#Tori Kensington

[thenotoriousbatmm]

AU PLAYLIST TIME

mostly additional songs sung in the rewrites that weren't present in the original episodes:

Ways to be Wicked: sung in Falcon Quest during the Sky Race (Angelina Wahler, Tori Feinstein, and Darius Rucker (HOW COULD YOU HAVE THE MAIN SINGER OF HOOTIE AND THE BLOWFISH AND NOT HAVE HIM SING?!))

Shine Your Way: sung in AJ to the Rescue during the cave scene as he, the Firefly, and the monkey climb the crystal wall (Ramone Hamilton and Melissa Hutchinson)

Hell's Greatest Dad: sung in the short of the same name that takes place before Race to Sky High Mountain (Timothée Chalamet and Keith David)

Hell's Comin' With Me: sung in Sparkle's Racing Badge as Gabby returns to the Monster Dome for the first time in 2 years (Luna Bella Zamora, Alexander Polinsky, and Melanie Minichino)

Night Falls: sung in Special Mission Blaze as the team destroys the Toothbrush Taker's Blaster Bots (Kevin Michael Richardson, Nat Faxon, Luna Bella Zamora, Artyon Celestine, and Nolan North)

Novocaine: sung in The Ice Treasure as Gabby and Watts try to get to the titular treasure in the climax (Jenna Warren and Melanie Minichino)

Ho Hey: sung in Valentine's Day Rescue as Gabby finally admits she has feelings for Amber (Kensington Tallman and Gabby Blum, with the yells of "HO! HEY!" provided by Isaac Ryan Brown and Nolan North)

Chillin' like a Villain: sung in the cold open to Raceday Rescue, where Gabby teaches Watts how to act cool (Molly Jackson and Melanie Minichino)

Anything You Can Do: sung in Tool Truck Blaze (in the original, bizarrely so, Gabby DOESN'T APPEAR DESPITE THE STEM TOPIC FEATURING TOOLS A MECHANIC LIKE HER USES) when Gabby gets jealous of Blaze's transformation (Jenna Warren and Nolan North)

What's My Name (Watts Version): sung in The Midnight Mile with the purpose of hyping up Watts as a threat (Molly Jackson, Tori Feinstein, Sarah Sherman/Squirm, and Melanie Minichino)

What's My Name (Gabby solo): Sung in Race to Sky High Mountain as Gabby's way of reintroducing herself after being gone for a year in-universe (Luna Bella Zamora and Tori Feinstein)

[eaglesnick]

Second-rate Britain 6

The UK’s official retirement age is one of the highest in the world. Despite having  the fifth largest economy on the planet, Britons are expected to work long into old age before they can draw on their state pension. I gave three reasons yesterday why the government had postponed its plans to raise the pension age from 66 to 68.

“One is fear of social unrest as seen in France. Second, there is an election in less than two years time and raising the pension age is a vote-loser. Third, and perhaps most worrying of all, is that life- expectancy in the UK is falling."

Yesterday I was foolishly optimistic that this delay would be for several years but today it was announced:

“The Government plans to have a further review within two years of the next Parliament to reconsider plans for the state pension age to rise to 68.”  (Express and Star: 30/03/23)

So, we might yet see a retirement age of 68 before the end of the decade.

But this is not the main point of today’s observations. A very good reason for NOT raising the pension age is that in the UK life expectancy is now falling, not rising.

“For the first time in 100 years, Britons are dying earlier. The UK now has the worst health trends in western Europe – and doctors and experts believe that the impact of austerity is a major factor.”  Guardian 23/06/19.

Tory government’s have repeatedly deprived public services of adequate funding, which in turn has led to a decline in the quality of these services – from worsening housing conditions to NHS staff shortages. The deliberate running down of the NHS has led to massive waiting lists and many patients have died before they can be treated. The last decade has quite literally seen Tory government policies killing people. And before anyone blames Covid for increased waiting lists (which it did), the date of the quote above is June 2019, six months BEFORE Covid struck.

Needless to say, the fall in life expectancy disproportionately affects the poor, which is maybe why Tory governments seem not to care. It is no coincidence that it was the rich who received tax breaks on their pensions in the last budget while the rest of us will soon be expected to work until we are 68. While the rich can squirrel away a bigger pension pot much earlier than before, we will have to labour until we are nearly into our seventies.

Government’s figures show that 

“…females born into the poorest areas are the worst affected. Between 2018 and 2020, healthy life expectancy at birth in the most deprived areas was 19.3 years less than in the least deprived areas between 2018 and 2020. For males, it was 18.6 years fewer.” (Nursing in Practice: 27/03/22)

Life expectancy In the UK only began to fall after 2010, the year the first Tory government came to power after the financial crash of 2008. There then followed a decade of austerity measures and cuts to public services. During this time:

“… while life expectancy rose in most places during the first decade of the millennium, from 2010 it began to decline in some places… life expectancy fell in some urban parts of Leeds, Newcastle, Manchester, Liverpool and Blackpool where life expectancy was below 70 for men and 75 for women… there was a 20-year gap in life expectancy between a woman living in Camden (95.4 years) versus a woman living in one area of Leeds (74.7 years). And for men, there was a 27-year gap in life expectancy between areas in Kensington and Chelsea (95.3 years) and parts of Blackpool (68.3 years)”  (BBC News: 13/10/21)

The next time the unelected multi-millionaire Sunak tells us he is putting our “needs before politics”, we might want to insist he puts our lives above the economic interests of his already rich friends.

