#Watering Globes UK

[umgeorge]

The Pressure of the Podium: Interview With George Russell

While British success stories in Formula 1 tend to centre around Lewis Hamilton-as well they should; he's a legend-George Russell has quietly been making a serious name for himself. At a fresh-faced 26 years old, he’s one of the younger racers on the grid and, when we caught up with him ahead of the Hungarian Grand Prix back in the summer, was still revelling in the best season of his career. So, how was he finding the season so far? "Its been... I wouldn't say a rollercoaster, but it's been one that we've been climbing," says Russell. "At the start we were at the bottom of the mountain and been steadily getting closer to the top. There's so much excitement and motivation when you're on a team like this, like we have a visible return on everything we've been putting in, that momentum we've been building up."

We were talking shortly after his second F1 victory in Austria, which was a bit of a hairy one. After spending most of the race in third, still a respectable podium finish, Lando Norris and Max Verstappen ahead of him got a little too close to one another, crashing to take them both out the race. It was a far cry from Russell's incredibly convincing first win. But was there a difference to him? "Each win is incomparable. Every race is a completely different scenario. My first, in Brazil, was where I was ahead every lap. I'd done fantastically the day before and the pressure was there. Near the end I had Lewis on my tail and it was a relief to get across that finish line. In Austria I was happy to be in third, and then it all kicked off ahead and the opportunity arose. Every race is different and you never really know how it's going to go, even when you're behind the wheel." With that kind of uncertainty, it has to be hard to prepare yourself for racing at this level. There's the danger, of course, as that crash in Austria and a multitude of other times shows, but none of these guys would be racing if that put them off. Instead, we were more interested to find out if the pressure ever got to him - and, more importantly, what Russell did to cope with it.

"I'm a little obsessive. I try to make sure I've gone through all the preparation possible with my engineers, taken a look at last year's data, gone over the car, the weather conditions; anything I feel I need to be looking for. Once I've ticked them all off I'm at peace, mentally. I know I'm at my peak physical condition. I know every race is going to be tough. But there are nineteen other drivers and hopefully they'll find it tougher than I will. After that, what will happen, will happen. It's out of your control." With that huge amount of pressure every single week, the intense training regime to stay in that physical condition, and the sheer hectic nature of a globe-trotting racing competition, decompression seems like a necessity. Russell, though, seems to want to take decompressing very literally.

"I love being by the sea so I've started free diving, which is a bit of a random hobby, but when I'm out in the water I'm just so focused on my breathing, on being underwater, that I just disconnect from the world. Once beneath the sea, down there with the fish and coral, you're not thinking about anything else except having enough breath to get back to the top!" Russell isn't the only British racing legend around. We've had a long, illustrious line of champions of which Hamilton is only the latest and Russell could potentially be next. For Russell, there's something in the inspiration of champions of old, and having seven of the ten Formula 1 teams based in the UK helps. But for him, the key to British racing success is British racing's green grass roots.

"I remember racing with Lando and Alex, and alongside other racers who didn't make it to Formula 1 but have made professional racing careers. There's definitely something about the grass roots level here that works. But it needs to stay at that level. This isn't the most economical sport in the world, so we need to make sure that we can give kids that don't have the opportunity, otherwise, the funding they need to get behind the wheel and try go-karting." That said, go-karting is never going to be cheap for most would-be podium contenders, and whether it's that or sheer pace, it's an opportunity sadly few kids have. E-sports, on the other hand, is different. "Simulators have advanced so much now. The Formula 1 game is fantastic and there should be ways we can identify talent sooner, instead of just having financial backing to push you through the ranks."

Whether coming from the classic karting angle or from killing it online with photorealistic driving games, kids are going to need to have to contend with one of the most intensely competitive sports in the world - if not the most. According to Russell, though, they shouldn't be afraid of making mistakes; quite the opposite. "The one piece of advice that I try to embrace, myself, is: don’t be afraid to fail. The times I've failed have been the times I've progressed the most, the times I've really pushed my limits. It doesn't matter what you do; failure is necessary. It's how we grow, how we learn about ourselves. There's so much pressure not to let people down, especially with younger people, but you don't want to go through life never making a mistake or knowing where your ceiling is."

And any advice for those of us not thinking of a career in racing? Even shaving a few seconds off a track day would help for a few more bragging rights. "No matter what you're driving, stay relaxed. I've driven with people that have never been on a track before. They tense up, hunch over, and it makes everything erratic. Smooth is fast - smooth with the steering, throttle, and brake. It's not necessarily how we drive in Formula 1, but if you want to speed up on a track day, stay relaxed." Obviously, it’s not lost on Russell just how many kids and F1 fans alike look up to him as a sportsman. He's young, he's hungry, and his experience is starting to pay off. But for Russell, there are other sportspeople in other sports, and one in his own who I'm sure you can guess, that he looks up to.

"I have a huge amount of respect for Ronaldo. He's without a doubt the leader in his field. The same with Djokovic - they're fighters that push their physical performance. Then there's Lewis, obviously. He puts his platform to great use and I admire him for that as much as his wins and what he's doing off the track. I hope to be one of those leaders in years to come." Now he may well get a chance as Lewis will, in 2025, be moving from Mercedes, as Russell's teammate, over to Ferrari. It's a bold move, but on the other hand it means that Russell will soon be able to race his former teammate as an actual rival. Will that be weird? "He'll be wearing a different suit, but I'll still recognise him! We're at different stages in our career, but we have massive respect for one another. For now, I'll see him on the track."

[sophie1973]

Let me kiss and make it better

A little Birthday fic written for my darling Kim @kj-bee ❤️(2.9k of fluff)

Can be read on AO3 or under the cut

The atmosphere inside the O2 Arena is electric, with anticipation hanging in the air as fans from around the globe fill the stands, waving flags and chanting. The field, a flawless expanse of green, awaits the start of one of the most eagerly anticipated matches of the World Cup. 

It's the quarter-finals, and the UK is set to face off against the US.

Alex is doing some last-minute stretching while half-listening to his teammates' banter. His gaze flickers discreetly to the opposing team—more specifically, to their captain.

Henry Fox.

This isn't Alex's first encounter with Henry on the field—not by a long shot. Henry is an incredible player, and Alex's competitive spirit thrives on the challenge of having such a formidable opponent. 

He just wishes Henry weren't so distracting.

He's half-tempted to draft a strongly worded letter to FIFA about it. Because seriously—those thighs in those shorts? It's obscene. Bordering on illegal. Fucking Criminal.

The teams start to line up, and Alex jogs on the field, meeting Henry at the center circle. The referee, holding the match ball, stands between them, and Henry extends his hand for Alex to shake, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes and a playful grin on his lips.

“Ready to get your ass kicked, Fox?” Alex asks good-naturedly, and Henry shakes his head, chuckling.

“Famous last words, darling.”

The referee goes over the rules, emphasizing fair play, while the captains nod in acknowledgment. Alex, having heard it all countless times before, instead focuses on how the blue of his football jersey enhances Henry’s azure eyes, or the sheen of sweat over Henry's upper lip and the beauty mark nearby. Alex briefly wonders how much chaos it would cause if he leaned in for a kiss.

He really needs to get it together.

A few lewd whistles from the crowd punctuate their handshake. The press and fans have speculated about the nature of their relationship for years. Some days, they’re painted as bitter rivals; other times, rumors swirl of them being secret lovers—just because they’ve been spotted laughing and sharing a drink at events.

Apparently, simply being friends who enjoy each other’s company is too dull for the public imagination.

The shrill blast of whistles pierces the air, signaling the start of the football match and sending a wave of excitement through the packed stadium. Alex catches Henry's eye across the field as players swiftly take their positions. With a subtle, confident smirk, Alex delivers a playful wink. The gesture has its intended effect; a soft blush blooms across Henry's fair cheeks, visible even from a distance. Inwardly pleased with this small victory, Alex's chest swells with pride as the match begins in earnest.

The first quarter-hour unfolds like a choreographed dance, with both teams testing the waters with cautious passes and strategic positioning. The cacophony of cheers from the stands fades into a distant hum as Alex's mind whirs, plotting the perfect strategy to breach their opponents' stubborn defenses.

Suddenly, an opening presents itself. Spencer executes a brilliant maneuver, and the ball reaches Alex's feet. In an instant, he's off, a blur of motion as he weaves through the opposition's defensive line. He darts past Henry, their eyes meeting for a split second, charged with competitive energy. Alex pushes on, his legs pumping furiously as he races towards the goal.

The next minute, Alex finds himself flat on his back, the lush grass cushioning his fall. A searing pain explodes from his ankle, radiating up his leg in agonizing waves. He clutches at it instinctively.

The piercing sound of the referee's whistle cuts through the sudden roar of the crowd. Through watering eyes, Alex sees the official reaching into his pocket, producing a yellow card, which he brandishes towards the English player who tackled him.

Alex hasn’t even seen him coming.

The game comes to a standstill as Alex’s teammates and some British players gather around him. He grimaces, watching his ankle begin to swell rapidly. A hand touches his shoulder, accompanied by a British voice asking, “Alex, are you alright?”

Lifting his head, Alex meets Henry's concerned blue eyes.

“Yeah, the game’s over for me. Fuck,” Alex mutters.

Henry’s expression falls, and Alex feels a jolt in his chest. Henry should be relieved by this turn of events, not upset. Losing their captain and one of their best players—his coach's words, not Alex’s—is a significant blow to the U.S. team.

“I called for a gurney,” Spencer interjects, and Alex nods, a heavy sigh escaping him. He tries to focus on the throbbing pain in his ankle rather than the crushing disappointment of seeing things coming to an abrupt end for him. He had been eager to win this game and lead his team into the semifinals. They were supposed to face the Belgian Red Devils, and Alex, who had been friends with their captain Kevin for years, was looking forward to the match.

Now, even if his team manages to pull off a win—and Alex is convinced they can do it—he doubts he'll recover in time for the semi-finals in just three days. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and he struggles to maintain his composure as the reality of his situation sinks in.

Alex extends his hands to Liam, who grasps his arm firmly. With Spencer's assistance, they cautiously attempt to hoist Alex to his feet. The moment his injured foot grazes the ground, a sharp, unbearable pain shoots through his leg, and he lets out an involuntary cry.

“Where on earth is that gurney?” Spencer mutters in frustration. Alex shares his concern, desperately wanting to leave this fucking field and escape the prying eyes so he can indulge in a moment of self-pity in the privacy of the infirmary.

Before he can process what's happening, strong arms encircle him, and his feet leave the ground. Startled, he finds himself cradled against a firm chest, looking up into Henry's determined face.

"Enough of this," Henry says, his voice low and authoritative. "We're not waiting for the gurney."

Alex opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his throat. Henry’s arms are secure around him, one supporting his back and the other carefully cradling his legs, mindful of the injured ankle. Despite the circumstances, Alex can't help but notice how effortlessly Henry seems to carry him. He also notices Henry still smells really good despite having run across a football field for the past twenty-five minutes.

