#euston road

[fitzrovianews]

Licensing application: The Greene Man, 383 Euston Road

The Greene Man, 383 Euston Road. Photo: Fitzrovia News. Spirit Pub Company (Services) Limited has applied to Westminster Council to vary the premises licence at The Greene Man Public House, 383 Euston Road, opposite Great Portland Street tube station in Fitzrovia West. The application seeks permission to vary the existing premises licence to sell alcohol from 10am on a Sunday, instead of from…

[jobooksncoffee]

@calaisreno my problem with your writing is that I think I have a favorite… and then you gift us with another piece and I fall in love immediately! Sherlock confused? Sherlock concussed ? Confessing his love to John? 🥹 John being all loving and kind and just John? You got me good, dear Author! ♥️♥️🫠

Euston Road

May 22 Prompt: Taxi

No moon tonight, and I’m walking down Euston Road. 

Where are the cabs?

I’m thinking about the case, hurrying home so I can go into my Mind Palace. 

Male, mid-thirties. Office building. Suffered major heart attack. 

Why do they always describe heart attacks as major? Could one suffer a minor heart attack? And is there any other way to have a heart attack other than suffering it? The whole phrase seems rather redundant. And not very scientific. Myocardial infarction. That’s what it is. A clot blocking the flow, blood coming to a halt, pain, damage, death. 

Rather young for a heart attack, though it does happen. In an office, I’m talking to someone, and then… I’m falling, and I know…

I was talking to someone. No, I saw something. Someone. 

A gun.

Where are all the cabs? 

I just want to get home now, back to Baker Street. Right now, I could murder for a cuppa.

Gun. Murder.

It wasn’t a heart attack. Why did I think that? 

John would have known, of course. He would have pointed out the blood. And then he would shake his head, that patient smile on his face, and he would say, You’re working too hard, Sherlock. We need to get you home. I’ll make tea, and you’ll sprawl on the sofa, and—

Yes, I need to get home. It’s late, and I’m tired, and I need to go to my Mind Palace. 

Where is my Mind Palace?

Euston Road is dark and deserted. It must be very late indeed for that to happen. This is London, where it’s never this quiet and dark. Even the street lamps seem dimmer. 

London got its first gas street light in 1807. Electric lights followed by the end of the century, but as late as the 1930’s, half of the street lights were still gas. Before street lighting, people had servants carry lanterns ahead of them if they had to go out at night. 

That man, in the office. Standing there, talking to someone, he might have felt like he was having a heart attack, but he was definitely shot. He’s never had a heart attack, so he doesn’t know what’s happening. But he must have seen the gun. He did see the gun. And he knew, in that second, that he’d been fool to go alone. 

My mouth is dry. I need a cup of tea, and I need John. John will help me think. He will make tea and ask me questions, and I will put it all together, figure it out. Just a bit further to Baker Street. 

John. John found the body. The man was shot in the chest, fell backwards. The mirror behind him was not shattered by the bullet, so that means the bullet is still inside him. 

I’ll go see Molly, and she’ll tell me what kind of bullet it is, what kind of gun, how the man died. 

It won’t matter, of course. He’s dead. Somebody shot him and his murderer is still out there. Assassin in black. Don’t tell John.

I should have known. I did know. 

Where are all the cabs?

There are always cabs on Euston Road. In the eighteenth century, they used to drive cattle along this road. All of this was farmland then. Later, the entire road was dug up to build the underground. Sometimes you can feel the vibration from the trains as they run some thirty metres beneath the ground. Or maybe you can’t. I’ve always imagined that I can. 

I imagine what it would feel like to be shot in the chest. People always think they’d have time to dodge a bullet, but an average bullet travels 2500 feet per second, too fast to do any dodging. It’s a very efficient way to kill someone. 

Molly described it to me. You go into shock because of the pain. You don’t have time for regrets. 

I have regrets.

“John,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, John.”

“I’m right here, Sherlock.” 

A warm hand on my forehead. I open my eyes. John looks concerned, but smiles to see me.

“Did I die?”