[voguebleue]

ik that if i moved back to toronto i would probably find some way to hate it as much as i hate california but it’s like every time i hear the weeknd or pnd or even fucking tory lanez and i see a pic of the cn tower and i think of chinese new year and kensington market and queens and all those things that were once close to me and are so so far right now it’s like.. fuck i just miss it so much i would give literally anything to be back there and to never have left in the first place

[fitzrovianews]

Labour wins West Central London Assembly seat and Mayoral vote for first time

Labour’s James Small-Edwards’ win in West Central was the first time the party had picked up the seat. Credit: LDRS. Labour has taken the West Central London Assembly seat for the first time, ousting the Tory incumbent by just over 4,000 votes. The constituency, which includes Fitzrovia West and covers the boroughs Hammersmith and Fulham, Kensington and Chelsea and Westminster, also backed…

[collymore]

Kate Middleton is quite effortlessly - laughable!

By Stanley Collymore   Kate now openly, shamelessly and obsessively doing the Meghan Markle thing of hugging people willy-nilly, except that Meghan did her hugging really naturally, empathetically, and also decidedly, undoubtedly genuinely. Previously and rather indubitably on your Duchess Doolittle's part this was never, ever really done; and this was basically because Meghan was, distinctly herself, naturally and quite realistically doing what was then basically plainly and essentially racially demeaned, by the likes of the same Kate, her brownnosers; Palace flunkies and naturally the rightwing media, as infra dig; evidently debasing royal conduct and must obviously therefore be totally shunned. A regarded as common behaviour to be openly avoided, Kate even recoiled from it when she and William "socially" visited Meghan and Harry at their then discernibly official home in Kensington Palace; Meghan having clearly endearingly, sought to warmly and spontaneously embrace this odiously vile prat, now regarded asininely as a saintly Diva, who then callously racially rebuffed Meghan's affections; the quite predicted Daily Mail's response itself proudly aided and firmly abetted, by its controlled cretins, trollop Karens, and actually clearly effete and sexually dubious Gammons, was that Kate was very obviously in the right, as Meghan's very own brazen, and unwarranted American intrusion, undeniably not British old boy; just wasn't done in Britain. Quite clearly Inappropriate behaviour basically, for a member of their Divine monarchical family and particularly too, a successful stalking, and similarly an expertly skilled social climber who clearly is white and pleasurably, distinct from Meghan who must actually be ongoingly demeaned both for her natural and quite empathetic conduct as well as her own race. Now with Meghan out of the way Kate can't do enough of that same hugging and like herself. Yes, I'm well aware that imitation is basically regarded as the highest form of flattery! But to be effectively quite perniciously one of the major, odious, principal ogres that callously, jealously and racially did, psychologically shove Meghan, and husband Harry from out of Blighty clearly denying their children a life in Britain reinforces from my own, psychiatric training and constructively, working in the NHS, treating sectioned- patients: amongst them clearly dangerous sociopaths and also undoubtedly quite evil psychopaths that Waity Katie is a pretty nasty, and highly dangerous bitch; with some very vile, irredeemable, psychological abnormalities lodged inside her!   (C) Stanley V. Collymore 8 June 2023. Author's Remarks: The Maggie Thatcher regime both consciously and financially self-servingly purposely destroyed the mental health service throughout Britain; the cynical, lying and pathetic mantra proselytized by them was that the UK’s mentally defectives could and should be cared for in their own communities while simultaneously the lame argument went on, saving the taxpayers large sums of money through this unilateral action of the Tory regime. The real reason though, and an utter scam, were the massive amounts of money the Tory regime and its likeminded and avaricious allies in the corporate world could garner for themselves, and actually did so significantly, from selling off these huge and very profitable properties attendant with their enormous building and housing portfolios, land, farming and other commercial assets. By the time all of this had occurred however, I had long left the NHS to embark successfully on another phase of my carefully and skilfully planned career pursuit. During my time in the NHS as a Psychiatric Nurse I did regularly come across and routinely as well dealt with a plethora of truly psychologically sick and damaged individuals of both genders, some of them voluntarily there in hospital with the assistance and encouragement of close relatives many of whom literally wanted to be shot of them; but the vast majority of these patient inmates I dealt with who were incarcerated at my hospital: one of the largest and similarly oldest established mental hospital in England, were there as a direct consequence of being medical as well as criminally sanctioned to be there. People you wouldn’t sensibly turn your back on for a second and where even the eating implements like knives and forks were strictly plastic and nothing that could be remotely used as an improvised weapon was left in their view. In short, both day and night these people had to be and were relentlessly watched 24/7. So in essence I do have a pretty excellent idea of what I’m talking about as I experienced it on a minute by minute, hourly and a daily and weekly basis; having to meticulously be on one’s guard all the time as well as similarly dealing also with the unexpectedly dangerous vagaries of conduct exercised by very abnormal human beings. Camilla Parker Bowles and her protégé Kate Middleton, from a perfectly objective perspective on my part and reinforced with my psychiatric training, and likewise with intense discussions I’ve had and still do with persons I absolutely trust, once worked with and have significant psychiatric training and expertise up to and including consultancy level, fully agree with me on my objective analysis of this odious pair, camellia Parker Bowles and Kate Middleton. And in discussions with these professionals I earlier referred to the name and conduct of similar psychologically impaired individuals like J. Edgar Hoover of FBI infamy and the murder of both John F. Kennedy, his Brother, Martin Luther King and others; Jimmy Savile; Senator Joseph Raymond McCarthy: the classic Irish Stockholm Syndrome asshole who damaged the lives of myriads of people; Bonito Mussolini; Nicolae Ceausescu and Antonio de Oliveira Salazar – go check their verminous bastards  out if you’re not already familiar with them – in their relative conduct to what for years mow Camilla Parker Bowles has been doing and her protégé Kate Middleton is likewise undertaking. There loads of you that think that these two rightwing verminous, racist bitches have the intellectual acumen to base their own lifestyles on any of these aforementioned individuals; and frankly as a decades long Academic myself, Camilla Parker Bowles with her one GCE and Kate with her poor man’s in Academic terms History of Art degree, which only the intellectually challenged embark on clearly haven’t in my estimation. But psychological abnormalities don’t work that way and if you check out the facts you’ll readily find that psychopaths and sociopaths: of which Camilla Parker Bowles and Kate Middleton are every bit as odious as Jimmy Savile in how he odiously operated while appearing to be the epitome of consummate humanity, do automatically have a lot in common with each other. The crucial element in all of this being that they’re mentally sick but power hungry attention seekers with a marked perversion for egregious behaviour towards others they’re specifically envious of or psychologically fear: Diana Spencer in the case of Camilla Parker Bowles and Meghan Markle where Kate Middle is concerned. Quite happy to use any means at their disposal and a rightwing media whose jerks masquerading as journalists but are actually hacks are so devoid of worthy lives that the inherently medieval and monarchical hereditary serf situation with its useless awards and titles mean the world to them. Just look at how assiduously the Daily Mail is promoting even dead monarchies across Europe which the citizenry have rebuked and abolished. Psychopathically sick pillocks who with the dysfunctional lot at the Palace have made a deal: one gets bribes and the other a hush up of their criminality and Jimmy Savile type behaviour and worst. And where do the lot of you stand? Where else but in the queue to fall on your knees to these mother-F idiots who really don’t give a shit about you. And when you get some so-called American prat saying publicly that they wish they were British so they could claim Kate Middleton as their future queen, you really know that not only Camilla Parker Bowles, Kate Middleton and the rest of them have lost the fucking plot but significant numbers of others as well. We can rationally argue why there are so many psychologically sick bastards and bitches throughout Britain, thanks to Maggie Thatcher and co; but what’s the excuse for those in the USA, Canada, New Zealand and Australia; is it a genetic thing with you cunts?