A hush falls over the stadium as Henry strides purposefully towards the sidelines. Cameras flash, capturing this unexpected moment between the rival players. Alex can already imagine the headlines, but right now, he's too grateful for the relief from pain to care.

"Couldn't resist playing the knight in shining armor, could you?" Alex quips, his voice a mix of gratitude and exasperation

Henry's lips quirk into a mischievous smile. "I could always bend you over my shoulder instead if you'd prefer," he suggests, his tone playful.

Alex's mind stutters to a halt, fixating on the words 'bend' and 'over.' His imagination runs wild with far less innocent interpretations, none of which involve Henry’s shoulder. 

The momentary distraction from the pain is almost worth the mental whiplash.

Regaining his composure, Alex mutters, "You know this is going to set the rumor mill on fire, right?"

And Henry, the cheeky bastard, grins. “I’m very well aware of that, love.”

Alex tries—and fails spectacularly—to suppress a shiver at the endearment, earning a knowing smirk from the Brit.

"Oh, shut up," Alex grumbles, his cheeks flushing.

Henry's rich laughter fills the air, and Alex can practically see the social media storm brewing. Tomorrow's headlines are going to be relentless.

As Henry gently lowers Alex onto the infirmary bed, a doctor and nurse immediately spring into action. After a thorough examination, they declare his ankle sprained, not broken. Despite having suspected as much, Alex can't help but feel a wave of relief wash over him. The doctor, however, insists on precautionary X-rays at the hospital.

"I'm not going anywhere now," Alex protests. "I need to see how the game ends."

The doctor sighs, obviously accustomed to stubborn football players. "Very well, Mr. Claremont-Diaz, but I strongly advise you go first thing tomorrow morning."

Alex nods noncommittally, flashing a grateful smile at the nurse - her badge says her name is Kim -  who turns on the TV, allowing him to follow the match.

Henry lingers by the bedside, his face etched with concern. "I'm truly sorry about this, Alex," he says softly.

Alex attempts a casual shrug, wincing slightly. "Not your fault, sweetheart," he reassures, the endearment slipping out before he can catch it. The painkillers are starting to kick in, dulling the throbbing in his ankle and loosening his tongue. He finds himself fighting the urge to ask Henry to stay, to sit beside him and hold his hand. Not exactly the right time.

"Basil's reckless move caused this," Henry explains, his jaw tightening with frustration.

Alex blinks, momentarily distracted from his thoughts. "Hold up. His name is Basil? I got steamrolled by a guy named after an herb? What kind of fucking posh nonsense is this, Henry?"

A smile tugs at Henry's lips, breaking through his concern. "’Steamrolled’ might be a tad dramatic, but he certainly did a number on you."

Their eyes meet, and they exchange a smile. The spell is broken when one of Henry's teammates bursts through the door, looking exasperated.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, Henry? The entire team's waiting for you to resume the match!"

Henry's posture straightens, and his voice takes on a crisp, authoritative tone that sends a shiver down Alex's spine. "I'll be there momentarily," he says, the subtle rebuke clear in his words.

Alex finds it incredibly hot.

Turning back to Alex, Henry's expression softens, a mix of concern and reluctance in his eyes. "Duty calls. Are you certain you'll be alright?"

Alex can't help but roll his eyes, though there's no real annoyance behind it. “Yes, mom. It’s a sprained ankle, not the ebola virus. Go. You have a game to lose.”

A smile tugs at Henry’s lips.“I’ll see you after the game.”

Alex gestures at his leg. “I ain’t going anywhere, baby.”

The nurse's eyebrows shoot up at their exchange, her gaze darting between them with poorly concealed interest. Henry catches her look and clears his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Right. See you later, then.”

Alex grins. He has no doubt this exchange will be all over Twitter tomorrow.

                                                      🇬🇧 ⚽ 🇺🇸

As the final whistle blows, announcing Henry's team's victory, Alex finds himself oddly detached from the outcome. The events of the evening, coupled with the hazy effects of pain medication, have left him drained. All he can think about is the allure of home – a hot shower, a comfortable bed, and the promise of rest.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, the sounds of the post-game excitement a distant hum. When he finally forces his eyes open, he's greeted by the sight of Henry standing at the foot of the bed, showered, dressed, and holding a pair of crutches.

He’s a sight for sore eyes.

“Congrats on the win,” Alex says, rubbing at his eyes. “Guess you were the best.” 

Henry's lips quirk into a soft smile as he leans the crutches against a nearby wheelchair. He moves to perch on the edge of Alex's bed, close enough that Alex can smell his subtle, expensive cologne.

"Alex," Henry says, his voice gentle, "we both know the outcome might have been vastly different if you'd been on that field."

Despite his fatigue, Alex can't help but grin. "Learn to take a compliment, Fox," he retorts. "It's not often I stroke your ego; you should savor it."

Henry's mouth opens, then closes, as if he's weighing his words carefully. Something flickers in his eyes, but it's gone before Alex can decipher it.

"I'm taking you home," Henry announces instead, his tone brooking no argument.

Alex's eyebrows shoot up, a smirk playing on his lips. "My, my. Not even dinner first?”

Henry rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of amusement beneath his exasperation. "You're a menace, Claremont-Diaz, and you're in desperate need of a shower. So, you have two options: get your arse in that wheelchair and let me ensure you get home safely, or attempt to navigate the nearest tube station on those crutches. Your choice."

The authoritative tone in Henry's voice, now directed squarely at him, sends an unexpected thrill through Alex.

"I'm sure Liam or Spencer can take me home," he counters weakly, more out of habit than genuine protest.

"They came by earlier, but you were asleep," Henry explains. "I assured them I'd see you home safely, so they've left. They'll check on you tomorrow."

Alex sighs dramatically, though internally, he's not as put out as he pretends to be. "Guess that leaves me no choice but to accept your gracious offer, then."

A slow, triumphant grin spreads across Henry's face. "Good boy," he says, his voice low and teasing.

The words hit Alex with unexpected force, sending a jolt of heat coursing through him. He bites his lower lip hard, barely suppressing a moan that threatens to escape. The sudden intensity of his reaction catches him off guard, leaving him breathless and slightly dizzy.

Acutely aware of the bustle of activity just outside the infirmary door, Alex forces himself to take a steadying breath. They've already provided enough fodder for gossip tonight; the last thing they need is for someone to overhear something that could be easily misconstrued.

"Right," he manages to croak out, his voice slightly strained. "Let's get this show on the road."

                                                              🇬🇧 ⚽ 🇺🇸

“Oh Christ…Alex!”

With a breathless laugh, Henry collapses onto Alex's chest, supporting himself on his forearms to avoid crushing him. Alex, however, wraps his arms around Henry's back, pulling their bodies flush together as they share a deep, lazy kiss, their bodies still trembling slightly from the force of their shared orgasm.

“Told you I could still rock your world, even with a sprained ankle,” Alex says, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. Henry responds with a soft, affectionate chuckle.

As they bask in the afterglow, Alex can't help but think that no amount of World Cup victories could ever compare to the rush of endorphins he experiences when having sex with Henry.

Henry reluctantly disentangles himself from Alex's embrace and heads to the bathroom. The sound of running water reaches Alex's ears as he takes his phone on the nightstand, idly scrolling through his social media feeds.

Returning with a damp washcloth, Henry begins to clean Alex. "Let me guess," he says, "my prince charming moment is trending online?"

Alex snorts. "What did you expect? You might as well have tattooed 'Property of Henry Fox' across my forehead."

Henry's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Now there's an idea."

"Keep dreaming, Fox," Alex retorts, rolling his eyes fondly.

"That's Fox-Claremont-Diaz to you, darling," Henry corrects him, leaning in for another kiss.

Alex takes his hand, pressing a soft kiss on the rose gold band that found its rightful place on Henry’s finger after the game. They returned to their apartment in London - a convenient haven when participating in the World Cup hosted in England. After a shower for Alex and a light snack, they fell back into bed, where Alex convinced Henry that a little post-game celebration was in order, even if one of the two parties involved had lost.

“So it’s celebratory sex for me and consolation sex for you?” Henry had  inquired with a raised eyebrow.

Alex had grinned and shrugged. “As long as we both get our happy ending, you can call it whatever you want, baby.”

Henry climbs back on the bed and snuggles with his husband. The atmosphere shifts subtly, becoming more soft and tender.

"Should we tell people?" Alex finally broaches the subject, and Henry exhales softly.

“I mean, I’m not opposed to it. Shaan and Zahra suggested we wait until after the Cup frenzy died, but…”

“Yeah, but now they are married too, so I don’t think we should listen to them anymore.”

Alex turns to face Henry, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. "I'm ready for the world to know you're mine," he whispers, and the radiant smile blooming on Henry's lips lets him know that the feeling is wholeheartedly mutual.

"How do you want to do it?" Alex asks. "Should we ease into it or go for a hard launch?"

Henry pretends to ponder, though Alex knows his answer. He shakes his head fondly as Henry gives him a brilliant smile.

"I want to break the internet."

***

A few days later, Alex's Instagram features a new post. 

The image captures their pajama-clad legs intertwined on the sofa, with David, Henry's dog, snoozing contently beside them. In the background, slightly out of focus but unmistakable, are their football jerseys draped over a chair, proudly displaying their names and numbers.

The caption reads: “I lost the World Cup, but I won at life.” 

Photo credit: Hubby @hgfoxofficial. 

[beirarowling]

JK Rowling's charitable trust donated more than £3million to good causes both domestically and around the globe last year. The Harry Potter author handed out the massive donations to 10 organisations through her Volant Charitable Trust. Originally established with an emphasis on women and children's issues, the charity now also provides funding to a number of international causes. Official documents show that £262,500 was given to the UK Welcomes Refugees charity. This donation comes off the back of what was a record-breaking year for refugee numbers in the UK, with over 60,000 granted asylum in 2023. One of the largest donation's made by Volant was to community charity Foundation Scotland, who received £900,000. Over half-a-million pounds was given to Doctors Without Borders (Médecins sans frontières), who endured a challenging year with their work in war-torn places such Gaza, Ukraine and Sudan. A cause with particular resonance to Rowling was single parent charity Gingerbread, who received a £300,000 sum from the author's trust.

Other notable contributions made by Volant included £400,000 to Age International UK, £325,000 to the British Red Cross, £150,000 to Plan International UK and `£80,000 to Water Aid. In total, papers show that Rowling's charitable trust holds funds of £72,957,821 in the bank, which increased from £66,176,448 the previous year. Another organisation the author showed great financial support for in 2024 was Beira's Place, a 'women only' support service for victims of sexual violence in Scotland. The Harry Potter creator provided the charity with a £1.9 million interest-free loan to purchase and renovate a new building to operate from.

[itsasainz]

the poison drips through | Roman Roy x Reader

Summary: grief is a natural instigator of reflection; Logan’s funeral forces you to look back on your own grief, and your relationship with Roman.

