#Commonwealth Heads of Government

[trendynewsnow]

King Charles III's Visit to Australia Disrupted by Indigenous Protest

King Charles III’s Visit to Australia Interrupted by Protest Shortly after King Charles III delivered his remarks in Australia’s Parliament on Monday, an unexpected voice echoed from the back of the chamber. “You are not our king,” declared Lidia Thorpe, an Indigenous senator and prominent activist advocating for Aboriginal rights. “Return our land. Give us back what you have stolen from us.” As…

[mel-rhodes-place]

ANOTHER SEAGATE SIMPLY GIVEN AWAY

(https://order-order.com/2024/10/03/labour-gives-away-crucial-chagos-islands-to-china-aligned-mauritius/) Britain has gotten a lot smaller.   After over 200 years, she has given away the Chagos Islands in the Indian Ocean.   These were given to Mauritius but Mauritius is very friendly to China, so in a short period of time, China will be the main beneficiary. David Lammy, an immigrant from the…

[caymannewsservice]

Premier participates in Commonwealth talking-shop

Premier Juliana O’Connor-Connolly takes part in a plenary session at the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting in Samoa, chaired by Andrew McKellar (left) (CNS): Premier Juliana O’Connor-Connolly rubbed shoulders with leaders from across the Commonwealth this week on her trip to Samoa, where she is representing Cayman and the other UK Overseas Territories. According to a press release, on the…

[todayworldnews2k21]

King and Queen continue royal tour with Samoa visit

Charles and Camilla will be greeted by the country’s prime minister Afioga Fiame Naomi Mataafa.

[thoughtlessarse]

Britain faces growing calls at this week’s Commonwealth summit to pay billions of pounds in reparations to poorer countries for causing climate change as well as slavery. The leaders of some of the nations at most risk from the effects of climate change plan to use the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) in Samoa to lobby for reparative justice from the UK and other wealthy countries that are among the biggest polluters. Philip Davis, the prime minister of the Bahamas, told the Observer that his country needed help from the UK and others to pay for damage caused by extreme weather events and to help save it from the worst effects of rising sea levels. Davis said: “The Commonwealth is the ideal forum for making progress on reparations. Our very name echoes the principles and values of the necessary stewardship of the wealth we hold in common – our shared planet. “Bringing together some of the richest nations on the world with some of the most vulnerable gives us the urgent responsibility for finding a solution to the global shocks that threaten the loss of lives and livelihoods.” He added: “For island states – which make up nearly half of the membership of the Commonwealth – it’s a threat which is truly existential. If we cannot find ways to make our countries more resilient to these shocks, we will not survive.” Davis, whose low-lying island nation is the richest in the West Indies with a per capita GDP of around $31,000, and other Caribbean leaders will also be seeking reparations for slavery when they meet Keir Starmer and other prime ministers from the 56-nation association at CHOGM in the Samoan capital Apia this week. It is the first time the biennial summit has been held in a Pacific island state and the first attended by the King as head of the Commonwealth.

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I'm shocked they would ask for billions. It should be trillions.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

[kookygobbledygook]

I want to talk quickly about the four reasons Australia could never have a president like Trump, and this isn't a dig at the US or it's citizens. And it's not holding up Australia as some sort of becon of government, because as you'll see there are so many flaws in our system. This is about government structure and voting policy. It is also so, so funny to think about.

1. Preferential voting: A.K.A raked voting. Unlike the U.S system which is most votes wins, this takes into account second and third choices of voters. It means that it takes into account not only who people like most but also who people like least. Essentially our system has a "I don't want A to win, I want B to lose," clause which is so petty and I love it.

2. Compulsory voting. Everyone has to vote, or you get fined. Now, I know that most of you think that would be crap, but think about this; no voter suppression, because everyone has to vote. No point in voter fraud because ballot numbers have to line up with the population. You don’t have to make sure your voter registration is up to date because you just do it once when you turn 18, and you stay in the system forever because you're always gonna need to be registered. And the government has to make sure voting is accessible to everyone because everyone has to vote. Plus you get a democracy sausage.