[eagletek]

Campaigners lose High Court fight over axed ‘pop up’ High Street Kensington cycle lanes

Walking and cycling campaigners had sought a judicial review of the way Kensington and Chelsea council axed the cycle lanes in December 2020 after complaints from a number of residents and businesses. But Mr Justice Lane, in a written judgement on Tuesday, dismissed the claim from the Better Streets for Kensington & Chelsea group and found in favour of the Tory-run council. Better Streets said…

[pinkrabbitsbythenational]

if you voted lib dem in 2019 because you wanted to remain in the EU you are on watchmojo’s countdown of top ten stupidest people

[uraniumwaves]

The Music Never Ends 

Summer is done, and people are getting back to their activities. However, even though summer is over, the music never stops. And the music is here to remind us all the tremendous moments of our lives. That’s why you must always keep your headphones on, or turn your speakers back on to enjoy these musical journeys.

[thetelegraphgirl-blog]

(Tori Kensington)Here the Wednesday Almanac for youth enjoy! Not noted in the show is that its National Chocolate is 50% off Day! Happy Listening -Tori #HumanGenomeProject #ENIAC #SusanBAnthony #BettiePage #Galileo #AlwaysSomethingIntersting #TheAlmanacofGoodFeelings

[eaglesnick]

Hypocrites are those who apply to others the standards that they refuse to accept for themselves. Noam Chomsky

“Sunak orders review of low-traffic neighbourhoods The adoption of LTNs has attracted the ire of some Tory MPs, who have criticised the measures as attacks on motorists"  (Express and Star: 30/07/23).

Low Traffic Neighbourhoods (LTN’s) are designed to improve the quality of life for its residents.

“Better air quality with less pollution, quieter streets and a greater sense of community. Streets free of the stranglehold of traffic. Streets that breathe again."  (Motoring Research: October 2022)

But don’t shout that out too loud! Jeremy Vine, BBC 2 radio presenter, did and was severely reprimanded by the Corporation for breaching its political impartiality rules.

I'm not sure when wanting your family to breathe in clean air, in a non-traffic congested neighbourhood became a political issue, but Rishi Sunak is certainly against such schemes. How dare people try to improve their environment for the benefit of themselves and their neighbours! How selfish!

Strange that he should feel this way as in 2020, when he was Chancellor of the Exchequer, he earmarked £2billion for such projects.

“£2 billion package to create new era for cycling and walking." (www.gov.uk :09/05/20)

Not only was he in FAVOUR of such schemes back then but he IMPOSED LTN’s on the capitals residents.

“Government Compels London To Spend £100 Million On LTNs And More…” Forbes: 01.05/21)

Maybe MR Sunak has memory problems? Or maybe, he senses that there are Tory votes to be had in squashing his own green policies?

One thing is certain, he wont suffer from traffic congestion, air pollution, or excess noise in his huge North Yorkshire home or in his lavish Kensington mansion. And I doubt if he suffers from environmental pollution when he resides in his Georgian Manor house in Richmond, but if he does he can always move to his Santa Monica penthouse in California with its views of the Pacific Ocean and fresh sea breezes.

[feminastywomxn-blog]

OPEN YOUR EYES . . . A year on. A whole year. And the #government is still posturing like peacocks, caught in a #political playground where the game is to one up the opponent and the rest of us be damned . . . Social housing is dangerous. Deadly. And yet the waiting lists are astronomical because so many of our families in the U.K. have no other choice. The @conservatives have taken and taken without a second thought - our industry, our homes, our money, our lives. Now I’m not saying the U.K. was perfect before the #tories came into power but the only people benefiting from their reign of hatred is the upper echelons; the ones who can line the pockets of other big wigs. The poor are getting poorer; the #nhs is failing fast; the #foodbanks that were becoming so necessary and needed are closing due to a shortage of supply to meet overwhelming demand; our #mentalhealth and services are worsening. I could go on. . . . After the devastation that was #grenfelltower and the utter lack of emotion, care or respect from @theresamay we thought that maybe things would change. We were wrong. Blame being bandied around at the wrong feet. She’s right there - tell her how she’s failing you, our kids, us, them, everyone. . . . Something has to change in this country. We cannot continue being the ants to their #fatcats - disposable, slaves to the system. We need to rise. Make them see that without us this country would fall to its knees. That they need us more than we need them. . . . #fuckthetories #toryscum #grenfell #london #kensington #chelsea #huffpostuk #housingcrisis #housing #homeless #socialhousing #towerblock #neoliberalism #fail