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings/tags: death of a parent (Logan Roy, reader’s mother), discussions of abuse (physical, emotional), grief and breakdown, mentions of addiction, depression and associated mental health struggles in a parent and in reader, implications of suicide, toxic and/or abusive familial relationships.

a/n: roman roy has a special place in my my heart. he’s awful, he’s product of his environment, I can’t justify his actions, I love him, it’s confusing, I don’t know. I binge watched all of succession in seven (7) days.

masterlist!

You’re not sure how old you were when you first met the Roys, but you find it strange to think of time pre-Roman, pre-Roy, when you were free of proxy-politics, hidden slights and subtle digs. You must have been a preteen, maybe twelve. It would make sense—the second summer after your father moved to New York, when he bought the house in the Hamptons. Your mother had stayed in London that summer, leaving you and your siblings to battle the sweltering Long Island heat alone with your father, who worked most of the summer anyway. Had it been the Sailing Club or the Golf Club where you’d first met Siobhan Roy? You aren’t sure, but you remember the bathroom where you’d run into her, and how a five minute conversation had turned into five weeks of friendship. It had gone beyond that five weeks—even when you got back to the UK, you’d found ways to keep in touch, and spent holidays together when you were in the same place; you’d grown accustomed to Kendall’s strange attempts at seeming “hip” and cool, and Roman’s whining and jokes.

Shiv had been, and is your friend—in many ways, your best friend—but you’d always had a sweet spot for Roman. It wasn’t until you moved to New York more permanently, right after you graduated, that you actually befriended him, your work at his father’s company at first forcing you into the odd work dinner or late night at the office, but routines were formed, at some point. Thursday lunches together, Monday morning coffees. At some point, he’d stopped seeming like Shiv’s whiney older brother, and become funny—most of the time. Roman, you had, at some point understood, took time. But most of your relationship with him came after Greece.

The first time you went on holiday with them—beyond the Hamptons or British countryside—you were twenty-three, and had found yourself on a ten-day trip through the Greek islands on Logan’s oversized yacht. It was that ten days that you realised that you were in, not particularly intentionally, but in nonetheless. You remembered everything about that trip; the private jet that took you to Thessaloniki, the starting point of the trip—you’d fly back to New York from Heraklion, with the entire family, who were coming from various outposts across the globe. To start with, though, it was just the two of you, walking on the scorched tarmac of Thessaloniki’s international airport, leaving the gleaming private jet behind, already feeling slick with set in the hot, midsummer air. You had appreciated the perks of a private jet that day—no queues, no crying babies or seats reclined into your knees—and didn’t have to think twice about where your luggage was, because everything had been taken care of by a team of people you barely saw, working like ants under the foliage. A refreshingly air conditioned car had brought you smoothly to the port, where a smaller boat, already stacked with your luggage, had taken you quickly to the gleaming palace on water that was the Roys’ yacht. The boat was like a small, disturbingly empty, city; an almost utopian place, gleaming and shimmering under the Mediterranean sun, a labyrinthe of rooms and decks and corridors. Despite the surplus of space, it was split between a select few; Logan Roy, of course, his four siblings and their own guests, a selection of board members and his third wife, who you’d met only once or twice before, Marcia. That day was languid, a steady flow of arrivals as the hours passed and the yacht sat just outside of the port, watched by the locals and tourists alike, most likely speculating about the owners of such a gratuitous yacht, carelessly waiting for all the world to see.

You and Shiv had been greeted by Connor, in his pre-Willa days, already in his forties though; Kendall had appeared at first without your notice, but the sound of his children, still babies then, had alerted you of his arrival, alongside his then-wife, Rava, who you still respected wholeheartedly. Roman had been next, harder to miss, making sure to “jokingly” insult everyone aboard within five minutes. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered when it took him a minute or so to come up with an insult for you, but that train of thought was quickly lost to the arrival of the man himself; Logan Roy came with a fleet of people. He spoke about three words to you directly on that first day, but you supposed that wasn’t so bad—you were hardly novel to him anymore, given how your recent promotions had drastically increased your time spent with him and Kendall. Roman, however, was a different matter entirely.

You’d seen him around an awful lot, and spoken to him maybe twice, never for longer than a passing comment or introduction, though he knew of your friendship with his sister. And yet, here you were, on holiday with his family, and he was suddenly fascinated. Over those ten days, between your hours spent gossiping with Rava and his hours spent talking business with his brother and father, you somehow found time to get attached to the youngest son of the Roy dynasty.

Roman was a piece of a work, there was no denying it. He was insulting, defensive, childish, et cetera, et cetera, but he was often funny, too, and within days you had understood him well—he, like Kendall, Shiv and Connor, was driven by his father’s approval, but as is the way in any family, each of the siblings had manifested the same fears and motivations in different ways. Shiv’s fear of intimacy made for relationships with people who depended on her—for money or status—but who she could keep at an arm's length, and cast aside if they got too attached. Roman more openly craved connection, but his fears and traumas came to light in a more physical expression. The jokes at his expense had swiftly enlightened you to his troubled relationship with sex and affection, while, even this early on, Kendall’s addictions were beginning to form cracks in his determinedly “hip” façade. Most of these things you had already understood, but an extended amount of time on a vehicle that you can’t exactly leave had opened it all up to you—unlike the Hamptons, you couldn’t piss off to the other side of the island or back to the city, but only to the other side of the yacht, and even for a big yacht, it never allowed you to genuinely leave. The thoughts that would later become a strange, fucked up mantra began to formulate on that holiday; before you’d put it into words, or understood what you were asking yourself, the statement was swirling around your consciousness; the poison drips through.

Each of the Roy siblings was broken and damaged in a way you’d never seen before, but your long standing practice of people-reading and your love of untangling the dynamics within groups made the holiday a sort of project—by the end, you’d created a map in your head of the different events and people that made up the complex web of Roy troubles, built off the foundations laid by your friendship with Shiv and many brief interactions with her extensive family over the decade. It was an incomplete map—there would be things you didn’t discover until his death, a decade later, and things you would never know, but that initial map, fraction of what it would become, was the starting point for your relationship with Roman.

Your morbid fascination with the family, and apparent loyalty (though you only realised it years later) met with his intrigue with you. Shiv never brought friends on holiday, he disclosed on the third or fourth day—as such, everyone was trying to work you out, your game, your presence, beyond the limited stuff they already knew. But at the end of the trip, it wasn’t Shiv who you’d spent the most time with, but Roman.

You’d thought of it as a ten-day deep-dive into the family, one that wouldn’t be repeated and that would have few repercussions—for you, anyway, but something had been pushed into being on that yacht that would change the trajectory of your life.

Upon your return to the company, tanned and rested from your break, you found that your routine at work changed a little at first, and then a little more, and then completely. A week after the end of the holiday, Roman had barged into your office at around lunchtime, insulted a photo on your desk and dragged you out for an overpriced lunch to discuss work stuff—a legitimate offer, you later found out from Gerri, about an actual deal that he genuinely wanted to pick your brains about. The work-related talk had lasted maybe fifteen minutes before the two of you were side-tracked by something entirely inconsequential and spent the rest of the hour essentially gossiping. His coarseness surprised you a little, though it shouldn’t have, and you remember your initial reservations about his overt slights and hyperactivity—though nowadays you’ve grown to love both. The deal—the one he’d wanted to pick your brains about—had gone better than anticipated, partially, it was said, due to your counsel. So it became more regular—Thursday lunchtimes became your lunches with Roman, and he would stop by your office for discussions almost every day, uncharacteristically invested in his work, according to his siblings. You started to move up through the company too, taking on more responsibility, spending more time with the family, getting closer to the top.

At some point, you and Roman had become friends. You gravitated towards each other at galas and occasionally went for drinks after work on a Friday night. But, despite your time together, there was something odd about the dynamic—neither of you particularly spoke about your pasts, your childhoods. There was a certain shame you had about your upbringing—you knew it was entirely unfounded, that you’d been better off than the vast, vast majority, but then again, you spent most of your time with multibillionaires these days. Generally, you avoided discussions about family wealth, and guarded the inner-workings of your family, and all its troubles, in a way that is far more impossible for a family of the Roys’ calibre—you had your own secrets, a great many things you refused to discuss, and he knew that. In turn, Roman didn’t seem to want to delve into what it was like to grow up with the mighty Logan Roy as a father; so neither of you pushed it, and the subject of who you were pre-Roman began to fade; it would take a couple of years for it all to be disclosed, and even then, most of your big revelations about your relationship with him seemed to come in times of crisis.

You were friends. Work friends, really, but edging into the ground of the simpler terms; you were friends. You were, perhaps, his only one, or one of very few, and he was one of a fair few on your part, though he and Shiv were almost entirely separate from the company you kept outside of Waystar; you’d sometimes wondered what they’d think of the people you spent your Saturday nights with, or the clubs you frequented. But for years, he was your friend, and only your friend.

You’re not entirely sure when things began to get muddled, and lines began to blur. After one crisis or another, he had turned up at your door, late into the night, too tired and too upset to take the piss out of your apartment—a sure sign something was wrong—and ended up in your bed. You hadn’t slept together, but had spent the night beside one another, in hushed conversation or drifting into restless slumber. You’d woken up with his back to you, and it hadn’t been brought up again, not even when he turned up at your door a week later. Sleeping in the same bed as Roman became more common, though it was never sexual—it eased slowly from the simple need for company to admissions of wanting some form of affection—you would sometimes wake up to find that you had curled into one another, that in your unconscious states you had found an intimacy that was impossible in your waking lives.

And then, at some point, something had changed. You’d created a setting in which Roman could actually communicate—not without difficulty, but a space where he could say what he thought and attempt to move away from what he felt he should think. The emotional stuff took longer, but with those changes came a definite change in the nature of your relationship—namely, there was a newfound romance to it.

You’d held off the idea of a relationship with Roman for a long time—through all his joking, overly casual proposals, which you suspected were a way of him affirming some need for rejection, assuring himself that he was unlovable by presenting the ridiculous to have it shot down, as expected. But that had changed as he had, gradually, changed. As he became more open, more honest in that mesocosm of your apartment, developing a unique ecosystem of trust and loyalty and, you supposed, love, allowed him to become accessible to you in new ways.

Sex had taken longer. You were, to all intensive purposes, his girlfriend for a long while before you actually had sex. It was tentative, a slow process of breaking down barriers and rebuilding his relationship with a lot of things, in order to create a version of him that was capable of vulnerability. It’s still a work in progress. At some point (a nonchalant way of putting it—your milestones with him may have been muddled, but they were still deeply significant to you), the relationship had been opened for scrutiny at the hands of his family. You had, in some senses, created a healing process that they couldn’t comprehend, and you think that for that they will always resent you, but for the most part his siblings saw someone who made their brother a little happier and a little less skittish, and his father saw someone who could talk business and keep his son in check.