Chuckle. “No, you’re very much alive. You have a concussion, though. Can you tell me what year it is?”

“2014.”

Another chuckle. “Well, that confirms it. Or maybe you’ve time travelled.”

My eyes close of their own volition. “Did you catch the shooter?”

“You haven’t been shot, Sherlock.”

I force my eyes open. “Tell me everything.”

“You were in the street, flagging down a cab. Another driver wasn’t paying attention and hit you, knocked you over. Your head hit the pavement.”

“What year is this?”

“It’s 2010, same as yesterday. No, don’t try to sit up. Do you want some water?”

“John. I must tell you something.”

His hand holding mine. “Calm down. You need to rest.”

“No. I have to tell you. Before… before it’s too late.”

“Sherlock—”

“I love you, John.”

“So you’ve said. Several times.”

“It’s true. I love you.”

“No longer married to your work?”

“Never was. Not since we met, anyway. Don’t get married, John. Promise me.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. I broke up with Sarah, remember?”

“Yes. But. No one loves you as I do. I love you so much, John. I promise you, I won’t leave you. I won’t die.”

“That’s a pretty big promise.”

“And you must promise, too. No dating assassins. No getting married.”

“You’re not going to remember any of this the next time you wake up.”

“Do you love me, John?”

Hand on my forehead, fingers in my hair. Sigh. “God help me, I do. When that car hit you—” Lips touch my hand. “Just don’t… you’re so heedless sometimes. Impatient, five steps ahead of me. I know I’m an idiot, but—”

“You’re not.” Eyes are closing again. I blink, trying to stay awake. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Sherlock. Get some rest, okay? I’ll be right here.”

“In 2010.”

I feel his smile. “Yes, in 2010.” 

Lips touch mine.

1000 words / Flash Fiction

@lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @raina-at @bertytravelsfar @momma2boys @jrow @helloliriels @the-reading-lemon @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @elwinglyre @mydogwatson @thetimemoves @jobooksncoffee @lhrinchelsea @peanitbear

Thanks for reading / reblogging! Love the comments 💕

Read my other prompt stories here.

[weird-tea]

My London geography isn't great but I noticed something on my reread of Lockwood and Co.

Kinda spoilers for the last book ahead. Ish.

So in TEG we learn that Lockwood's parents died in the underpass where the Euston Road ducks underground to avoid intersecting with another street. Well, in TSS in the scene we meet Kipps at the archives he says his team are there researching because of a 'Cluster of ghosts in a road tunnel near Moorgate.' and on the next page makes that odd comment about how bad things happen to people Lockwood's close to 'Since he was ever so young.' and there's a catch in his voice when he says it, and Lockwood gets all tense and closed off.

Did Kipps just read about Lockwood's parents' deaths in that road tunnel and not so subtly let Lockwood know that he knows? Is that what happens in that interaction? Cause if so that's one hell of a delayed pay off and I kinda love it.

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[betterthanapokeintheeye]

The Worlds Of Terry Pratchett - At the British Library

[Event News]

The Worlds of Terry Pratchett: with Neil Gaiman and Rob Wilkins at The British Library

Date: Tue 21 Nov 2023, 19:00 - 20:30 (Bar opens at 18:00)

Location: Pigott Theatre, The Knowledge Centre, The British Library, 96 Euston Road, London, NW1 2DB

A special celebration of the remarkable creative life of Sir Terry Pratchett, 40 years after the publication of the first Discworld novel The Colour of Magic.

This event takes place in the British Library and will be simultaneously live streamed on the British Library platform. Tickets may be booked either to attend in person, or to watch on our platform (online) either live or within 48 hours on catch up. Viewing links will be sent out shortly before the event.

Soon after The Colour of Magic was published, it inspired a young journalist Neil Gaiman to meet Terry, beginning a long collaborative friendship that was epitomised by their joint novel Good Omens, which appeared in 1990. The TV version of Good Omens was created by Neil Gaiman, with the first season on screen in 2019 and the second earlier this year.

Neil is joined Terry Pratchett’s biographer and former assistant Rob Wilkins, in a conversation hosted by Kat Brown.