[isleofsam]

Via Samantha’s instagram story

04.20.18

[saoirseronanswife]

it’s so funny when ex-public schoolboys complain about having had to go to edinburgh, york, durham etc. because they didn’t get into oxford/cambridge like we’re all oxbridge rejects here, hugh, chill out bro

[grandmaster-anne]

Court Circular | 16th February 2023

Buckingham Palace

His Excellency Mr Bader Mohammed Al Mantheri was received in audience by The King today and presented the Letters of Recall of his predecessor and his own Letters of Credence as Ambassador from the Sultanate of Oman to the Court of St James’s. His Excellency Mr Thani Thongphakdi was received in audience by The King and presented the Letters of Recall of his predecessor and his own Letters of Credence as Ambassador from the Kingdom of Thailand to the Court of St James’s. Mrs Thongphakdi was also received by His Majesty. Mr Thomas Drew (Director General Defence and Intelligence for Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office) was present. The King this afternoon attended a Reception at the Church of Christ the Cornerstone, 300 Saxon Gate, Milton Keynes, to celebrate Milton Keynes’ new status as a City, and was received by His Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of Buckinghamshire (Countess Howe). His Majesty met community groups representing charitable, business, faith, environmental and arts organisations in Milton Keynes. The King afterwards visited Milton Keynes Food Bank, 14 Burners Lane, Kiln Farm, Milton Keynes, and was received by Ms Fola Komolafe (Deputy Lieutenant of Buckinghamshire) and Ms Louisa Hobbs (Operations Manager). His Majesty met staff, volunteers and representatives from local partner schools and organisations and viewed the foodbank’s new Mobile Top-Up Shop. The King later received His Excellency Dr Sultan Al Jaber (United Arab Emirates’ Special Envoy for Climate Change and President Designate of the 28th United Nations Climate Change Conference of the Parties). Mr Vinod Tailor (Deputy Lieutenant of Bedfordshire) was present at London Luton Airport this morning upon the Arrival of The President of the Republic of Poland and welcomed His Excellency on behalf of His Majesty. The King and The Queen Consort were represented by Sir Nicholas Coleridge at the Memorial Service for Dame Vivienne Westwood (Fashion Designer) which was held in Southwark Cathedral, London SE1, this afternoon.

St James’s Palace

The Princess Royal, accompanied by Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence, today carried out the following engagements in New Zealand. Her Royal Highness this morning visited Havana Coffee Works Limited Roastery, 163 Tory Street, Te Aro, Wellington. The Princess Royal, Patron, New Zealand Riding for the Disabled Association Incorporated, later visited the Wellington Group at Battle Hill Farm Forest Park, 610 Paekakariki Hill Road, Porirua. Her Royal Highness, President, the Mission to Seafarers Limited, this afternoon opened the new Wellington Mission site, Shed 39, CentrePort Wellington, Aotea Quay, Port of Wellington. The Princess Royal, President, the Mission to Seafarers Limited, afterwards unveiled the Foundation Stone for the Mission to Seafarers and Merchant Navy Memorial at Wellington Cathedral of Saint Paul, 2 Hill Street, Thorndon, Wellington. Her Royal Highness, Colonel-in-Chief, Royal New Zealand Corps of Signals, this evening attended a Reception at Government House, Wellington. The Princess Royal, Colonel-in-Chief, Royal New Zealand Corps of Signals, afterwards attended a Dinner at Government House given by the Governor-General of New Zealand (the Rt Hon Dame Cindy Kiro).

Kensington Palace

The Duke of Gloucester, Colonel-in-Chief, Royal Army Medical Corps, this afternoon received Major General Alan Hawley upon relinquishing his appointment as Representative Colonel Commandant and Brigadier Robin Simpson upon assuming the appointment.

St James’s Palace

The Duke of Kent, Deputy Colonel-in-Chief, this morning visited The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards (Carabiniers and Greys) at Leuchars Station, St Andrews, Fife.

[upsettingandunfortunateclasshate]

It’s what we all expected, another whitewash, no prosecutions… as Lucy Parsons said it’s time to “devastate the avenues where the wealthy live”

[talesofstyles]

Drs Styles

paediatric heart surgeon harry, husband harry and dad harry. honestly the holy trinity.

warning: they did it in the car. bloody animals.

Harry

“Move your car, please!”

“What are you going to do? Write me a ticket?”

“This is in the interests of safety for the children!”

I look at the time in the car. I’ve still got about twenty to twenty-five minutes to watch this drama unfold at the school gate. I just wish we had popcorn because drop-off and parking situations at the school gates are always more entertaining than Good Morning Britain. 

The school gate is a strange social scene, and honestly, I don’t blame my wife for trying to avoid it like a plague. Sometimes, you don’t even have to talk to these people to know everything about their lives and more. I swear there are more gossips in the class WhatsApp group and daily playground chattering than in the copies of The Sun and Daily Mail combined. You know who’s married, who’s getting a divorce, whose husband shagged the au pair again, whose party you haven’t been invited to, even who’s looking for a builder. 

I see the school caretaker chuckling to himself as he sweeps the autumn leaves off the pathway, no doubt also enjoying our morning entertainment. 

“Why is Mrs Chambers screaming like that?” Alma, our eldest daughter, asks from the back of the car. 

“Because that man parks his car in a drop-off zone,” I reply, still watching him as he removes a child from his car seat. “Do you know who that is?”

“I think the boy is your classmate,” Alma turns to her sister.

Fiona, our youngest, peers over to inspect. “Oh yeah, that’s Rufus and his dad.”

“Do we like Rufus?”

“Not unless we like boys who pee down the slides,” Fiona scrunches her nose up. “He stood at the top and peed down like a waterfall. I haven’t gone down the slide ever since.”