3. We don't vote for a prime minister. We vote for a party, and the leader of that party gets to be in charge. Now Americans probably are thinking "we do that too." Not quite. You see, if all the citizens are hating on a prime minister too much and their party is getting antsy about the polls, they can have a leadership spill and nominate a new head of their party, who will become prime minister without an election. Since 2007 we had Kevin Rudd who was ousted by Julia Gillard who was ousted by Kevin again who was voted out and replaced by Tony Abbott who was ousted by Malcom Turnbull who was ousted by Scott Morrison who was voted out and replaced by Anthony Albanese. That seven PMs over three elections, two of them the same guy. You think Trump wouldn't have been pushed out in his first six months?

4. Because we are still part if the commonwealth King Charles is still our head of state and has the power to fire a Prime minister. It's kind of happened before. I hate the fact that Charles is our head of state and I don't believe he should have the power to dismiss an official elected by the Australian people. But if Trump was our Prime Minister it would be sooooo funny to watch Charles fire him.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Those Summer Nights, When I Look in Your Eyes

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Commonwealth (No France) Warnings: Sexual Situations; Vague Smut

Summary: Daryl's childhood had lacked so much and at the beginning of the turn, he had never known love beyond Merle's version of it. Now, he had it all and he would never let them wonder how much he cherished them.

A/N: For @louifaith, I hope this is close to what you imagined for our archer. 🩵 - Also, I have Daryl calling reader "pip" because someone suggested him nicknaming her "pipsqueak" in another story and it has just stuck with me. I was as vague as possible about reader’s age but let me be clear - she is above 18. I don’t write for huge age gaps. I don’t judge those that do and I do read them. I just do not write them but I have no control over where your mind takes you. Anyway, the song he hums is attached. ;)

Life was good. 

For thirteen years, there had never been a point in time where Daryl had felt like he could say that and genuinely believe it. For an entire year, the Commonwealth had thrived. Not a single threat. The walls held. The governing unit was fair and compassionate. It really was like the old world. 

But not for Daryl. 

In the old world, he had been a drifter. A useless drifter walking in the shadow of his brother. No job, no friends, no purpose. And he had, at that time, liked it that way. 

Not anymore. 

Because now he had a job. He had friends. He had a family. He had a purpose. And he had everything he had lacked growing up. He had love, and not just Merle’s variation of it.

Carol had taken over Lance’s position when Ezekiel and Mercer had stepped up to govern. She had pulled Daryl aside and asked him if he wanted to stay in their reformed force, giving him the choice. His decision was to promptly decline. So they put their heads together to come up with something. 

Daryl possessed many skills, most of them learned by doing throughout the years. He had one condition that he would not negotiate on, however. 

Daryl’s time outside the walls was over. 

He agreed to train hunters to take his place and conceded to three weeks on the road with volunteers that he left up to Carol’s choosing. There was more than enough trust between them for him to be comfortable with who she would deem worthy to provide for the community. 

Then he was given the job of overseeing construction and structural upkeep, equipment maintenance, and of course, a seat in the governmental advisory council. He was nothing if not adaptable and took to his position quickly, finding that he liked it. He was respected and his suggestions for the good of the community were heard and considered. 

If he chose to hunt or ride, it would be for leisure but he’d hardly needed it in the past year. Domestic life had tamed the inner need to hide or escape that had been ingrained throughout the years even before the turn. 

Years ago, you had tumbled into his life. A hot mess that he had spent many a day battling the urge to absolutely throttle. You had a stubborn streak a mile wide that made his own nothing more than a small trail. He absolutely couldn’t stand you. 

Funny thing, time. 

Now you wore his ring and proudly carried his last name. You had wanted the ceremony, even if his proposal was lackluster. He had been seeking you out after the end of the Whisperers. 