We'll be sat intently listening and cheering Rob on from the cheap seats!

This event is an In Person and Online event.

Tickets are available from:

[robert-painter]

Euston Road

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

If you see someone online talking about how some weird girl sitting near them properly ran into Hadestown exactly one minute before the show was scheduled to start and sat down panting, then started crying during Road To Hell and pretty much did not stop: that was me. Hi! 👋

In my defence about the timing, I was supposed to have arrived in London like three hours ago but there was a signalling failure before Euston and they sent me all over the damn country. I arrived in London about twenty minutes before the show started, got the tube, and fucking RAN I didn’t even think I’d make it it was a miracle

I don’t have a defence for the crying that was a reasonable reaction.

[bfiaflbox]

Tonight I wish I was your girl

Pairing: Matty x Reader Warnings: smut (praise kink, choking, unprotected sex) Disclaimer: Ok, so I literally had a dream about this and then decided to write it down and make it a fic. I swear, I'm not weird, I just tried to put the pictures from my dream into words. Also, in my dream Matty was sitting in the pub with Pete Doherty (who had "Fuck" tattooed on his forehead (??) and Zane Lowe but there was no scenario on earth that I could come up with that made that believable in any way so I took that out. (Fun fact: in my dream I did something my anxious ass would never do and just went up to Zane Lowe, ignoring everyone, and just asked "are you interviewing them or just having a conversation? I'm just asking because I love The Libertines (a lie) and the... the... The Matty Band" and he was just like "who are you I'm not interviewing anyone, this is rude"). Also my dream ended when they arrived at the house so the rest is made up.

2.6k words and I didn't proofread any of them.

It was probably a pathetic Idea but your intuition told you to get on a train and head to Wilmslow on Christmas Eve.

Your plans of spending Christmas had fallen flat because large parts of your family had contracted Covid and wanted to stay by themselves to not spread the disease. In a desperate attempt to not feel lonely, you looked up train connections to any of your friends houses that might take you in for Christmas, but there really was only one person you really wanted to see.

Two hours and seventeen minutes and you'd be in Wilmslow via Stockport. You booked the connection without thinking twice. It was only when you were actually sitting in the Avanti West Coast Train to Manchester Piccadilly at Euston station that you thought about how crazy your actions were. They were the actions of a desperate idiot in love. There was no denying you were in love with Matty but there was a great chance that to him you were probably just a friend. Just as you decided that this was a bad idea and you should go home now, the train started to move.

After a short panic attack and contemplating whether or not using the emergency break was warranted in this situation you decided to just text Matty.

You: Hey, are you having a nice time in Wilmslow?

Matty: Yeah. Well, it's family, love them but it can be a lot at once. Might head to the pub tonight to catch up with some old friends. What are you up to?

You: Nothing really. Since Christmas is cancelled this year, I'll just... improvise. Your plan sounds nice, though.

Matty: Yeah, something's missing though, to be honest. Or someone.

You just assumed he was talking about his grandma or a different family member and didn’t give it a second thought.

Me: Hope you have a great time nonetheless :)

///

You arrived in Wilmslow in the afternoon. On the train you had decided that once you arrived you'd walk around town a bit and then to get the next train home again because surprising your crush on Christmas Eve in his hometown is not the thing a normal person would do and you were definitely a very normal person and not at all a stalker.

You got out of wilmslow station and started to just walk straight ahead and see where the road would take you. You walked past parks and restaurants and shops that looked lovely but were mostly closed. Eventually the area became more residential and you couldn't help but notice that you tried to look into the windows of the houses in search of Matty. Right, that's it. It's getting dark and this is ridiculous you scolded yourself as you turned around to head back to the station.

As you walked by The Brewhouse and Kitchen you decided to get something to eat before heading back to London. The pub was crowded as you walked in. No wonder, it was one of the very few pubs that was open.