You didn’t know if there would ever be a wedding to commemorate it, and you doubted there would be children, but your ever-evolving relationship with him made you happy, and you knew it made him happy. Sometimes, you just wished that all that progress you’d made with him would translate to other aspects of his life, but such hopes never came to fruition—at the end of the day, he was still the young boy desperate for the approval of his hard-headed, abusive father.

It was that relationship with his father that made his relationship with his siblings so twisted. You and Shiv weren’t so close these days, but there was still amiable respect and remnants of that original loving friendship, but circumstance had torn rifts in the friendship of your teen- and twenty-something selves. In your thirties, that love had been somewhat lost, or changed—you’d probably always feel that friendly love for Shiv, the one responsible for this entire trajectory of your life.

Now, however, feels simultaneously like the best and worst time for a reflection on the ins and outs of your relationship with Roman Roy. Your bed is a mess, sheets tangled from Roman’s tossing and turning, his frame tense as he paces back and forth, pink flashcards clutched in his grasp. You’d helped him write them over the last few days, through the frustrations that he couldn’t get the words right or couldn’t express his true feelings.

It is only natural that on the morning of a funeral, you think of the funerals you have been to before. The one that stands out, the paradox, is the funeral that exposed your true upbringing to him; it wasn’t the wealth—Roman had hardly expected anything quite so extreme as his own family, but rather the people, your people, and how different they were from his.

You’d received the call late at night—UK and US time differences had gotten confused, your uncle thought you were five hours ahead, not behind—and had tried to gloss over the reason you were suddenly going back home for a week. Of course, in registering your time off with work—paid compassionate leave—he had discovered the truth, and insisted he accompany you. So Roman had met your family at a wake—not ideal, but it made sense. Your family, for all their flaws, had an open, friendly attitude; anyone was welcome in your home, and help was always offered where it could be, a notion so foreign to him that he’d never quite managed to grasp it.

Your family had been confused but welcoming of him; the context of your mother’s death was a strange setting to first impressions, but they liked him nevertheless. Your brother found his jokes more than a little amusing, and your little cousin seemed to think he’d hung the moon, which had more than baffled him—he’d never liked kids, even when they looked like you might have when you were little, even (perhaps especially) when they made him wonder about having children with you. That funeral had been a modest affair with a large turnout—most of the neighbourhood seemed to be there, but there was no fancy coffin or grand church; it was a small funeral, as your mother had wished, and as fitted the circumstances.

You remember a conversation with your sister a day or two later; sat in the garden, smoking, she had turned to you, posed that fatal question; What if the poison drips through? You had dismissed it initially, but at some point, probably after another depressive episode after, you had understood it. The poison drips through. But that was then, and this is now. This is not a modest funeral in your mother’s hometown, but a lavish one, in New York City.

No, this funeral is different.

Logan Roy’s funeral is not a neighbourhood affair, but an international one, and your Roman is doing the eulogy—hence the pacing and the flashcards. He is already dressed, and you are still in your pyjamas, but that is hardly the consideration—in this moment, you are simply concerned over whether or not Roman will make it through the eulogy; with every hour that passes, you become less convinced by his claim that he has “pre-grieved” his father’s death. If Roman breaks, the whole world will see it, abuse it, manipulate it; but everyone, Roy or not, should be able to grieve their parent’s death—no matter how awful they were—without judgement or manipulation.

He looks up from his cards— “You’re not dressed yet.”

“We have time.” you chide, but slip out of the tangle of bedsheets and turn the shower on. “Getting there on time is not going to be an issue.”

He dismisses you again, announcing the lines from his flashcards to himself as you shower, still going as you do your make up and dress, eat a little food—as much as you can stomach on a day like this, and make sure everything in terms of logistics will run smoothly, send a quick text to Shiv to make sure she’s coping—you’re sure none of them are—and eventually let Roman know it’s just about time to go.

His composure is already cracking by the time you get to the car. There is a sense of foreboding, and though you can’t bring yourself to iterate the thought, you have a distinct premonition that Roman’s eulogy will not happen as planned. You’re even wondering if he’ll sneak out before it’s his turn to speak, but you push the thought away. Roman would be okay, he always managed to scrape himself out of trouble, somehow.

The funeral is sombre, to no one’s surprise. You end up on the front pew, between Roman and Kendall, though you’re not entirely sure how. The service is long, as Roman Catholic funerals usually are, in your experience, and Roman will have to sit through the rest of it after his eulogy—whether it’s good that he’ll get it over with, or bad that he’ll have to sit with it for ages after is something you can’t decide on. You suppose that regardless of which point in the service he did the eulogy, he will always have to sit with his words.

And then it’s his part, and he doesn’t even manage the first sentence. You realise, the moment that he looks over to the coffin, that it’s over. You’re the first to get to him at the front, pulling the cards from his hands and letting him collapse into you, the cards getting taken by Kendall, the Roys all there to offer some form of support to their faltering sibling. His questions, his grief, are concerned with Logan’s body, lying and waiting in that coffin. It does, admittedly, seem unnatural that such a force could be contained in such a simple box. You feel almost like you are carrying him back to the pew, tucked under your arm, and welcoming him into your side, his body pressed into yours as though you are the only thing keeping him on earth, as if he would be gone without you. You let him cling, you make it to the end of the service without a further disruption, and then tell Shiv you’ll walk him back to the reception yourself, make sure he’s in a better state before you present him to the world once more. You sneak him out somehow, find a long route back that is not impacted by protests or by paparazzi.

The walk is slow, and he comes to himself little by little by the simple process of walking. He calms his breathing, starts to look about, register his surroundings and the events of the last few hours.

“Why’d you take us this route?” he asks. It’s not the quickest route, and it’s too strange a route to simply be about avoiding photos or crowds. He’s frowning, but you don’t seem embarrassed or confused by his line of questioning.

“My grandparents used to say that you should leave a funeral in small groups, and never all take the same route. It was some superstitious thing—like, if you all took the same route back then the soul of the dead would be able to follow you home, and they’d never leave.” You don’t say that you would hate for Logan’s soul to remain here, to follow him for the rest of his life.

He frowns at you. “I don’t think there’s much we can do to stop him from staying.”

You sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“I’ll never escape him, will I?”

“Roman, for the first time in your life you can step out of this sphere. You can look at the world without the oversight of that bastard, and you can pick a direction. You have the choice, the ability to choose for yourself without his consequence. If you want so badly to escape him, then you can. It’s in your grasp.”

He doesn’t respond, meandering toward your destination. Eventually, he formulates a response. “He’s gone, but the rest of them aren’t.”

You don’t push it—it’s for another day. Instead, you hold his hands in the street, and the pair of you head towards the reception.

He’s beside you for the majority of the evening, until you go to get a drink so that kendall can have a word—a bad idea, in retrospect—and you return to find him gone. Kendall shrugs you off, and no one else knows or cares where he’s gone. You call him a few times, wonder if he just needs some quiet, and then feel your instincts correct you; Roman has not gone for a moment of quiet, you know him better than that, and there is no guarantee he is safe or calm or well.

So you leave, try his phone a few more times, and some morbid curiosity leads you toward the sounds of the protestors. Perhaps it’s your gut, perhaps there is something that viscerally understands his masochism and self destruction. You know you’ll find him in that mob, at the mercy of the only people who will show him violence like his father used to. You feel sick with the thought, nauseous with the understanding of what he is doing to himself.

Sure enough, by the time you find him he has been beaten to a pulp, he is black and blue and bloody, damn near smiling with the pain despite being barely able to stand or walk, destroyed by a sadistic crowd. They do not know this man, you think, as you bundle him into a car, they do not understand grief if they can do this to a man who had freshly lost his father.

At your apartment, you sit him against the bathroom wall, on the floor, splatters of blood on his clothes, tainting the white tiles. He’s incoherent as you sort the first aid kit, and find a cloth to clean him up with. You work methodically, sure to keep him conscious in case of a concussion, as you clean and dress every part of broken skin, and treat his bruises with an ointment you find in the bottom of the kit, and strip him of his stained clothes, providing him with a change. You do not leave him alone, for fear of what might happen, and help him into some new clothes, sweaters and top, too casual for him to ever actually wear—you’d bought the joggers over a year ago and seen him wear them twice—before settling him into bed. You know enough about concussions to know you should wake him up frequently to check on him, but for now you let the tears come in waves. You’ve cleaned the physical wounds, and you hope that with every round of tears comes a cleanse, one that will make the wounds of his broken life easier to heal come the morning, as though the tears themselves will act to wash the grit from the graze, or to pick the shrapnel out from the marred flesh of this open wound.

You look around your apartment, out the window at the city below, and an idea strikes you—almost certainly a bad one, but you’re beyond the point of caring. “Rome,” you say, “You wanna go to Barbados?”

-

Caroline’s place in Barbados is lovely, if a little mosquito-ridden, and it feels oddly bonding to care for Roman together with his distant, almost neglectful mother. She loves him, that much is true, but it’s never enough.

You have thought more about your own mother in the last two weeks than in the last few years—not because you’d wanted to forget her, you saw her in everything—these thoughts were more active, like you were searching for the memories that might guide you in how to deal with this, or help Roman to cope. Your mother had been a different kind of a parent to Logan, and her issues had never been sought out—it was like no matter what she did, she would always have been claimed the same way, her life would always have made yours worse, despite anyone’s efforts to change that.

The poison drips through. That had been your sister’s line, and now Kendall’s. You’d experienced some of what your mother had first-hand, and it always made you wonder if everyone is destined to become their parents, to mirror their lives no matter how consciously they tried to avoid it; whether they resign themselves to it, or try so hard to avoid it that they do a full circle, returning to the likeness of their parents, everyone you’ve ever known is the product of their parents; it is biological, cultural, psychological.

It’s no surprise when Shiv arrives, ready to turn Roman to her side of the discussion about the board meeting. It’s late afternoon when you and Shiv find a moment—Roman has disappeared, and you sit on the paved surrounding to the pool, legs soaked up to your knees, weight leant back on your arms. The youngest Roy is somewhere behind you, to the right, probably on a deck chair.

“Do you think—and tell me to fuck off if you like—that maybe this whole deal is a good thing?”

You hear her sit up, and turn to look at her. She’s frowning at you, “How so?”

“I don’t know, ‘cause, like, you guys—all of you—have just been trapped in this sphere of Waystar and ATN and your dad, and all of you are just fucking miserable. What if you—what would be so bad about just getting out? You could free yourselves from all this bullshit, and there’s no Logan to pull you back in, so you could just… be. Just, y’know, learn a bit more about who you are outside of your father’s sphere of influence. Plus, like, Kendall’s gonna break, Roman already has, and you—all of you—are, frankly, pretty fucking fragile at the minute.”

She moves to come and sit next to you, slipping her feet into the pool beside yours. “You don’t understand.”

You shrug. “I’m sure I don’t.”

“We’re never, really, going to be free of it. Any of it.”

She shifts, her head resting on the bare skin of your shoulder, hair ticklish on your neck. You rest the side of your face on the crown of her head. “Maybe, maybe that’s true. But for the first time in your lives, the door’s open.”