“Where’s Y/N?” At first no one answered. He barely parted his lips, intent on asking again with a little more well placed ardor when a woman he recognized as a former Hilltop resident spoke up.  “I saw your wife! She’s over with the children!” He muttered his thanks and took a single step before you were finding him.  “Daryl!” Your body collided with his, knocking the air from his lungs. His heartbeat lowered regardless, feeling you there in his arms, alive and breathing and whole. “I couldn’t see you in the herd. I was about to come find you but Jude, she made me promise to stay.” “M’here. An’ they’re gone” He tightened his arms around you and rested his cheek on the crown of your head.  “So I’m your wife now, huh?” He felt the shift of your facial muscles against his chest, knew you were smiling.  “What of it?” He grunted. “Ya wanna be?” He felt his heart skip a few beats when you lifted your head to smile at him, beaming and beautiful.  “Of course, I do. Might as well be at this point. We sound like an old married couple.” Daryl snorted and then shrugged. “Then I guess we are.” “That simple?” “That simple.” When you grinned, he knew you would never let it be that simple. 

You got your wedding, simple and intimate, with only the few remaining people that were closest to the two of you. When Gabriel said the words, you got your ring, too. Oh, the hell and herds Daryl had gone through to get them. Matching bands, camelot black titanium. Crafted to withstand the way the world was. 

He was twisting the ring round and round as he walked home, tired from a full day’s work and more than ready for the weekend with his family: you, Jude, RJ, and his little River. His boy was nearly two years old, the spitting image of Daryl with a heaping dose of your attitude. 

You were younger than Daryl, still at an age where pregnancy and giving birth was not considered risky beyond the state the world was in and the lack of some resources. It was horrifying yet the best news he’d ever heard in his self-proclaimed useless life.

River Merle came along right in the midst of the unease in the Commonwealth. When they had taken you and River along with Jude and RJ, it had required all the power Carol possessed to stop Daryl from losing his goddamn mind. He was prepared to rip out entrails with his bare hands and use them to strangle each and every trooper that stood between him and his wife and kids. It was not a good time to support Pamela. 

It all worked out in the end when, bruised but alive, the people took back the Commonwealth.

And now, here he was. A husband. A father. A boss. A survivor. 

Life. Was. Good.

“Ya home, Pip?” The words habitually rolled off his tongue the moment he opened the door and stepped inside. Jude and RJ were watching a movie, the elder looking over with a hey, Uncle Daryl before turning right back to the television. It was the weekend. No reason to bug them about homework. 

“Where else would we be?” You called from the kitchen. Daryl unlaced his boots, was in the middle of pulling off the second one when you came out with River on your hip. “Someone’s cranky today.” 

“I ain’t cranky.”

“I’m not talking about you but assuming I was says a lot.” You smiled softly, passing off the baby while simultaneously stealing a kiss. “Hi.” 

“Hey.” He nearly melted, probably would have if you weren’t situating a small human right against his chest.

“Get a room.” Judith was rolling her eyes when Daryl shot her a harmless look. 

River’s little arms went straight around his father’s neck, his little hiccups and sniffles muffled against Dary’s shirt. “S’wrong, lil’ man. Mama houndin’ ya over veggies like she does me an’ RJ?” River pulled back, rubbing his left eye with a chubby fist, looking at Daryl with a scowl that he knew very well adorned his own face more often than not. Even being so content with his life, he couldn’t seem to rid himself of what you called his resting bitch face.

“Daddy.” Was all the boy said before burying his face back into Daryl’s shirt.

“He had a nap?” Daryl was jostling his son as little as possible while ridding himself of his precious vest, tossing it over the back of ‘his’ chair at the dining table. His large hand covered a wide expanse of the small boy’s back when he rubbed soothing little circles, following you into the kitchen. You shook your head and took the lid off the pot on the stove. The scent of meat and herbs wafted toward Daryl and his mouth watered, but first thing was first.

“He wouldn’t go down. I think it’s a daddy day.” You smiled at the sauce but it wasn’t meant for the pasta topping at all. Daddy days were Daryl’s favorite. River wanted absolutely no one but him. The baby would fuss during meals, refuse to nap, and absolutely forget about bath and bedtime unless Daryl was there.

“I got ‘im then. See if I can get ‘im down for a bit.” Daryl was ducking and angling his head to catch River’s attention, finally earning a shy smile when blue met blue and the archer scrunched his nose and stuck out his tongue. Pressing a kiss into the mess of wavy hair, he noticed you standing with your back against the countertop, a certain type of smile on your face.

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re just sexy.”

“Pfft, stop.”