You looked around for a table to sit at when you spot Matty. You stare at him in shock. He's actually here. He sat in a corner booth with two other guys and had yet to notice you. Just as you were thinking about how you could make your way out of this scenario, Matty turned his head and looked right at you. You were fucked. There was no denying you were here now. His eyes grew wide and he stared at you with raised eyebrows. Right, this was definitely a mistake you thought but Matty waved you over to them excitedly.

When you didn't move because you were too embarrassed to do anything, Matty got up and made his way over to you. "Hii, darling, what are you doing here?" he asks excitedly. You couldn't answer. How do you tell someone that your family cancelled christmas, you were lonely and decided to go to the other person's hometown without telling them a word about it? Instead you just went up to him and hugged him. His arms enveloped you in one of his strong and warm hugs and it felt so incredibly good to be near him. "Surprise" you mumble into his chest. "Surprise indeed" he laughed. "It's so nice to see you. Come, sit with us." He lead you back to the table he shared with his mates.

After introducing you as his good friend and ordering your drink, Matty couldn't sit still. He was fumbling with either his glass, the table decorations or his fingernails until you decided to just take one of his hands in yours. An intimate gesture, you were aware of that, but it felt right and trusting your intuition was what helped you get here in the first place. Matty just looked at you with pure adoration and love as you felt him physically relax a bit.

After two more rounds of drinks, everybody decided to call it a night. You paid and made your way out of the pub where you said goodbye to Matty's mates. When they were gone, there was a brief silence between you until Matty spoke with the usual unserious tone: "You're so weird for coming to Wilmslow. How did you know where to find me?" "I didn't. I just walked around and... dunno" "I love that you're here. Come home with me?" "What and crash your familiy's Christmas, definitely not!" "Please? I can't let you take the train at this hour, it's dangerous!" we both know that's a lie "Also, what's waiting for you back in London? Please stay, my family won't mind, we're a pile of patchwork anyways" You looked at him and saw that he was actually excited about the idea. You just kept looking, noticing the light stubble on his face, the grey strands of hair at his temples, the eyebrows raised in anticipation and his lips. These fucking lips. You took your hand and raked your fingers through his hair. His eyes fluttered shut in enjoyment, a dopey smile forming on his lips. You decided then and there that you couldn't take it anymore. You could not go another second without knowing how his lips felt on yours, so you went up on your tiptoes, your hand anchored at the back of his head and crushed your lips to his. His hands came up to cup your face and you felt him reciprocating and deepening the kiss.

Your ears were ringing and your body felt like it was on fire. There's nothing else that mattered in that moment other than his lips on yours. After a few seconds you break the kiss and just smile. He's the first one to speak: "So it's settled then?"

You don't know if he meant the months of pining after each other or the question whether you'd stay or not but to both you just grinned and nodded.

He takes your hand and starts walking. It wasn't awkward, it was exciting. There was a lot of giggling and stopping randomly to snog on the way home but eventually Matty pointed to a house and said "that's us" as if you had always been a part of this and there had never not been an us.

Before putting his keys into the door he stops for a second and goes "Oh fuck, I'm sharing a room with my brother". You looked at him questioningly but he just continued "We have to be quiet, everybody's asleep". He opened the door and once you were inside he was on you, kissing your mouth, your jaw, a line down your throat to your collar bone. You couldn't help but let out an obscene moan and suddenly Matty stopped. He was looking at you with big eyes, raised eyebrows and a finger over his mouth that was curled into a smile, signaling to be quiet. "Sorry, sorry, fuck" you whispered with a giggle.

"Let's take the couch and figure something out in the morning" he suggested. "I can just take the couch and you sleep in your normal bed" "Baby, do you seriously think I will let you sleep alone tonight? Let alone on the couch in a house where nobody knows you are even there? If you'll have me, of course" "I really don't want to be alone, thank you" He smiled at that and kissed your lips again. So soft and so gentle.

Matty lead you into the living room and closed the door after you. The couch looked comfy, a suspicion that was confirmed when you plopped down on it. Matty laid down on his side behind you, opening his arms signaling you to lie down too. When you relaxed into his embrace as the little spoon, you felt all the anxiety and doubt and all the bad feelings leaving you. Feeling Matty's embrace made you feel invincible.