I shake my head and let out a chuckle. “M’sure they’ve cleaned it up since, button.” 

Did you know that choosing a school for your child after nursery can be a head-throbbing, stomach-twisting, heart-pounding experience? Well, it can. How is one supposed to choose a school anyway? According to the proximity? Leavers Results? Adorable uniforms? Parents’ agendas?

After many, many discussions and visits through more schools than I can count, we ended up with Thomas’s Kensington. It’s a great school, and only ten minutes away from our home, making school runs easier. The downside of this school is the fact that it costs us an arm and a leg and that they’re always trying to rip us off any chance they get. Also, they only take the kids until 11, so after that, we’ll have to look for other schools again. But since our girls are only seven and five, we can worry about that later. 

There’s a strange mix of parents at this place. I went to school up in the North and the school gate scene is nothing like this. Here there are more au pairs, fancy cars, nicer clothes and people coming with impressive tans from their last weekend break in Antibes. The kids here are suited up too: the PE kit is the size of a small weekender bag, and we put them in uniforms that make them look smart, hoping that will increase the size of their brains. A child walks past our car with a cello case, another with a hockey stick. It’s a different land here. One that my socialist in-laws constantly tease us about and one which my mum was hysterical about because she was scared her grandbabies would be little Tories. I promised her I’d keep them grounded by only giving them plain hobnobs. None of those luxury chocolate covered ones.

Jokes aside, my girls are happy here. They’re thriving. They learn French and Spanish and Mandarin, even if they share a class with kids who have ridiculous names like Kitty and Archibald. 

A knock at my window calls me to attention. I wind it down.

“Are you Fiona’s dad?” A mum asks me.

“I am.”

“It’s about Ophelia’s riding party this Saturday at the riding stables.” 

Like I said, it’s a different land here.

“I thought we RSVPed to that?” I look at her in confusion.

“Yes, you did, but we have to change the food options as one of the partygoers is allergic to nuts. I’m making everyone aware and we need to let the guests know that they can’t bring any nuts on the day.”

A dirty joke is right there on the tip of my tongue and I’m trying my hardest to keep it in. My wife would definitely find it funny though, I’ve got to remember this and tell her later. 

“Noted,” I mean, I wasn’t going to send my daughter to a party with a packet of cashews anyway but I nod politely.

“And just gift vouchers for gifts please. Smiggle, if you can.”

Again, I nod, biting my tongue at the presumptuousness. But then I suddenly panic, because we haven’t entered the realms of pony riding just yet. Do I have to buy jods and boots? If I don’t, will my daughter be the odd one out? But Ophelia’s mum saunters off before I’ve got the chance to ask.

“Do I have to go to that party, daddy?” Fiona asks. 

“Well, we’ve already replied, poppet,” I tell her. “Did you not want to go?”

“I’ll go if I have to.”

I don’t answer because I get distracted by a vacant space. I edge the car forward so my girls can hop off. 

“I love you both. Have a good day, make good choices.” 

“Bye daddy! We’ll see you after work!”

***

Evelina London Children’s Hospital is our second home. Of course, as a children’s hospital, we try to make the place as fun as possible as not to freak those little patients out at being ill. It is bright and primary coloured, and each ward is decorated according to its own theme with different colours and lovely artworks. There are televisions and toys almost in every corner. We have a giant slide on the ground floor, and even the bins are shaped like red London buses. The aim was to help the children to forget that they’re in a hospital and take their minds off their sickness.

Since my wife and I are in the same department, our offices are next to each other, both overlooking the Thames. It’s nice up here. Would’ve been nicer if we could sneak in a quickie, but that’s practically impossible with our shared secretary’s desk sitting literally in front of our doors. 

Speak of the devil.

“Good morning. Here’s your tea,” my secretary follows me into my office with a cup of tea and a tiny plate with a couple of rich tea fingers. “Clinic until 3 pm, scheduled PDA ligation in the laboratory for 4 pm and then evening rounds on the wards.”

“Mornin’ Rhonda, you look lovely today,” I greet her cheerily. She’s a stern-looking woman who definitely likes her tea as strong as tits and who has probably never cried in her life. With such severity, she runs a tight ship, but she secretly has this affectionate side in her too. Not only is she a great secretary, but she also takes care of us in a way as a grandma does. She makes us tea, feeds us in between surgeries with biscuits or nice baby cheeses and crackers just so we wouldn’t starve. 

See that sofa over there in the corner of my office? Rhonda got me that. It was around the time when I had just become a new father with the sweetest, most gorgeous little baby who did not sleep. Alma wasn’t a fussy baby though. For some reason, she just wouldn’t go back to sleep after her midnight feed for months. Believe me, I tried everything. I changed her nappy, I swayed and jiggled and rocked and sung her to sleep. Odd nonsensical songs like, ‘Alma darling go to sleeep. Sleepy sleep sleep. Pleeeeease. I’m so tirrrred. My eyeballs may actually exploooode. I don’t want you to see thaaat.’ And she would just look at me all wide-eyed like I’d lost the plot. Those were song lyrics? That was rubbish. Please don’t give up your day job. Also, it’s not sleeping time. I’m awake. I’m ready for life. Come on, entertain me, old man. Isn’t this nice, just you and me? Tell me everything you know. EVERYTHING. 

Except of course she didn’t say all that. She would just stare at me and I had no idea what was going on in her little head. 

I took over my wife’s patients at the hospital during her maternity leave, so I had longer hours at the hospital. One day Rhonda found me napping on the floor between surgeries, so she sweet-talked some porters into looking for any old sofas on the go and paid to have this one reupholstered. She even bought me a fleece throw for it too. We really don’t deserve her.

“You hittin’ on me?” She deadpans. “Yer wife not doing it for you these days?”

“It’s the blazer. I’m a sucker for a blazer.”

“If I’d known, I would’ve worn it more often,” she replies. “Did my nice dress yesterday not give you the fanny flutters?”