“We are so playing chess tonight.”

Daryl arched a brow. “Yeah?” 

You nodded, your smile morphing into something else entirely; something sinful. “Oh, yeah.”

Dinner done, older kids in their rooms after teeth brushing and goodnight hugs, Daryl sat in the nursery with a sleepy River resting his head on his father’s shoulder while the chair gently rocked. The baby’s hair was only the least bit damp but he smelled of the lavender lotion that you always seemed to have near the changing table, instructing Daryl to use it after baths and before bed because it was calming.

Bathed and in a fresh diaper and pajamas, mini-Daryl was beginning to drift off while his father simply rubbed his back or kissed his cheek or even held a little hand just to count the fingers over and over. Soon enough there would be potty training and pre-school—Carol had said that was still a thing in the world now and yes, they had one in the Commonwealth—so for now, Daryl just wanted to soak it all up, take it all in.

River would likely be the only baby the two of you would have, so not a single second was being wasted or taken for granted. You kept a daily journal of simple things that some might find trivial but Daryl knew he’d be reading that journal often enough to wear the ink right off the pages. Sometimes, he missed things because of work, but in the end, that’s what happened when you were a parent, he supposed. His old man didn’t care about milestones or daddy days, and his mama wasn’t around for bath time or boo-boo kisses. River would have it all. And as long as they were his to care for, so would Judith and RJ. In fact, since the baby had Daryl, you were currently reading a story to Rick and Michonne’s son before bed.

Man, if Rick could see Daryl now. Would his brother even recognize him? God, would his brother even recognize him? He let his mind drift for a moment to Rick and Merle, just long enough to keep them close and then he was back to River, pressing a kiss to a chubby cheek. 

You would always rock and sing to the little one but he didn’t need that from Daryl. There was just something about their bond that didn’t require words and hardly even movement. It had been that way since the moment you had pushed him into the world. He had cried, red-faced and angry and cold while Tomi leaned to put him onto your chest. You had your time with him, cuddling and nursing, his little sounds still expressing his discontentment with the change from your warm womb to a loud, bright world.

They had Daryl take off his shirt, which he didn’t understand until you explained better than any doctor or nurse could. The moment River was pressed against his skin, the connection was apparent to anyone who saw. The baby went silent, wide eyes mirroring the ones Daryl himself had. He had felt guilty for the longest time that River wanted you to feed him and then he wanted his daddy back immediately. He still had his mommy days and you said that was enough.

You were always supportive, never angry or jealous. You’d share the moments with him while he enjoyed them with you. 

It was all what he’d never had, so he’d make sure River, Judith, and RJ never went without it.

His eyes were slow to open, squinting at the traitorous window that dared let the morning rays creep across the bed and to his pillow. It took a few sluggish blinks to remember what day it was and that he was free to go back to sleep until River required either you or him. With a deep breath, he stretched his arms above his head and looked at you, still wrapped around him with your head on his chest. Naked. Still so very, very naked.

He was barely in the bedroom door before you were pushing him against it, almost catching his fingers when he attempted to mute the sound of it closing at his back. You had his shirt unbuttoned and your mouth on his before he could even take a breath. “I told you,” you panted against his lips, “we’re playing chess tonight.” Daryl grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you easily, spinning you to press you against the door. “Goddamn right, we are.” The first round was a frenzied bout of moaning and skin slapping skin, hands covering mouths to keep the noise down. Your nails had left gouges on Daryl’s ass and back, clawing at him for more. You weren’t unscathed. A bruise was blooming on the curve of your right breast, a perfect black and purple bite he had inflicted at some point. It ended with you lying across Daryl’s torso while he was flat on his back with the pillow halfway over his face. Panting and sweating while the sheet covered neither of you where it mattered. Why it was anywhere near either of you was anyone’s guess. The second time was slower, every second savored. Your fingertips memorizing his face while his hips rolled into you, back arching to push himself deeper. His lips were on your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks and mouth. His fingers danced down your ribcage and back up to your breasts, gentle caresses while he pressed his lips over the mark he’d left earlier. You didn’t have to try hard to roll him over. He went willingly, his hands going straight for your hips. You let your fingers roam his chest and stomach. His scars were yours to explore, he’d given that power over to you long ago. The marks no longer held him prisoner after you’d shown him how to be free. You were incredibly attracted to the way his body had softened with age and he worshiped each wrinkle and stretch mark that time and pregnancy had gifted you. You loved each other wholly, without condition. 