The silence stretches out over the pool, filling the air, making you wonder what’s going on in her head. You sit like that for a while and at some point you realise she’s crying— not sobbing, not shaking with the force of it, but just sitting there, letting the tears stream; you don’t think she’s even really blinking, but the stillness remains, you don’t move. She needs this. You know about the scheduled meeting rooms for crying—Roman mentioned it—but this doesn’t feel like mourning. Not for her father, at least.

“Hey, fucknuts,” Roman calls, appearing at the edge of the courtyard, still barefoot in the shorts and top Caroline had gotten him when you first arrived. Shiv swiftly brushes the tears away, smiling up at him. He looks between you. “Ah, fuck—what… nevermind.”

Suddenly, you are plunging through the chlorinated water, lungs straining at the shock, hands splaying out through the cyan waters, in some momentarily suspended, bubbly universe, the tiled walls of the pool reflecting its pale, eggshell blue translucence onto your skin. You burst upward, drawing in a deep breath and flicking your hair from your face as your toes find the floor of the pool. “Argh, fuck you!”

Roman is laughing, Shiv in a similar state to you, and the moment feels distinctly child-like. You wade through the neck-deep water to the edge, and reach up to him to help you out, but he shakes his head. “Fuck that,” he chides, “I’m not that stupid.”

Shiv is laughing now, and you realise that you’re smiling despite yourself. “Rome, come on, at least help the pregnant lady.”

“Yeah, Rome, help the pregnant lady!” Shiv echoes, joining you at the edge and reaching for him. He knows what’s about to happen and submits himself to it regardless, letting her get a grip of his hands and be practically thrown over your heads, crashing sidelong into water. The splash and waves lap at your chin but you and Shiv are too busy laughing to notice; he struggles upright and rolls his eyes through his smile.

“Cunts.” he groans.

Shiv splashes him in the face with some water, and he swears again, splashing her back and catching you in the process. The ensuing water fight is short and chaotic, halted by Caroline’s arrival to tell you all to be quiet. Roman is laughing, the three of you paddling to the shallow end through some half-hearted apologies. Clambering out and grabbing some towels, you meander down to the seats and drinks table overlooking the seas, drying out your hair and letting conversation turn to business. This is where Kendall finds you, twenty minutes later, in a serious discussion about the board meeting.

The next few hours are a rollercoaster. Calls, discussions, debates, the classic Roy egoistical outlook on why each of them are better suited to the CEO position and why they have been groomed for it. Privately, as you meander in and out of their discussions, conscious that you’re not really involved in their family stuff at all, you settle on the idea that perhaps none of them are. Your feelings about the deal are one thing, meant to be separate from your feelings about them, but they intertwine now—the future of the company lies with them, and their capabilities, and their decisions. That’s not particularly your concern, you’ve been starting to manoeuvre your way out of your current position of influence, toying with the idea of leaving completely, selling your shares and heading elsewhere, but the idea of leaving them behind, leaving Roman behind, is too difficult to consider. What if you didn’t have to factor that in? What if you could walk away knowing it wasn’t them you were walking away from?

It’s this spiralling thought process that subdues you during dinner, ignoring Peter’s friend—James? John?—and knocking back continuous cocktails. Shiv frowns at you, “Trying to get hungover before the board meeting?”

You let out a half laugh. “If I drink a bit more tomorrow I won’t get the hangover.”

Kendall watches you for a second. “Clear minds tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes. Caroline glares at you all for ignoring the pitch you’re currently being presented with and you glance at Roman beside you. He’s anxious, he has been since the morning of the funeral, and you get the sense that he—body, mind and soul—is consuming himself, like he’s just destroying the fabric of himself from the inside out, so destroyed by his father’s death. The whole structure of his life, its fabric and its character, has been defined by his father’s presence and absence, and the man’s ability to maintain his presence even through his absence, but that presence, that famed presence, their “dear, dear world of a father” diminishes with every passing second.

Roman’s hand finds yours under the table, slightly clammy, taking you by surprise. His initiation is uncharacteristic. You give his hand a slight squeeze, and in response he laces his fingers into yours, a more substantial hold. Be here, he seems to ask. The world goes quiet—it’s just you, Roman, and your palms against one another under the table.

Like all things, the moment passes, the chaos returns. More phone calls, an equivocal end to the dinner, and you end up at the house, the Roys down at the beach. You lie at the end of Roman’s bed, feet still on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan; there could be any manner of discussions going on between the siblings at the sea, you could wake up to find they’ve drowned one another or something. Knocked each other out with a coconut or some shit. Roman, your Roman, and his grief, his deep felt love and guilt and terror, lost in the storm of this entire shitshow. You think of that day at Connor’s ranch when you saw the scars on Logan’s back, Ewan’s eulogy about his polio and self-blame, the mirror he made his children look in when they cried. Broken people make broken people. It’s easy to think of time as linear—past, present, future—but it’s more of a circle, you think. Infinite, never-ending, always repeating the same old mistakes. Kendall’s distant fathering, Logan’s abusive fathering—were they really so different?

The poison drips through.

It’s difficult to compare your childhood with the Roys’, but you remember those same thoughts, of a different nature—you’d been lucky enough to live in a world where things were talked about, and you had been able to process things as they happened, rather than let them bubble under the surface, but there had always been that idea. Your family history, the mental health troubles, ECT treatments and various crises in your family history, long before your time, and the effects that you had grown up with. You remember the first time you understood that your mother wasn’t quite right. You remember trying to get her out of bed to walk you to school and the realisation that she wasn’t really there, not in her mind, anyway. And in your teenage years, when you felt that yourself for the first time, you remember the terror of becoming her, of losing all feeling until you couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time.

When you took Roman to her funeral, you hadn’t told him how she’d died, too scared it would be weird or uncomfortable. He’d worked it out, and confronted you in the bathroom at the wake. Sat on the bath met, you had unleashed it all on him, and it had been one of the few genuine conversations you’d had with him in those first years. It had been a different kind of a struggle to his—it wasn’t actively inflicted by your parents, it wasn’t an intentional abuse like the kind he had experienced, but an enforced bystander effect—instead, you had had to stand at the sidelines as your mother collapsed in on herself, decaying before your eyes until you gave up and left. Half the world away, you had learned to understand those things, but now Roman had hints of it in him—he was barely even a bystander in his father’s death, but the grief and guilt were parallel.

This deal was his version of moving to NYC. An escape, an out.

You must drift off, because you open your eyes to the muffled chant; a meal fit for a king. Downstairs, you find them, concocting some awful smoothie, cackling like maniacs. As teenagers, it had been one of those games you’d played when their parents were away, seeing who could stomach the most awful of concoctions for trivial prizes and rewards—apparently this is similar, an initiation to a proper CEO position, on Kendall’s part. You make yourself known by handing Shiv a bottle of Tabasco, Kendall groaning and the other two cheering.

Caroline’s interruption only spurs it on, and by the time you’re heading back to bed, the smoothie having been dumped on Kendall’s head, a crown, you can barely stand you’re so tired.

Still vaguely unfamiliar, you wake up with Roman’s face pressed into your neck, his breath warm and ticklish on your skin, arm thrown over your waist and legs tangled together, a position that makes you think he really is comfortable with you, even if it’s taken a ridiculously long time to get here. You wonder if he can hear the air in your lungs or the blood in your arteries, or whether he notices the patter of your heart as you recognise this display of unconscious affection. Eventually, the rest of the building comes to life, and Roman wakes, moves from you with a sort of embarrassment, changing from his Walmart shirt into business attire. You wear the pantsuit you’d gotten with this board meeting in mind a while back, your office fashion being a slight point of pride—you weren’t the biggest fan of the drab stuff people usually wore, and liked to use interesting cuts and shapes to create range in the endless blouses and blazers and skirts and trousers of your work clothes. Subtle, but not boring.

Back in NYC, after a morning of calls and diplomacy and last minute bids for votes, you are greeted with a room full of people in expensive suits waiting and chattering anxiously as board members start to file in. You still don’t know how to vote, whether you’ll side with the siblings or not. Instead of stressing, you wrangle some gossip out of Stewy and do a shot in the bathroom. Zero hour.

With a pencil, you tally up each vote on a Post-It note stuck to the page of your notebook where you were planning to take notes, both Shiv, to your right, and Roman, to your left, glance at the tally every few seconds. You will be the last three votes.

When it reaches Roman’s turn, it is 6-4 toward the deal, he votes against and you are faced with a choice. If you vote for the deal, Shiv’s vote is purely nominal, and the deal will go through whether she likes it or not—you will be the decider; if you vote against, then it is an even 6-6 and she will cast the deciding vote. You look at the faces of each of the Roys, the children who have grown up to get to this moment. It feels ridiculous that it might be your choice. In the end, that is what makes you vote how you do—this is their livelihood more than it is yours, and you want Shiv to have the options in front of her—you can cope either way. So you vote against the deal—not for any loyalty to Kendall, but for one of your oldest friends, to give her some ounce of autonomy when you know that’s something that has been scarce in her life. Perhaps it's cruel to give her the choice between her brother and her husband, but, selfishly, you don’t want Roman to hate you.

“No, I vote against.” you eventually utter out, earning a triumphant nod from Kendall. Shiv glances at your tally, confirming the equal scores, confirming that it is her choice that makes or breaks the deal—literally.

And she breaks.

You see them, the Roy children, through the glass walls that separate the various conference rooms. You see the pain, the anger, the fear; it comes to a head, and all of the raw emotion of the last days is borne into the world, witnessed through the glass. You listen to Kendall’s rage, and for a minute you are a teenager, listening to one of Logan’s tantrums after one of Roman’s misdemeanours. For a minute, you realise how quickly Kendall turns into his father. For a minute, you feel your heart break on their behalf—at the end of the day, they are children, mourning for a father whose love was confusing and hateful.

The poison drips through.

You are your mother’s daughter, and he is his father’s son.

Afterwards, as you stand beside Shiv in a commemorative photograph, it is understood that there is no singular reason behind this. The freedom of her siblings; the power as the wife of a CEO, not the sister; the wishes of her late father; Kendall’s rage; Roman’s breakdown; the inevitable becoming of one’s own mother. When you and Roman leave, despite the knowledge that Roman is emotional and angry and probably confused by a sense of relief, you resolve that you will call her in the morning. You’ll make your exit as quietly as you can, but you will try to book Saturday morning brunches with her like you used to when you were in your early twenties. You’ll text Rava a little more, and try to create some positive influences in the next generations of Roy children.

You think of your parents. Of Logan, of Caroline, of your own siblings and your own childhood. The poison drips through. What if it doesn’t have to?

[stephensmithuk]

The Mazarin Stone

First published in 1921, this was an adaptation of a one-act play Doyle wrote called The Crown Diamond: An Evening with Sherlock Holmes that ran in London that same year and featured Sebastian Moran.

It is also written in the third person, rare for a Holmes story.