“It’s schlong shiver for me,” I roar with laughter. “And it’s the tartan, makes you look well old.”

“YN, yer husband’s a bloody git, did I ever tell you that?” Rhonda says loud enough for my wife to hear, and I can hear my wife’s laughter from her office next door. “Drink your tea. Your first clinic appointment is in twenty.”

“Yes ma’am,” I salute her. 

***

The Arctic ward in the Evelina is home to many of our imaging, heart and kidney services. The name is probably giving it away, but everything is decorated in blue and white to go with the theme. We have several zones, and since paediatric cardiology clinics are held in the Walrus zone, I spend a great deal of time each day looking at walrus and snowflake decals. 

“Doctor Styles!” I hear a little voice shouts in excitement as I walk towards the waiting room in the outpatient ward. I smile, because I recognise that voice even before I see the little person.

The waiting room is very open here compared to other hospitals. There’s a sea of noise, snacks, tiny juice boxes and colouring pages. There’s also always a look of expectation, judgement on the faces of parents and guardians every time I walk in. They want to see if their doctor is old or qualified enough to see their children. There’s always one child who has the whole gang with them; parents, two sets of grandparents and even several aunts and uncles, and there’s also at least one child running around in circles out of boredom. 

This little lad bounces off his chair and hurls himself at me in a way like a little puppy would when its owner comes home from work. I put an arm out, hoping that he’ll apply the brakes but no such luck and he bundles himself into my arms. “Nice to see you, mate.”

His parents smile as they watch their son’s antics, who then runs off as I shake their hands. I turn around to see what caught his attention, and I can’t help but chuckle when I realise it’s my wife. 

“Doctor pretty Styles!” He exclaims excitedly as he bundles himself into her arms. She gets a mouthful of curls in the process. 

“Hi Rory,” she greets him as she runs her fingers through his curly mop. 

“Oi,” I pout as I walk towards them. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

“Your wife is prettier,” he says with a shrug, his tone matter-of-fact.

She laughs and gives him a high-five. “Rory, you are officially my favourite patient.”

She is right. Rory is one of our special patients for sure. We’ve both known him for about six years now, ever since Rory’s mum gave birth to this tiny human next door at St Thomas and his heart was literally broken. I remember watching proudly from the theatre when my wife replaced two of his valves when he was born. It was in our early years of training. Long time patients like Rory almost always feel like family. We’ve seen all their parents’ tears and watched over their children throughout the years. They send us cards and wine every Christmas and despite all attempts to keep a professional distance, their kids do feel like our own.

Rory shrugs off his dinosaur rucksack and unzips it, pulling out a drawing of a blue whale and an opened packet of KitKat. I like that the whale wears a top hat and appears to also don a moustache. 

“I drew you both a picture. Only one though, because I figure you can share,” he says with a big toothy grin and hands the packet of KitKat to my wife. “And I’ve got half a KitKat here. Do you want it?”

“I’m good for now. Keep that KitKat for later on the tube,” she smiles and waves at Rory as she begins to walk away towards the fetal cardiology ward just down the hall. “Bye Rory, thanks for the picture.”

“Bye doctor pretty Styles,” Rory replies, making my wife laugh as she walks away. I give her a wave and a wink. 

“Hey Rory, did you know a blue whale has a heart the size of a small car?” I ask him and his eyes widen.

“No way! That’s mega!” He exclaims. “Do you think you could operate on a whale heart?”

“I would need a very big ladder,” I tell him. “And a wetsuit. I’d give it a go though.”

A senior nurse from the outpatient ward, Florence approaches us with a junior nurse trailing behind her. “Dr Styles, always a pleasure.”

I smile at her. “Florence. How are we today?”

“Busy as usual,” she replies. “We’re about twenty minutes behind I’m afraid. We had Dr Goodridge in this morning and you know he likes to talk.”

“He always runs over,” I chuckle. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll skip lunch and get us back up to speed.”

“I’ll make sure to send some snacks for you. Here’s your chart, your files are already in your office. And this is Alice, your nurse today. She’s newly qualified so might need some instructions.”

The new nurse looks terrified so I smile at her to try and calm her fears. I totally get that. When you work in medicine, unfortunately, you’ll realise that there are a lot of rude self-important wankers. 

I look down at my chart and find Rory’s name on the top of the list. “Well, look who’s coming with me to the exam room.”

Rory reaches out to hold my hand and we walk towards the examination room. His parents follow us closely, carrying the usual coats and devices that people do when they know they’re bound for a hospital waiting room. I see them inside and sit behind the desk.

“So, young man, I hear we’ve had a touch of drama with you. Can you tell me what happened?”

I’ve actually already got the information in the file, but I like the way this kid tells a story. He reminds me of my youngest. 

“So… I was at school and we were doing PE and I wasn’t really feeling it because it was cold and really we should have been inside but Mr Witter makes us go outside because he used to be in the Army apparently and he says we should get used to the cold but that’s what they do in prisons.”

I smile. “Go on.”

“And then my heart started running.”

“You mean racing?”

He nods firmly. Racing isn’t even the word. It sprinted to the finish like Bolt at 252 beats per minute, three times the speed it should.

“It felt like bubbles in my chest and then the school went crazy panicky and they called the ambulance and they brought me to the hospital but not this one, it was another one and it wasn’t as good because you weren’t there and they had really bad biscuit.”

His mum adds. “And they gave him some drugs to bring it back to a steady rhythm; they were close to shocking him.” Her voice trails off and both parents’ faces look drawn and pale remembering the incident.

Rory looks absolutely unbothered by this. To be fair, we have put this little man through everything. We’ve cut his chest open more times than is necessary for someone so small, we hook him up to machines and put him on treadmills. His resilience and character amaze me, and I really can’t imagine what it feels like to see your child so vulnerable and helpless, to be paralysed and weighed down with such worry.

