” those regulations should be viewed in a different way. Instead of these regulations preventing fisherman from taking to many fish the regulations should require fishermen to take the regulated amount of fish every time they go fishing or if they do catch any fish. When over practiced “CPR” can actually hurt a fish population. If too many fish live in a river there won’t be enough food, without enough food the fish will never grow to a healthy weight. That will make them small and less intriguing to catch. Many fish could even eventually die off and make the sport of fly fishing irrelevant. That is why the mentality of fly fishing for sport needs to change. If every fly fisherman kept their allowed amount of fish every time they went out onto the river it would really help the fish population stay healthy and strong. The sport is historic and popular throughout the world, which makes the mentality of “CPR” something that could affect many fish species around the world if practiced too heavily.  

Fly fishing companies have fed this mentality with the different kinds of equipment that they sell. For example many flies are tied onto hooks without the barb at the sharp end of the hook. The barb is a part of the hook that is very effective in keeping the hook inside the mouth of the fish once it bites down on the hook. Though the barb makes it difficult to release the fish because it can keep the hook embedded in the fish’s mouth so effectively and that is why many flies are tied with barbless hooks. The barbless hook slips right out of the fish’s mouth so that you can get the fish back into the water with minimal damage to the fish, in turn helping the fish live longer. The barbless hook does not cost more than a barbed hook. If the barbless hook was more expensive or even taken off of the market that could force many fly fishermen to keep more fish than they otherwise would. 

So rather than being the nobleman that releases the catch for another day try taking it home to enjoy it on the dinner table or in any other way. That way the fishing, as long as the regulations are followed, will continue to be well maintained and as good as it has always been or even better than ever before.

The Rich to the Poor

Why settle for something cheap when you can have great quality and a great experience when you pay a little more for something?

Going cheap is a great way to get started into something. It isn’t worth it to spend a fortune on something you’ve never done just to try it out. You can’t know if you like to do something until you’ve tried it. You save money and have an experience which you can build upon whether good or bad. But when you adopt the walmart mentality, buying then breaking the same product over and over again because it’s cheap and you can afford the low price every time, you could end up spending more money on the cheap stuff than you would have initially paid the one time for a higher quality item. 

This applies to the fly fishing world more deeply than you would think. There are a lot of fly fishing companies out there who want to promote the sport and help it become more popular and to do that they build and sell fly fishing equipment for all price ranges. Take the Fly Rod for example, you could pay anywhere from $50 dollars to $5000 dollars. With that kind of price range it can be easy to say I’ll go with the cheaper option so that I don’t have to spend as much as a car is worth. But it really pays to do your research when you get into the sport. 

The sport of fly fishing has been practiced for thousands of years. It can be referenced all the way back to at least the 13th century and with that history comes a lifelong mentality of the sport. The sport was mainly practiced by those of noble or wealthy stature in the world, which is why so much of the equipment has fancy names, and that has been maintained today through who fly fishing companies mainly target their product toward — the wealthy. But fly fishing companies, especially recently,  have expanded their business to include those of all economic classes. This means that anyone can pick up the sport no matter how much money they have or don’t have. That is also where many of these same companies have learned how to make most of their money. With the wide variety of fly rods from cheap to expensive you get different benefits when you purchase some fly rods compared to others. If you do your research you will find that companies offer lifetime warranties for their more expensive fly rods but don’t offer that for their cheaper fly rods. This is where they make their money, if you buy a cheaper fly rod that doesn’t have the warranty you will have to buy a new one when it breaks. If you buy the expensive one and break it you can get another one of the same quality for no charge at all. 

So don’t let those companies take your money. If you have to save up to get a fly rod with the lifetime warranty then bite the bullet and do it, otherwise buy the cheaper fly rod and you will learn how expensive that gets pretty quick.

[christinaepilzauthor-blog]

Common Myths of the Wars of the Roses - Myth #3 - Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the 'Kingmaker'? Part 2…

A month or two ago, after a bit of a rant on Facebook, I started a series of posts to explode a few of the pervasive myths which surround the Wars of the Roses.

Here's the second part of my exploration into the notion that Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, deserves the epithet of "kingmaker".

We have seen in Part 1 how Warwick's role in the events leading up to 1460 was that of a supporter of the Duke of York, but not one who was trying to unseat the lawful king, Henry VI. However, with the disastrous defeat at the battle of Wakefield in December 1460, the political landscape of England was changed utterly. As Christmas presents go, it was to say the least, disappointing for  York's heir, Edward, Earl of March. The York-Neville alliance was in tatters and a new strategy was required. Now the decisions rested not with York and Salisbury but with their sons: Edward and Richard, Earl of Warwick.

Surely here then is the prime example of Warwick 'making' a king – but is it?

If Warwick himself had been writing the script, I have no doubt that it would have read thus: 

The Earl of Warwick took the inexperienced 18 year old son of York under his wing and guided him to power. That Warwick believed this to be the case is almost certain, but that doesn't make it true. 

The 'kingmaker' version of events does not match what actually happened. 