A gasogene was a two-globed late Victorian device for producing sparkling water or other such carbonated beverages; the liquid was placed in the bottom and a mixture of tartaric acid and bi-carbonate of soda at the top. You tipped it slightly to start the process going. They had a habit of exploding under pressure, so were in a wire or wicker mesh to stop glass flying around if they did.

Cardinal Mazarin (1602-1661) was Chief Minister to Louis XIII and XIV from 1642 until his death. Succeeding Cardinal Richelieu of The Three Musketeers fame, he proved a hugely effective diplomat, playing a key role in the Treaty of Westphalia of 1648, whose principles of national sovereignty remain key to modern international relations.

He acquired a massive art, literature and jewel collection as well, leaving eighteen diamonds called "the Mazarins" to Louis XIV on his death.

Air guns with a pellet discharge of under 12ft/lb are today legal to own in the UK without a licence - anything over that is legally a firearm and regulated as such i.e. licences are needed.

A gudgeon is one of many small bottom-dwelling fish.

Algeria had been gradually conquered by France between 1830 and 1903, become an integral part of the country; something most colonies did not have happen to them. It also gained a very large number of European settlers.

"Train-de-luxe" referred to a train exclusively made up of CIWL carriages, all of which were pretty luxurious with the obvious exception of the dedicated luggage vans. The Orient Express was one such train for much of its history.

"It's a fair cop" is a British slang expression meaning "it was wrong and you caught me fairly".

[gorgiawrite]

WIND BELTS OF THE ATLANTIC OCEAN (x)

« The map at left shows the wind belts of the Atlantic Ocean in January. The length of the arrows indicates how steady the winds are. The heavy arrows show strong winds. The circles are the calms. On the map at the right the wind belts have changed positions in July. They have migrated with the sun. The doldrums, trade winds, and horse latitudes have shifted northward. The prevailing westerlies are not as strong as in January, when cold air flows from the North American continent. »

Eastbound Atlantic crossing towards Europe possible routes (x)

IN ORANGE (preferred route) : Leaving the Caribbean we head north through the horse latitudes where the Azores high ridges towards Florida and the wind becomes light and variable. Once through this ridge we should be able to follow a route north of the high in mainly westerlies, but far enough south to avoid gales from depressions passing to the north.

IN RED (inclement weather) : Avoiding eastbound mid-Atlantic landfalls and taking the shortest route to the UK risks encounters with North Atlantic lows.

Lows = Low-pressure areas, commonly associated with inclement weather (such as rains, winds, storms...). Highs = High-pressure areas, associated with lighter winds and clear skies.

The balance between the lows and the high pressure depends on the time of year as the jet stream, steering the lows, will usually migrate north in the summer and south in the winter.

Major warm & cold currents of the North Atlantic Ocean (x)

In the North Atlantic the trade winds maintain a fairly steady current from east to west, partly by the direct action of the wind and partly by maintaining an accumulation of warm water on the northern side of the current. A great bulk of water carried by this current continues into the Caribbean Sea and through the Strait of Yucatán into the Gulf of Mexico, from which it flows out as the warm and swift Florida Current through the Straits of Florida.

This current, reinforced by water that has flowed on the eastern side of the Antilles as the Antilles Current, forms the Gulf Stream off the North American east coast. The Gulf Stream follows the coast closely to the north and northeast as far as Cape Hatteras, continues at some distance from the coast, and turns increasingly toward the east, flowing due east to the south of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland.

Map of the prevailing winds on earth (x)

BLUE: westerlies YELLOW: trade winds (northeasterly) PINK: hurricanes (Sargasso Sea)

« The captain of a sailing ship seeks a course along which the winds can be expected to blow in the direction of travel. During the Age of Sail, the pattern of prevailing winds made various points of the globe easy or difficult to access, and therefore had a direct effect on European empire-building and thus on modern political geography.»

Edmond Halley's map of the trade winds, 1686 (x)

In 1492 it took Columbus two months to cross the Atlantic. In the 18th and 19th century, it still took on average six weeks. If weather conditions were bad, it could take up to three months.

[wof-inbox]

Another day of breaking Winter's mind with trains because it's my area of expertise. Today, I have 2 special locomotives from the UK, each incredible in their own right. First, the Flying Scottsman.

What makes this A3 Special? It was the first locomotive to ever hit 100 miles per hour.

"WhAt AbOuT cItY oF tUrO-"

SHUT! That was never confirmed! And I highly doubt it because City of Turo is a 4-4-0! Name one 4-4-0 that can keep up with the Pacific wheel arangment. And don't mention that one American 4-4-0 I know nothing about people claim hit 100.

Anyhoo, that's not all Flying Scottsman is known for. Yeah it was special for marking a important milestone in steam engine technology, but it's also been paraded around the globe. First in a tour across America, which was cut short when it's private owner went bankrupt, and it was in danger of being scrapped to pay off debts. However, it was saved by another steam enthusiast who brought it back to Britan, and later it went on a much more successful tour through Australia.

Flying Scottsman has also gone through other important changes. For instance, see those smoke deflectors on the smoke box? Those weren't always there. At some point as well, Flying Scottsman had two tenders for fuel, with a special system to pick up extra water on the go. And of course when it went to America, it needed a bell to alert people, a cowcatcher just incase animals strayed on the tracks, and even a US railroad regulated head light.

Flying Scottman is legendary, no doubt. But it's not the fastest locomotive ever though. That honor belongs to, this legend of steam.

Mallard is an A4 Pacific, and the world record holder for steam speed at 126 miles per hour. Designed by Sir Nigel Gresley, same as Flying Scottsman, the A4 is a sleek and elegant cousin to the A3's.

These two locomotives are some of the most influential and praised, and each have their very own place in history.

”Wow.. I keep getting more and more amazed every time I get told stories like these!” -Winter

[plain text: Wow.. I keep getting more and more amazed every time I get told stories like these!]

[rabbitcruiser]

World Toilet Day

World Toilet Day…at first glance, this seems like an unlikely candidate for a holiday and more like some sort of joke, but the day is nowhere as trivial or humorous as it may seem. All in all, it strives to draw attention to various sanitation issues around the world and work towards resolving them.

Despite access to proper sanitation being declared a basic human right, one in three people across the globe, so some 2.5 billion people in total, do not have regular access to a toilet. Additionally, even amongst those who do have such access, unclean and unsafe toilets pose problems of their own, including contributing towards the spread of diseases like cholera, typhoid and hepatitis—in some parts of Africa, diarrhea is one of the main child-killers.

Open defecation is also responsible for increasing the number of sexual assaults perpetrated on women and children. Furthermore, when young girls begin menstruating, the lack of privacy forces them to stay home from school, thus limiting their chances of getting a basic education and, what comes after that, a decent job in the future. World Toilet Day’s ultimate goal is to allow everyone on the planet to take care of their most basic needs without having to fear for their safety.

History of World Toilet Day

World Toilet Day was created by the World Toilet Organization in 2001. Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon of the United Nations said: “We have a moral imperative to end open defecation and a duty to ensure women and girls are not at risk of assault and rape simply because they lack a sanitation facility.”

He went on to talk about how having to defecate openly infringes on human safety and dignity, and how women and girls risk rape and abuse as they wait until night falls to relieve themselves because they lack of access to a toilet that offers privacy. Another issue is that toilets generally remain inadequate for populations with special needs, such as the disabled and elderly.

Since its inception, World Toilet Day has played a vital role in challenging governments, businesses and other groups to make changes. It has also worked towards breaking various taboos surrounding the topic, in order to facilitate discussion and lead to the creation of better, safer solutions.

World Toilet Day Timeline

3000 BC Pipes carry waste

Even a few thousand years ago various people groups (in Scotland, India, Mesopotamia and more) would use pipe systems to carry waste out of their houses and into rivers or streams.

100-200 AD Group toilets for soldiers

Remains of Housesteads Roman Fort at Hadrian’s Wall in the UK reveals that perhaps 20 or more soldiers would all use a common ‘toilet’ (essentially these were long benches with holes in them) at the same time.

Middle Ages (500-1500 AD) Garderobes are used

Predating the toilet, “garderobes” were little rooms that hung over the sides of the castle. This little closet had a bench with a hole in it where the waste would drop into a moat or pit below.

During this time, many people would also use chamber pots, which would be kept in bedrooms or ‘chambers’ and then emptied (sometimes simply thrown out the window) when full. This function carried on for quite some time.

1596 Flushing toilet is invented

Although its widespread use did not arrive until a couple of centuries later, the first flushing toilet was described by Sir John Harington, an English courtier. This toilet was a pot that used gravity to feed water through it from a cistern that sat upstairs.

1775 First toilet patent issued

Scottish Inventor Alexander Cummings was the creator of the important pipe that ran in an S-shape below the bowl. This ingenious design used the water in the bowl to seal off the sewer gas from below and eventually led the way to mass production of the toilet.

1829 First toilets in a hotel

The Tremont Hotel in Boston, USA installed eight indoor water closets for its guests.

1866 World’s first bathroom showroom

Marlboro Works showroom is opened by English sanitary engineer Thomas Crapper (yes, that’s his real name). At a time when people didn’t speak much about their bodily functions, this public display of toilets was revolutionary.

1880s Thomas Crapper invents the ballcock

Toilets that have this invention, the “ballcock”, are less likely to overflow. Crapper created the floating valve as well as eight other patented improvements for plumbing and sewage. He also did a lot of plumbing for British royalty around this time. 

1910 Elevated water tank

A similar design to today’s toilets, the closed water tank and bowl moves into common use.

1986 Sensor flushes introduced

In Japan, the first toilets with sensors that would flush on their own were used.

2001 World Toilet Organization is created

The World Toilet Organization moves to educate people about the sanitation crisis.  Even in today’s modern times, more than 2 billion people across the world still do not have access to a toilet.

2013 World Toilet Day made official by the UN

In an effort to raise awareness and support for places where people don’t have proper access to sanitation, the first UN World Toilet Day is celebrated on November 19, 2013.

How to celebrate World Toilet Day

I think by now it’s been made abundantly clear that World Toilet Day is far from being a joke, dealing instead with the protection of one of humanity’s most basic rights. So how can you help? There are a number of things you could do. For starters, why not visit the World Toilet Day website, Facebook page or Twitter account and share the message across social media platforms?

This may seem like a tiny, unimportant gesture, but raising awareness about serious problems is one of the things social media does best, aside from bombarding you with pictures of babies and kittens. The more people know about a problem, the more money can be raised to fight it, as the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge so perfectly demonstrated. So don’t think your clicking “share” means anything. It doesn’t.

Another thing you could do as a way of observing World Toilet Day Would be of course to make a donation, so if you have the means, know that every dollar helps.

Source

[pedriscroquettes]

Hi i DONT really have that huge of a platform or anything so I just wanted to anonymously put this here(i know you don’t support Israel but I feel like the dumb bitches who do need to hear this)

#Free Palestine

I actually laugh sooo hard when people say “free Isrnotreal” like from what? From the endless amount of money that they get from us and uk tax payers??? Like actual jokers.