“Alright then, little man, we need to make sure that your heart is working as it should. This is Alice, and she is going to take you over for an ECG and we just need to make sure your tick-tock is in good shape.”

Rory nods and jumps off the chair. His dad offers him a piggyback, and his mum smiles at them. I can hear Rory offering that half KitKat to Alice as they leave the room. 

His mother turns to me as the door is closed, her shoulders relaxing, allowing herself to breathe. “And how are you?” I ask her.

“You just think it’s done and then something like that comes along to scare you,” she says with a sigh.

“Let’s have these tests and then see if it’s anything major to worry about,” I try to calm her. “Episodes of rapid heartbeat is quite common in Rory’s case, and we can look into drugs to remedy that if necessary.”

She smiles, nodding.

“Did you have any other questions for me?”

She studies my face for a moment too long. “I… well, it will show up in Rory’s records soon, but my husband I are… I mean we’re getting a divorce.”

I pause for a moment. Of course, I know these things happen in life, but I’ve known this couple for years. I’ve seen them at their lowest ebb, bound by friendship and their love for that boy. I really do feel sorry for them.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“We just… we’re terrified about telling Rory.”

“He doesn’t know?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “We’re scared of breaking him. I mean, look at him. All of this stuff he’s been through and he carries on like nothing has happened. We don’t want to upset him.”

“It took a team of us the best part of six years to build Rory’s heart. There's a warranty on that workmanship,” I reassure her. “Have that chat with him. He’ll be fine.”

***

“Have we got time for dinner first?” I turn to my wife as we walk out of the hospital. We don’t normally have the luxury of ending our shift at the same time, but today is exceptional. We have parents’ evening at the girls’ school so Rhonda made sure to clear up our schedule after our evening rounds at the ward. 

“No, but we can raid M&S and eat in the car?”

I’m starving and I almost cry with relief at the suggestion. “Always knew I married the right woman.”

She chuckles. “Damn right you did.”

We leave the car at the hospital and she drags me along the walkways to Waterloo, the breeze biting at our cheeks. I pull her into M&S, dodging the marching commuters and grab a basket. 

“I’ll look for some wine,” she says before she saunters off. “Oh and I want sushi. None of that crap with the mayonnaise please.”

“Alright.”

I skipped lunch today so the whole place calls to me. I start taking very random things off the shelves: a packet of raspberry iced buns. That’ll do. I also take some hummus for my wife because she bloody loves hummus. I’m not even joking, I’ve seen her down a whole pot of it. Then I take some sushi as requested, some coleslaw, a family bag of mature cheddar and red onion crisps and a trifle. I hope I don’t bump into Rhonda. Next are cheese twists, noodle salad and cocktail sausages. 

It takes me a while to notice that there is a man right next to me with a roll of yellow stickers in their back pocket. Hello there, you are one of my favourite people tonight. Have I managed to find that sacred hour when all the food is being marked down? He labels some prawns with dip and even though I get a little squeamish about eating fish near its expiry date, I put it in my basket. I then follow him around the corner. Now, this is dinner. I put all sorts of random food in my basket and smile at the thought.

Ooh, knockdown pizzas. I should get a pizza. That’s tomorrow’s tea sorted, the girls will love it. Although I can’t help but wonder, what’s the limit for us to feed our daughters frozen pizza in a week before they get taken away from us? But eh, we might be able to get away with it if we give them frozen peas on the side. 

“Look at you,” says my wife, depositing two bottles of red in the basket. 

“Yes, it’s me. I’m the yellow sticker bitch.”

She snickers as we turn to head for the tills. “Excellent work.”

***

“Mr and Mrs Styles, welcome.”

“Mrs Ebner, always a pleasure,” I shake the headmistress’ hand who’s standing at the door. 

“Busy evening?” My wife asks her as she shakes her hand next.

“Always,” the headmistress replies with a smile, then proceeds to speak like she’s reading out of brochures. “But such a wonderful opportunity to connect with our parents and build on the special relationships we have with our school community.” 

Two uniformed minions appear.

“Lewis, Maggie, could you please show Mr and Mrs Styles through to the drinks reception?”

They both nod in unison. The boy holds his arms out like a waiter showing us to our table. We follow them through the school’s grand corridors to the main hall. It’s the one thing I like about this place. It’s very Hogwarts-like with hefty engraved name boards and sepia photos of successful sports teams. In the hall, a throng of parents mill around waiting to see respective teachers. It’s the same every year. We all dodge the people from the PTA trying to sell us quiz tickets, and the bowls of crisps out of hygiene concerns.

“Red or white?” Asks a lady in an apron.

This right here is the very reason we get through parents’ evening. From the look of the bottle, it’s decent wine too. I think that’s where a good proportion of our fees is going. 

“Red, please.”

We both take our glasses and walk to the corner of the hall. It’s essentially a holding area without the background music. The idea is that all the parents will get on and create a party vibe but it just becomes a strange family gathering. As terrible as it sounds, it’s sorted into cliques: parents who know each other via NCT groups, the international expat brigades who keep to themselves, the parents who’ve ostracised themselves by gossip, the ones who you know regularly brunch and ski together.

The boy from earlier suddenly appears in front of us. “Mrs Hughes is ready for you.”

I put my hand on the small of my wife’s back as we walk towards the classroom. Fiona’s teacher first and then Alma’s straight after. Right, we can do this.

“Mrs Hughes, we meet again,” I shake her hand. I’ve got no qualms about Mrs Hughes. She’s a seasoned teacher who likes a slack and sensible moccasin and we’re familiar with her since she taught Alma two years previously. When we enter the classroom, Lewis bows in reverence, taking his leave and I wonder whether to tip him. 

“It’s always lovely to have another Styles girl in my classroom. Fiona is a particular delight.”

My wife and I smile proudly. I’m sure Mrs Hughes says this to every parent here about their child, but that’s always nice to hear. 

“She talks a lot about you,” my wife says. “She seems to have settled in well.”