And you laid where you had collapsed, goosebumps on your skin from the cool morning air. Daryl didn’t want to go back to sleep, so he laid there, watching you and just enjoying the silence with the knowledge that his family was safe. That you had survived together and built something so precious.

When River began to fuss, it was Daryl that slipped out of bed and left you to rest a bit longer. He had no qualms with being the one to get up earlier to take care of the baby.

The weekend went by fast, as it often did. Sunday night, he found himself sitting on the couch after the kids were all asleep. He had helped clean up after dinner and was contently watching you pick up toys and fold laundry. He didn’t step in to help because he had no intention of allowing you to continue for long.

“What?” You finally inquired, obviously catching him staring.

“Nothin’.” He smirked, huffing a laugh that came out as an exhale through his nose. You were still regarding him when he stood and beckoned you with a finger. “C’mere.” Your pretty eyes narrowed but you placed the unfolded towel on the top of the pile in the basket and stepped into his space. Daryl wasn’t romantic, truly believed he didn’t have it in him to be anything near it. Still, when he guided your arms to his shoulders and lowered his hands to your hips, he watched you melt.

“There’s no music, Daryl.”

“Don’t need it.” He shrugged, just swaying back and forth with you, pulling you closer until you rested your head against his chest.

“The formidable Daryl Dixon is dancing with me when there’s no music playing. This’ll make the papers. It’ll be the headline.”

“Stop.” He chuckled, pressing a kiss into your hair. He was smiling when you sighed, somehow pressing yourself closer to him. You didn’t react at first when he started to hum, whether you were in shock or just relishing the moment. Maybe both. You let him continue.

It was an old tune, one from a favorite album released more than a decade before the first walker rose from the dead. The tune was slow and deep, his chest vibrating with every drone. Finally, you pulled back just enough to look up at him, the corners of your mouth perked.

“What is that?”

“How dare ya! S’Ozzy, woman.” He feigned offense but was tenderly tucking your hair behind your ears.

“I’ve never heard it.”

Daryl scowled playfully before scrunching his nose. “Remind me why I married ya?” You wrapped yourself around him and with the fondest smile he had ever let cross his face, he held you tighter.

“Because you love me.”

“Yeah.” He breathed. “Yeah, I do.”

[camillasgirl]

King Charles III and Queen Camilla host an official dinner and reception for the Commonwealth Heads of Government (CHOGM) at the Robert Louis Stevenson Museum, Apia, Samoa, 25.10.2024

[mister-a-z-fell]

It took some searching, but I finally unearthed the trade tokens from my old shop on the bridge. Rather the worse for wear, but still legible!

The lack of small denomination coins at that time made everyday purchases difficult. Traders took it upon themselves to issue farthing (a quarter of a penny) and half-penny tokens to fill the gap.

Shops could give these tokens as change, and would accept other traders’ tokens. Thus, for example, Mister Finch of ‘The Dog’s Head’ might come to me with twenty-four of my half-penny tokens, and redeem them for a shilling.

The practice survived for some several decades until, in 1672, a proclamation was issued by Charles II that copper farthings and halfpence stamped at the Mint would be the only permitted coinage, and the issuing of private tokens largely ceased.

You might be interested to know that the discussion of minting /legal/ small coinage was discussed by the Commonwealth Government — as beneficial to the poor — as early as 1651. Despite this, nothing was done about it. For almost thirty years.

Isn’t history interesting?

[the-dixon-effect]

you are the river of light, that i cling to in the empty night

a/n: im back whores

You thumbed the copper pendant daintily hanging from your neck, a little bronze sun - a testament to how much Daryl loved you before you even knew. You were Daryl's sun, the light that sustained all life, all good. Though he wouldn't say it, this was his way of telling you. Years later, your shared apartment in the commonwealth, however dreary, was the home that you had been longing for ever since the fall. Decorated with antique lamps and watercolours and soft music pouring out of the vintage record player in the corner of the room, time seemed to slow and warp when you spent your evenings with the man you loved so. Perched on the kitchen counter, you eagerly waited for him to return home.