Also can we talk about them annoying mfs who say “i have boycott fatigue that’s why i got my Starbucks water” like it’s literally filtered water with eyes in a cup you can make it home like you’re buying overpriced water like you’re soo lucky to have that imagine the millions of people all around the globe that don’t even have access too CLEAN drinking water.

Also I hate HATE this one girl who’s my friend rn for many reasons but also like one time she brought a Coca-Cola to school and I said that they support Israel and she said “omg i guess I should try and make the formula to home like I’m so sorry for buying a drink I don’t know how me not getting Coca-Cola is going to help Gaza” so like now everytime she mentions any brand that supports Israel she turns to me and goes “omg sorry i forgot they Support Israel🤭 it’s just SO hard not to have..” like imagine how hard it is for the people IN GAZA like shellfish bitch.

Also if you’re still a Noah Schnapp fan you man fucking suck bro how are you going to support a 19 year old seeing someone wrote “stop genocide” and putting a “Zionism is sexy” sticker on it like ewww

If.you.still.buying.from.brands.that.support.Israel.you.are.supporting.a.genocide

Zionism is not sexy.

Saying “from the river to the sea” is NOT anti-Semitic at all

We all grew up being told about the holocaust and how bad it was and we always used to wonder “why didn’t anyone say anything”

This will be the same thing for people in the future when they think about this so do you want it to be on you that you never even attempted to try and help.

Your voice matters

Your opinion matters

Put pressure on your governments

Put pressure on these big franchises and conglomerates (e.g. Disney and Starbucks)

If we all pitch in we can strain them to the point where they have to listen

Emailto your local governors and mps

Be the change you want to see

‼️‼️‼️‼️

– anon send me the addy and i will beat tf out of that girl 😭😭. imagine not being able to live without coke or overpriced coffee. FREE PALESTINE 🇵🇸

– also if you’re latino and you somehow still don’t support palestine this is your reminder that whatever problems your country is facing has at some point most likely been supported by isnotreal!!

[pulseintlradio]

Summer heat and HOTNOTIC Neo2Soul grooves. Welcome music listeners around the globe! Enjoy your day with DJ Niceness Neo2soul Playlist The Vibes (Female Takeover). Maintain your calm, drink plenty of water, and take in another Neo2Soul Playlist musical ecstasy. Beginning at 4 PM EST and 9 PM UK time. The Listening Experience. 𝐖𝐏𝐔𝐑-𝐃𝐁 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓'𝐋 𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐎 www.pulseintlradio.com

[undeadgoathead]

Love her or hate her, Barbie is iconic. I have no clue why she was stereotyped as an airheaded bimbo, when canonically she has been a doctor, astronaut, scientist, etc. Like most girls, I have fond memories of playing dolls with friends, and not-so-fond memories of siblings, cousins, etc ruining my toys, cutting their hair, covering them with mud, tattooing them with sharpies, etc.

In girl scouts, I remember each troop had to represent a different country/culture for world tolerance day or some such. So our project was singing the Barbie song in German! I still kinda remember the lyrics. 🎼Ich bin ein Barbie frau, en einer Barbie velt...🎶

On a side note, I also remember our troop representing the UK one year, because I was obsessed with The Beatles and JRR Tolkien. Good times, good times. I was a weird, nerdy kid, and I haven't changed much over the years. This is kinda embarrassing, but I played with dolls well into middle school. What can I say, I loved making up stories in my own imaginary fantasy world. Still kind of do, as a writer.

I had a Pocahontas Barbie... Hip to be Square Barbie...Of course I had the mermaid that changed the color of her hair and tail, depending on if the water was hot or cold...I had a slumber party Barbie with a soft body like a stuffed animal, so you could snuggle in bed. She also came with accessories like an inflatable chair, a box of pizza, a houseplant, and a globe. Perfect for 90s sleepovers!

One Christmas, I was gifted a special edition millennium Barbie for the year 2000. I was too young to understand collectibles, all I knew was it was the prettiest doll I'd ever seen, with her fancy gold dress and matching Christmas ornaments, and couldn't wait to play with it, so I didn't understand why everyone was so shocked when I opened the box and did just that.

I had a few of the Mattel pets, including a fluffy white cat, and a fancy Collie dog. Of course I had the sparkly white unicorn/pegasus horse with wings AND a horn, and a long pretty mane and tail that you could brush, braid, and style. I had a ton of horses in general. Including My Little Pony. And lots of dolls, not just Barbie, but also Polly Pocket, random stuffed animals, etc. Another random sidenote... I remember I used to watch a lot of PBS as a kid... I was fascinated by The Nightly Business Report... So I had my own version, The Nightly Horse Report, and all the new anchors, journalists, and correspondents were horses... Facepalm. 🤦🏽‍♀️

But in high school, I was an edgy, angsty teenager. I rejected Barbie as a sexist symbol of rigid gender roles and corporate greed. One of my aquaintances had dismembered Barbie body parts dangling from her backpack, which I thought was pretty cool. I also took the Barbies from a classmate's diorama when they didn't want them anymore. I don't know what book they were reading in the other Senior AP Literature Class, but it must have been a dark one, because the Barbies were scantily clad in plain white robes/togas, their hands were bound, they were blindfolded, and they were hanging from nooses. Yeah. Yikes. Anyway I used them for home decor in my college dorm, and even in my first apartment. Like I said, I only seem to get even weirder and creepier with age!

Then again, when I was a bratty teenage girl, my idea of feminism was misguided. In retrospect, I actually embodied a lot of internalized misogyny and toxic femininity myself. Joining the GSA (Gay Straight Alliance), poetry club, yearbook, and other extracurricular activities helped me keep an open mind and learn better social skills. But still, one of my favorite computer games at that age, was called Feed the Model, where you crash a haute couture high society fashion catwalk, and you throw tomatoes and other food at the model, hoping some of it lands in her mouth and she'll finally eat something for once, lol. Yes it was hilarious, but also problematic. I also frequented several feminist websites, including About Face and Adios Barbie. Again, I meant well, but the misandry was a little bit hypocritical.

Just like the Barbie brand is taking affirmative action to be more inclusive, I also eventually outgrew my "Hear me roar" phase, and embraced a more modern, intersectional sort of feminism and gender equality. Including a shameless appreciation for girly hobbies, such as dolls. Even in college, a roommate gave me a special Bjork Barbie with a handmade dress, custom haircut, and face painted with nail polish. He customized it himself, and it looked awesome and unique! Again, that Bjork Barbie remained dorm/apartment decor well into my mid twenties.

Now I'm in my 30s. I work at an antique store, and I do sell expensive vintage collectible Barbies to wealthy connoisseurs, as well as the cheap ones to little kids who only have a few bucks of allowance to buy used toys from secondhand thrift stores. So Barbie is still very much a part of my life on a daily basis. Grown adults pay hundreds of dollars for the right doll. I've had deep conversations with coworkers and customers about the magic of imagination, the nostalgic sense of wonder, and the simplicity yet complexity of children at play.

So I'm totally going to see that freaking Barbie movie, damn it! Who's coming with me?

[suzilight]

04.16.23 Novel Forms of Chaos

Woke early. Cuppa coffee, watching climate drama Extrapolations. Episode 1 hits hard with a possible near future. Sends me searching.  Then, saw this: "And here’s the scary part. Even before that El Nino officially forms, we’re already seeing global ocean temperatures setting a new all-time record, breaking the one set in 2016. The next jump in temperature will start from such a high base that Jim Hansen, the world’s most renowned climatologist, recently predicted that not only will we see a new global record air temperature in 2024 (“even a little futz of an El Niño should be sufficient for record global temperature”), but that it could, at least temporarily, bust through the 1.5 degree mark that the world swore to avoid in Paris just eight years ago. Hansen’s not alone in the prediction “It’s very likely that the next big El Niño could take us over 1.5C,” said Prof Adam Scaife, the head of long-range prediction at the UK Met Office. “The probability of having the first year at 1.5C in the next five-year period is now about 50:50.” As this happens, novel forms of chaos will ensue. No human has ever left us a shred of evidence about what life is like on a globe with these average temperatures. I imagine the phrase “on steroids” will get a regular workout, but it’s not quite right, since pharmaceutical enhancements work on the existing body. A planet at 420 parts per million co2 is a different planet than one at 275 parts per million. If Captain Kirk was landing on it, the first thing his tricorder would register is the composition of the atmosphere; when you’re talking planets, it’s a pretty basic data point. So we don’t really know what surprises are in store—though that news that the Antarctic current was starting to slow like a hose with a crimp is fair warning." We're in for a stretch of heavy climate - Source for above clip Deep Antarctic current slowing?? Is this true? sez me Melting Antarctic ice predicted to cause rapid slowdown of deep ocean current by 2050 | the guardian "A team of Australian scientists looked at the deep ocean current below 4,000 metres that originates in the cold, fresh and dense waters that plunge down off Antarctica’s continental shelf and spread to ocean basins around the globe. Prof Matt England, of the Climate Change Research Centre at the University of New South Wales and a co-author of the research published in Nature, said the whole deep ocean current was heading for collapse on its current trajectory. “In the past, these circulations have taken more than 1,000 years or so to change, but this is happening over just a few decades. It’s way faster than we thought these circulations could slow down. “We are talking about the possible long-term extinction of an iconic water mass.” Welp. I want to be able to push this away with claims of untested science and doomsaying, but you know what? I cannot. So far, climate science predictions are on track. We are experiencing the things they described. In fact, climate changes are happening faster than scientists' earlier predictions.

[denimbex1986]

'LONG before Cillian Murphy there was Sam Waterston, and long before Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer there was Peter Goodchild’s Oppenheimer (BBC4, Friday), which is being reshown for the first time in decades.

Goodchild, who was interviewed by Variety last month to coincide with the film’s release, started his BBC producing career in radio drama and later moved to television with the science documentary series Horizon.

When Horizon diversified into science docudramas in the 1970s, Goodchild, who holds a chemistry degree, got to combine his two interests in a successful series about Marie Curie.

It was his idea to make a seven-part miniseries about J Robert Oppenheimer, the father of the atomic bomb, played by Waterston. First shown on BBC2 in 1980, Oppenheimer was a big hit with viewers and critics, winning three Bafta awards. It also garnered Emmy and Golden Globe nominations after it was shown on PBS in the United States.

The budget of £1.5m (about €7.5m today) – 90pc of it coming from the BBC, the rest from WGBH Boston – might seem like a grain of New Mexico sand compared with the £100m price tag of Nolan’s Imax epic.

Back then, however, it was a huge spend for a British drama.

A huge physical production, too, with scrupulous attention to detail. For maximum authenticity, Goodchild, now 83, told Variety, the Manhattan Project’s Los Alamos Laboratory was recreated on a purpose-built set in Colorado Springs, complete with water tower and replica bomb.

The supporting cast was made up almost entirely of American actors based in Britain.