Mrs Hughes opens up a couple of books and it’s classic Fiona. Alma is ordered and neat—if she makes a mistake then she erases it completely and she underlines things with a ruler and listens to instruction carefully. She gets that from her mum. Fiona though, on the other hand, she’s all me. She has more wild abandon about her; no rulers, no rubbers. She puts giant crosses through things that don’t work and likes her bubble writing decorated with doodles of many, many cats.

I glance around the classroom as Mrs Hughes talks to us about standardised scores. The theme of the school is to show you how smart and educated these children are. Look at the copperplate handwriting, their reproductions of Van Gogh and our languages corner where they’ve all had a go at telling us what they like in French. I spy a contribution from my girl. J’adore les chats et le gâteau au chocolat. 

I’ve lost track of the conversation so I try to catch up.

“So to push Fiona into those top scores, perhaps we can look into tutoring? For maths, in particular, so she can grasp some of the concepts a little more tightly,” says Mrs Hughes. 

My wife and I look at each other confused. “Uh, I don’t think there’s a need, right? She’s only five.”

“It’s never too early,” replies Mrs Hughes. “We run an after-school tutoring club on Tuesdays that would help.”

Back when I was a youngster, clubs were fun endeavours that involved matching baseballs caps or were a chocolate biscuit that you had in your lunchbox. Maths tutoring session was not a club.

I ask her. “Is it free?”

“It’s fifteen pounds per session.”

See? My point being this should be a parents’ evening, not a sales session.

“Well, then it’s something to think about,” says my wife. “It could be that Fiona catches up with people throughout the year.”

“Possibly,” Mrs Hughes nods. Still, though, she proceeds to go into her folder and passes me a form. Sneaky. “Fiona has also shown great interest in languages and art. Her pictures have been a joy.”

Mrs Hughes goes to a file and pulls one of Fiona’s drawings. I glance down at it. It’s a standard child piece of art. The grass and sky are strips of colour to the top and bottom. It’s a family portrait, and we are as tall as the broccoli style trees. Wait, hang on a second. I count the number of people in the picture again. Is that-

“And Mrs Styles, I gather congratulations are in order,” she says with a smile. “Such lovely news.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fiona told me it’s a boy,” she adds, and the sheer terror on my wife’s face at the realisation is priceless. “You must be very thrilled.”

I study the picture. There’s a house in the middle, and standing in a line in front of the house is our family. The one slightly taller than the broccoli tree is me. I’ve got my white lab coat, and I look like a serial killer because I’m holding a scalpel with the size of a butcher’s knife. Next to me is my wife, also with a white lab coat, but instead of a scalpel, she’s holding a very chunky baby who rather looks like a basketball with a head.

“Oh dear,” I chuckle. “Guess now we know what she’ll ask for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” my wife shakes her head. “We’re not expecting.”

“Oh, I apologise,” Mrs Hughes says with a sheepish smile.

“No worries, Mrs Hughes,” I tell her. “So, what else has our girl been up to here? Besides gossiping of course.”

Mrs Hughes laughs under her breath. “Well, in class, Fiona is attentive, bright and very helpful. She is a credit to you both.”

***

“I swear your daughter, Styles.”

We’re sitting in the car now. Finally done with parents’ evening, still laughing at the slightly creepy, chunky basketball baby in Fiona’s picture and the fact that three people, including Mrs Hughes, have congratulated us for the ‘baby’.

“You haven’t called me Styles in years,“ I turn to her with a grin. “Not since medical school.”

I can’t help but flashback to the good ol’ days when we had matching university hoodies and we’d test each other on the parts of a kidney whilst walking into lectures, sitting next to each other, sharing pens and cans of Lilt. 

“Well, after that I became a Styles too,” she chuckles. “Would be confusing then, wouldn’t it?”

“True,” I laugh under my breath, then I grab her hand and pull it to my mouth so I can kiss her knuckles. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For being a Styles.”

“Aw, aren’t we soppy tonight?” She smirks. “Alright, stop the car.”

“What?”

“There,” she points to a dark empty spot and I oblige. 

Then, before I can even ask her why, she reaches over and grabs me by the collar. Pulling me close to her and gives me a kiss. I kiss her back, and I smile when she bites gently on my bottom lip.

“Oi, oi. Something’s got you randy.”

The next thing I know, she undoes her seatbelt and then rolls her trousers down her legs along with her knickers, fumbling and giggling at the awkward movement. I push my seat back and pull my trousers down. 

“Don’t fall on gearstick now,” I joke as she climbs over to straddle me. “Well, unless you want to, of course…”

She laughs as she lowers herself over my lap. I really can’t believe what’s happening here.

“Mrs Styles, we’re about to have sex in a car. Around the corner from our daughters’ school.” 

“I know,” she says with a smile before she runs her tongue along my neck. “Not our first rodeo though.”

“Oh right, we did it in our Volvo years ago, didn’t we? Thought the suspension couldn’t take it.”

“And it turned out fine. Told you that you needed to have more faith in the Swedes, they’re a reliable breed.”

“I love it when you talk about Sweden.”

“Ikea.”

“Fuck.”

“Meatballs.”

“Billy Bookcase.”

She throws her head back in laughter and I take this as an opportunity to run my tongue along her collar bone. She gasps. I reach down to lift her before I slowly lower her over my cock. We both sigh as I enter her, a long exhalation with our lips barely touching. 

“Viggo Mortensen.”

“Isn’t he Danish?”

“Tomato, Tomahto.”

I smile at my wife and push my hips up, silently telling her that we don’t need to talk about Swedish people anymore. She grabs onto the car seat and levers herself up and down. I look at her in the eye, a goofy smile still plastered across my face.

But then I squint. Light. Bollocks, what’s that? Where’s that light coming from? Crap, that’s bright. Shit. I see the flash of a hi-vis jacket, a knock at the window and someone shaking their head.

Oh sodding fucking bollocking shit wank.