Though Edward might not have succeeded in taking the throne, without Warwick's resources, the pivotal events of 1461 were driven by Edward, not by Warwick.

Warwick was important because he drew support for Edward and had enormous resources of men and money, but in 1461 it was young Edward who pulled the strings – both on and off the battlefield. The traditional historical view of Edward was that he was lazy and indecisive – another colossal myth bequeathed to us by the Victorians, but that's for another day! In fact, especially in his youth, Edward was very decisive indeed and it was his drive and energy which dictated the fast pace of events in the spring of 1461, whereas Warwick was very much on the back foot.

In February, whilst Queen Margaret headed for London with a large northern army, Edward destroyed Jasper and Owen Tudor's Lancastrian army in the west at Mortimer's Cross, before marching east to join Warwick. At the very same time, Warwick was making a complete pig's ear of his attempt to stop Margaret's advance on London. 

The Earl of Warwick was not a great general – nor was he an especially lucky one. His chaotic performance at the second battle of St Albans could have destroyed the Yorkist cause. During the battle, he had no idea what was going on, with the result that most of his army was destroyed or fled. Then afterwards, he contrived to lose the one vital advantage he had which was possession of King Henry VI. Thus, when Warwick dragged the tattered remnant of his army to meet Edward at Chipping Norton, he brought very little to the table.

Edward IV, St Laurence's Church, Ludlow

This, I think, was the moment when young Edward realised that if he was going to be king, he could not rely upon Warwick to deliver the crown to him. Had Margaret decided to unleash her unruly army against London in February 1461 then she might well have secured the throne for her husband, Henry VI. Fortunately for Edward – and Warwick – she did not. Instead, almost inexplicably, she retreated northwards and allowed Edward to enter London in triumph.

In London, often supportive of his father, Edward could use the machinery of government and raise merchant loans to recruit another army with which he would later defeat the queen's forces at the bloody battle of Towton. 

London was therefore vital and there is no doubt that it was Queen Margaret, not Warwick, who handed him the city and all its resources.

The vital occupation of London was thus achieved in spite of, not because of, Warwick's efforts.

Becoming king in 1461 was not about diplomacy, or having the right policies, it was about winning a bitter and bloody struggle on the field of battle. During his reign, as I have said, Edward IV is sometimes accused of lethargy but in 1461 it was his drive and fighting prowess which won the day. 

Sometimes it's as well to step outside the cosy narrative of the history books and see the man as he was perceived by others. Edward was a natural leader and in the heat of battle men saw this giant of a youth – well over six feet tall – always in the forefront of the fight, hacking down his enemies with his fearsome poll axe. Warwick was a brave soldier and indeed fought bravely at Towton, but he could not outshine Edward. It was a truly terrible battle and the outcome was still in doubt quite late on in the day. It was the arrival of reinforcements from the Duke of Norfolk which turned the tide of battle in Edward's favour. So even then, victory owed little to Warwick.

Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, though he was very important to Edward's success, did not make Edward king in 1461; Edward did. Warwick was not a king maker.

The earl is rather like a competitor in BBC's The Apprentice claiming in the boardroom: "I negotiated that deal, or I got that special price, or I made that massive sale that won us the task."  

Warwick 'talked a good game' and after the throne was won, he saw himself – perhaps rightly – as the man who should be the king's chief adviser.  But in the next four or five years, events did not quite follow Warwick's plan. He hoped to be the guiding hand behind the crown and in his foreign diplomacy he projected exactly such an image. 

One of the features of Edward's kingship, throughout his disjointed reign, is his willingness to give his enemies a second chance. In most cases, this worked well for him and ensured that his government eventually included many who had supported the old king. Though at times this generosity backfired, it did gain him the respect and support of many who had not previously been his allies. 

How irritating must Warwick have found it in the 1460s to see his place of prominence being threatened by some who had actually fought against him?

Thus by 1469, Warwick was a very disgruntled nobleman who began to see that his own best interests might lie with an alternative to Edward IV.

But more of that in Part 3…

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Derek Birks was born in Hampshire in England but spent his teenage years in Auckland, New Zealand, where he still has strong family ties. For many years he taught history in a secondary school but took early retirement to concentrate on writing. Apart from his writing, he spends his time gardening, travelling, walking and taking part in archaeological digs at a Roman villa. Derek is interested in a wide range of historical themes but his particular favourite is the late medieval period. He writes action-packed fiction which is rooted in accurate history. His debut historical novel was Feud, which is set in the period of the Wars of the Roses. Feud is the first of a now complete four-book series, entitled Rebels & Brothers, which follows the fortunes of the fictional Elder family from 1459 to 1471. A new series, The Craft of Kings, picks up the story of the Elders in 1481 in its first book, Scars From The Past. Later this year, the violent events of 1483 are played out in the sequel, The Blood of Princes.

Website: www.derekbirks.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Feud_writer

Amazon author sites: amazon.co.uk; amazon.com

Hat Tip To: English Historical Fiction Authors