Two notable exceptions were future Poirot star David Suchet as the excitable, voluble Hungarian physicist Edward Teller and Edward Hardwicke (Dr Watson to Jeremy Brett’s Sherlock Holmes) as his Italian colleague Enrico Fermi.

Viewers who have grown used to watching even modestly budgeted dramas shot on HD video that mimics celluloid film may find the switch from Oppenheimer’s interior scenes, which were mostly shot on videotape in a studio in the UK, to the ones shot on film in America a little jarring at first.

But the story is so engrossing you cease to be aware of the contrast after a while.

What’s remarkable is how well Oppenheimer, which was written by Peter Prince and directed by Barry Davis, holds up 43 years later.

There’s none of the slowness or staginess you sometimes see in dramas from the period. Friday’s opening two episodes positively zipped by.

They spanned the years 1938, when Oppenheimer was at the University of Berkley, to 1942, when Lieutenant General Leslie Groves (Manning Redwood), ignoring warnings about Oppenheimer’s long associations with active communists and championing of left-wing causes, put him in charge of the Manhattan Project, which was to be housed in a high-security facility in Los Alamos.

Waterston, just four years ahead of his best actor Oscar nomination for playing Siydney Schanberg in The Killing Fields, is fantastic as Oppenheimer.

You can see why the BBC was prepared to pay him well above the normal rate for appearing in one of its dramas and to put him up in a luxury hotel during filming.

He conveys Oppenheimer’s charisma, intelligence, brilliance and charm, especially to women.

But we also see his ruthlessness and arrogance.

When we meet him, he’s romantically involved with psychiatrist and communist Jean Tatlock (Kate Harper), who suffered from clinical depression (she died by suicide in 1944), yet thinks nothing of casting her aside when he sets eyes on his future wife Kitty Puening (Jana Shelden), who at that time is married to someone else.

They tumble into an affair. In one particularly cruel moment, he humiliates Jean by turning up at a dinner party at her home with Kitty on his arm.

Even at this stage, the seeds of Oppenheimer’s downfall are being sown. Naively unconcerned about the dangers of having communist friends, he doesn’t realise he’s already under FBI surveillance.

A terrific drama from a far more creative age of TV.'

[sloggervlogger]

Gorilla Life at Twycross Zoo: Lopes' Growth and Family Antics by SloggerVlogger *Explore Twycross Zoo's latest update featuring Lope's remarkable growth and heartwarming family moments. Witness Ozala's elegant water-drinking and Biddy's roll in the grass as Oumbi approaches. Don't miss this gorilla-filled adventure!* I visited Twycross Zoo again after my 2 weeks away and of course, the first point of call was Gorilla Lope (10). He seems like he's grown quite a bit in the two weeks I was away. His chest and head are getting mind-boggling big. As it was quite a hot day, he didn't move too much, but he seemed so much more relaxed, sitting outside enjoying his food. His eyebrow scrapes healed nicely. The second part of the video is from his family in the old/usual enclosure. Oumbi (31) has a little charge towards Biddy (49). As she tries to get out of his way she rolls through the grass. She seems perfectly fine and just continues eating afterwards. Ozala made me smile when she got a bottle of water ( they do have a fresh drinking water pipe inside as well), She took it and drank it so elegantly. Biddy watched Asante move. Shufai comes from the back following his aunt, walks upright and beats his chest at her. He's coming back up the hill and Biddy is looking into the water-filled barrel enrichment. She fishes out an aubergine and a bottle of water. She has a little sip and then tucks into the aubergine. Oumbi is approaching again but then turning away leaving Biddy to eat in peace. Her eyes following the Silverback. Followed by some more clips from Lope in his bachelor pad from just before my trip. In case you missed the community post: RUMOUR NEWS: Lope's move... As the rumour is pretty widespread now, and I've heard it from many different angles, and it's apparently already confirmed by a keeper, I thought I'd let you know that he might be moving to France, to the Zoo du Bassin d’Arcachon. This is not confirmed, and it could change! It is very likely to be true if you put all the pieces together, like a new habitat for two bachelor groups, but I myself haven't had any confirmation on this yet! It looks like Zoo du Bassin d’Arcachon has built a "Gorilla Camp" which is supposed to house two different bachelor groups. The first silverback has already moved in, and his name is Awali. He will be joined by two unknown blackbacks. Silverback Dishi is the second silverback who will also be joined by two blackbacks. If/when I get confirmation, I will do some research on all the gorillas and give you more information. #Gorillas #gorillalope #primates Stay connected and never miss a moment! Subscribe to my channel and activate all the notifications to be the first to know when new videos are released. For those who may be interested, the new calendars are now available! There is a brand new Gorilla calendar. Additionally, I have created a Gorilla Lope-only calendar (blackback calendar) for this year. So, even when he departs, you still have him for 12 months :-). Browse at: USA link: https://www.zazzle.com/collections/calendar_collection-119196175539509911?rf=238978496872225031 UK Link: https://www.zazzle.co.uk/collections/calendar_collection-119196175539509911 Germany: https://www.zazzle.de/kollektionen/calendar_collection-119196175539509911 France: https://www.zazzle.fr/collections/calendar_collection-119196175539509911 Australia: https://www.zazzle.com.au/collections/calendar_collection-119196175539509911 or simply go to the sites and change your choice of country at the globe icon upper right on the page. If you need any help let me know! There are also several other calendars, including revamped editions of previous ones, all prepared for the year 2024. The links are like my sidekicks – affiliated buddies! If you decide to buy something through them, I get a tiny high-five in the form of a percentage. And the best part? Your wallet stays blissfully unaware since there are no additional costs for you to worry about! via YouTube https://youtu.be/MsN-U8YkfNk

[industrynewsupdates]

Micro Irrigation Systems Market: Key Trends and Growth Opportunities

The global micro irrigation systems market size is expected to reach USD 22.5 billion by 2030, and is projected to grow at a CAGR of 8.3% from 2024 to 2030, according to a new report by Grand View Research, Inc. The market is anticipated to witness substantial growth by 2022 owing to increasing demand for food across the globe. They including sprinklers, mist, drips, and sprays irrigate plant roots using low discharge emitters and complex pipe network.

The ability to modify the discharge pattern by these systems according to the requirement of various agronomic and horticulture plants drive the micro irrigation market growth. The market is expected to reach USD 9.10 billion by 2022, on account of increasing demand for food in tandem with rising population.

Urbanization and industrialization had led to the expansion of cities and a decrease in arable land for cultivation of crops. In addition, increasing trend of population migration from villages and towns to cities has resulted in reducing the workforce in agriculture industry. These factors together have contributed to increasing popularity of micro irrigation as they not only improve efficiency but also reduce labor.

Sprinklers dominated the global market accounting for over 30% of the revenue share in 2014. Flexibility and ease of use of the product is expected to result in its high demand over the forecast period. Moreover, sprinklers also offer more coverage in small quantities of water. Thus, the market is expected to grow at a CAGR of 17.1% from 2015 to 2022.

Demand for micro irrigation systems was highest for orchards, accounting for over 30% of the global market. They water only the treeline of the orchard, thus, promoting healthy growth.

Plantation & field crops are likely to witness significant gains over the forecast period owing to rising awareness among farmers regarding the benefits of these equipment.Field crops are expected to grow at a CAGR of 18.2% from 2015 to 2022.

North America accounted for approximately 30% of the overall revenue in 2014, followed by Asia Pacific. Rising awareness among farmers regarding the benefits of using these systems has resulted in growth of the market over the past few years, and the trend is expected to continue over the forecast period.

Gather more insights about the market drivers, restrains and growth of the Micro Irrigation Systems Market

Micro Irrigation Systems Market Report Highlights

• Drip micro irrigation systems dominated the market with a revenue share of 42.5% in 2023. Drip irrigation effectively transports a small amount of water directly to the roots of plants

• The sprinkler irrigation systems segment is expected to witness a fastest CAGR over the forecast period

• Orchard crops accounted for a leading market share in 2023. High-value fruits and nuts are typically considered as orchard crops

• Asia Pacific led the global market with a revenue share of 38.3% in 2023. Agriculture is the primary business in a majority of the regional economies, with an extensive farming population

Micro Irrigation Systems Market Segmentation

Grand View Research has segmented the global micro irrigation systems market based on product, crop, application, and region:

Micro Irrigation Systems Product Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• Sprinkler

• Drip

• Central Pivot

• Lateral Move

Micro Irrigation Systems Crop Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• Plantation Crops

• Orchard Crops

• Field Crops

• Forage & Grass

• Others

Micro Irrigation Systems Application Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• Agriculture

• Landscape

• Green House

• Nursery

• Others

Micro Irrigation Systems Regional Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• North America

o U.S.

o Canada

o Mexico

• Europe

o Germany

o UK

• Asia Pacific

o China

o Japan

o India

• Latin America

o Brazil

• Middle East & Africa

List Of Key Players in the Micro Irrigation Systems Market

• Jain Irrigation Systems Ltd.

• Lindsay Corporation

• Mahindra Agri

• Nelson Irrigation

• NETAFIM

• Rain Bird Corporation

• Rivulis

• T-L Irrigation

• The Toro Company

• VALMONT INDUSTRIES, INC.

Order a free sample PDF of the Micro Irrigation Systems Market Intelligence Study, published by Grand View Research.

[thoughtlessarse]

Vital Atlantic Ocean currents are unlikely to completely collapse this century, according to a study, but scientists say a severe weakening remains probable and would still have disastrous impacts on billions of people. The Atlantic meridional overturning circulation (Amoc) is a system of currents that plays a crucial role in the global climate. The climate crisis is weakening the complex system, but determining if and when it will collapse is difficult. Studies based on ocean measurements indicate that the Amoc is becoming unstable and approaching a tipping point, beyond which a collapse will be unstoppable. They have suggested this would happen this century, but there are only 20 years of direct measurements and data inferred from earlier times bring large uncertainties. Climate models have indicated that a collapse is not likely before 2100, but they might have been unrealistically stable compared with the actual ocean system. The latest study is important because it uses climate models to reveal the reason that the Amoc is more stable: winds in the Southern Ocean continuing to draw water up to the surface and drive the whole system. The study does not rule out an Amoc collapse after 2100, and other modelling research suggests collapses will occur after that time. “We found that the Amoc is very likely to weaken under global warming, but it’s unlikely to collapse this century,” said Dr Jonathan Baker at the UK’s Met Office, who led the latest study. He said it was reassuring that an abrupt Amoc crash was improbable, and that the knowledge could help governments plan better for future climate impacts. Amoc weakening would still bring major climate challenges across the globe however, with more floods and droughts and faster sea level rise, he added. “Of course, unlikely doesn’t mean impossible,” he said. “There’s still a chance that Amoc could collapse [this century], so we still need to cut greenhouse gas emissions urgently. And even a collapse in the next century would cause devastating impacts for climate and society.”

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Given that we're reaching points in climate collapse predicted by scientists much sooner than expected I'm sceptical of the timing of this prediction.