Daryl's new job as a commonwealth soldier felt taxing to him - though he never complained in fear of boring or scaring you. Home was his sacred place; cooking, laughing, drinking, loving, a place where he could escape the past and present. The future was you, and however tempestuous and unstable life proved to be these days, you were his constant. In fear of seeming poetic, he kept his thoughts about you to himself, however badly he wanted to tell the world. Your touch was medicine, your love was rejuvenating.

As he entered, you whistled at his arrival and jumped to greet your man.

"Hey baby," he said, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in closer with a fistful of your hair. "Missed ya'," he moved a hand up to your cheek, adjusting your head so he could gaze into your sweet, loving eyes for a moment before moving in to kiss you with the passion of a starved man.

"And I waited for ya'," you flirted once pulling away. "Tell me 'bout your day, cause mine was boring as hell," you withdrew the embrace yet he pursued you towards the living room still holding your hand.

"Handled some rotters down the south fence, ya' know they can climb now?" you shivered, imagining Daryl surrounded by hungry walkers, all day, every day thanks to Pamela Milton and Michael Mercer, the ones that decided he needed to be here. Of course it was admriable, putting his life on the line every day, but for a government that doesn't even know his name? If you could convince him to stay in bed each morning, away from the danger, you could be ever satisfied knowing he would only exist in your arms. "Wha's wrong?" you must have frowned without answering, because he now pulled you over his thighs and held you firmly, not wanting to let you go.

You only hummed, afraid to meet his eyes covered by those chocolate bangs. "I want you... here. If somethin' happened to you out there-"

"Baby, ya' know it won't. 'M sorry," he spoke softly into your neck, gently rubbing your thighs with tenderness much unlike the stoic soldier known to you and your friends. "I love ya', I ain't givin' that up,"

"Don't try to be heroic. Don't be the person that's gotta save the day. If somethin' goes wrong, just run. Please.. promise for me," you held eye contact, stroking your fingers through his tangled tresses.

"Promise."

[myemuisemo]

Is there an 18th century manuscript in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? This is the question that opens chapter II of The Hound of the Baskervilles, this week's Letters from Watson.

I have been distracted by the long-s, which appears in manuscripts from the 17th through early 19th century. If Mortimer's manuscript was printed, there are numerous rules that apply to use of long and short s. But surely it's handwritten? In that case, the long-s would appear only in double-s combinations. There are 16 such in the manuscript. I resisted the urge to try formatting the text to see if any of them would appear near a fold, peeking out of a pocket.

Since there's a period of more than a century when long-s is commonly used, Holmes must also be drawing conclusions from the paper, or the shade of the ink, or the style of the handwriting (or printing?).

“You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730.” “The exact date is 1742.” Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket. 

That "or so" in Holmes' boast is doing a lot of work.

Since the document refers to Lord Clarendon's work, which is The History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in England (written 1646-8, published 1702-4), the Great Rebellion must be the conflict between royalists and Parliamentarians that led to the execution of King Charles I, the Commonwealth under Oliver Cromwell, and eventually to the UK becoming a constitutional monarchy.

"Godless" Hugo Baskerville sounds like standard demonization of the royalists as debauched and corrupt. However, since Baskervilles apparently held their land consistently through the entire period, they may also have been good at either playing with whatever side was winning or keeping their heads down.

Hugo is neither a nice nor a good man, so there's a certain glee in his being struck down by a slavering hell hound.

In contrast, Sir Charles Baskerville possesses "amiability of character and extreme generosity." His fortune made in South Africa was, nonetheless, derived from exploiting native peoples -- unless he was running a sugar cane plantation in Natal, in which case he likely shipped in indentured servants from India to exploit as workers. (I'm being terse because British colonialism in Africa was an endless pit of awful -- and also heavily romanticized in literature -- and I'm on the verge of ranting into topics where I may have details blurry. The Guardian has a piece.)

The two ethnic groups Mortimer and Baskerville discussed as "comparative anatomy" would today be San, foraging people who rejected British efforts to turn them into farmers and who... oh bloody hell, were deliberately hunted with approval of the government. The other is the pastoral Khoekhoe, who raised sheep and cattle. Did the British colonies try to enslave the Khoekhoe as labor? Of course they did.

By the standards of the day, Sir Charles Baskerville was not a prime candidate to be haunted by his conscience, nor by hell hounds, though.

I'm not even touching Murphy the traveler, whose testimony is suspect due to drink. Argh.

Surely Sir Charles' tip-toe stride was running? But what of his facial contortions? I feel immediate distrust for Mr. Stapleton, based on nothing but James Mortimer's liking him.

The list of people I wouldn't mind seeing eaten by a hell hound is growing. How long will it be before Holmes unravels who really did what to whom?

[caymannewsservice]

Premier in Samoa for Commonwealth meeting

A village in Samoa decoration to welcome delegates (CNS): Premier Juliana O’Connor-Connolly travelled some 6,500 miles this weekend to attend the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) 2024 in Apia, Samoa, in the South Pacific. Accompanying her is Chief Officer Eric Bush from the planning ministry rather than one of her own chief officers. Continue reading Premier in Samoa for…

[thewomenofwindsor]

CONFIRMED: The King and Queen’s royal visit to Australia 🇦🇺(his first realm visit as monarch), their state visit to the Independent State of Samoa 🇼🇸 and attendance at the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) in Samoa will take place between 18th and 26th 0ctober.

[saintsenara]

hi! any thoughts on antonin dolohov? back in the day i used to have a huge obsession with him, i remember when i was reading deathly hallows for the first time i was so happy when he got mentioned like 3 times in passing... anyway, it's been a long time but i still have a soft spot for this character and was curious how you imagine his background and motivations and whatnot. does he survive the war? and most importantly, why the hell does he always get petrificus totalused, is it a coincidence, a conspiracy or an ancient curse on his family?

thank you very much for the ask, anon! having an elaborate backstory for random death eaters is my bread and butter [i'd walk through fire for augustus "irrelevant" rookwood] and so - yes - i do indeed have thoughts on antonin dolohov.

most of these are connected to the geopolitics of wizarding russia, which - given both the small magical population, the fact that the need to maintain the statute of secrecy seems to drive wizards to accept fairly authoritarian systems of government, and the fact that elves fill the roles of serfs - almost certainly doesn't have the right social conditions to foment a parallel to the 1917 revolution. i'm obsessed with the idea of russian purebloods living bizarre ancien régime lives as the muggle world around them changes unrecognisably.

i know dolohov doesn't actually have to be a russian national - he could be a british citizen with a russian name - but jkr tends to only use non-commonwealth surnames [under which colonial umbrella come names like "patil" or "chang"] for characters who are non-british nationals, like fleur, krum, or karkaroff. and since i'm obsessed with the fact that voldemort seems to spend so much of his travels in the eastern bloc - and that there are two death eaters with slavic-language names, but no order members or ministry officials - i like to imagine that he is.

when it comes to the man, though, the canon incidental character detail which i love is that dolohov is clearly a great pal. he travels all the way to hogsmeade to wish voldemort luck for his interview and buy him a drink after:

"Then if I were to go to the Hog's Head tonight, I would not find a group of them - Nott, Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov - awaiting your return? Devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post."

[dumbledore's just being a bitch here because he's so gutted he doesn't have a group of lads ready to assemble for pints at any opportunity...]

dolohov is also is gassed for yaxley when he achieves his greatest professional triumph:

"My Lord, I have good news on that score. I have - with difficulty, and after great effort - suceeded in placing an Imperius Curse upon Pius Thicknesse." Many of those sitting around Yaxley looked impressed; his neighbour, Dolohov, a man with a long, twisted face, clapped him on the back.

[voldemort - in contrast - couldn't give less of a fuck because he's too busy flirting with snape. so real of him.]

so i think we have the answer as to why he seems so susceptible to the ol' petrificus totalus: he's easily ambushed because he's so busy being impressed by everything else going on around him.