The position also let you feel something else which was the bulge in his pants that was growing and pulsing against your ass. You felt proud that you had this effect on him and so you took his hand that was resting on your hand in front of you and placed it on your lower belly, pushing it further down, all while moving your hips back into his growing hard-on. Matty let out a small groan "baby, we can't, they could hear us" "Please, Matty! I need you" you whispered, sounding incredibly needy. His hands slid under the elastic of your leggings and your underwear. "You need to be really really quiet" he warned and you believed him. His hand in your underwear spread your folds and slid through them, gathering some of the slick that had accumulated there. "Fuuuck, baby, you're so wet. Look at that, so so needy for me" he whispered, at which you just nodded. You needed him, you wanted him. You were so horny and needed some of that feeling to be released. He slipped two fingers inside and immediately started to fuck you with them. The room stayed silent except for the squelching sound of his fingers in your wetness and some heavy breathing. His movements were unrelenting. In a normal situation you would've screamed by now but you were biting your knuckles in hopes of staying silent while your orgasm was fast approaching. "Will you come for me baby, hm? Come on my fingers like the needy little thing you are?" at which you just managed to nod. Your orgasm hit you and you almost choked on the moan that was threatening to escape your throat as your walls clenched around Matty's fingers.

"That's it, baby. You did so well, staying silent." he whispered, kissing your shoulder between each sentence and you knew then and there that you couldn't go to sleep now. You kept grinding your ass against his boner and soon enough he knew what you wanted. "Fuck, baby, I can't fuck you, I won't be able to keep quiet" he whispers in your ear. "That's not fair, I need you to fill me. I feel so empty" you pouted while sliding your underwear and leggings off your legs. You kept grinding your naked ass into his boner until he was out of patience. Annoyed he kicked off his trousers and boxer shorts, flipped you on your belly and and angrily whispered in your ear "I swear to god if you make one sound this will have been the first and last time" before he lined up his cock with your entrance and started pushing inside.

The intrusion of his cock in your pussy felt divine. He was bigger than you were used to, plus you were lying on your belly which emphasised the sensation. "Oh baby, do I need to rearrange your insides to make some room for myself?" he cooed while relentlessly pushing inside you. "you're so tight, fucking hell". He stopped for a second as he buttomed out. "You alright?" "Yes, yes" you nodded.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful" he said as he pulled out until only his tip was still buried in your pussy and then slammed inside again. The slap of his pelvis against my ass rang out through the otherwise silent room. You weren't sure if you could take a pounding like that without anything to muffle your sounds so you grabbed a pillow off the couch and bit down into it but Matty wouldn't have it. He grabbed the pillow and threw it away. "You wanted this, remember? You're gonna take it and you're gonna be nice and quiet" and with that he started to fuck you in an unforgiving pace. When you were close again, you couldn't help but let out the tiniest whimper. In response Matty's hand came up to your throat and squeezed. That's what did it for you and you came on his cock, any cries that could have existed got muffled by the chokehold on your neck. "Baby, it feels so good when you come on my cock. Like you were made for taking it deep in your pussy." Your head was dizzy from the orgasm, the restricted blood flow and the praise. How did he know about your praise kink? "Can you come a third time tonight, hm?" he whispered at which you just nodded. "Oh baby, I'm gonna have to hear words, how else can I be sure?" "Please, yes" is all you managed to choke out, not able to form coherent sentences. It's all that Matty needed to hear. "On all fours, come on" he directed you to your knees and then started pounding you again. In this position he was able to fuck you incredibly deeper. His cock hit your cervix and the jolt of light pain that this stimulation triggered was making you lightheaded again. You felt so full, so incredibly, wonderfully full. When Matty's hand came round to your clit to help that promised third orgasm along you knew he had to be be close himself. "Come on, baby, come for me. Come on my cock" he was drawing quick circles with his fingers on your clit. Suddenly you could feel him spilling his cum inside you and it all became too much. You let out an overstimulated cry as you came a third time.

Matty stilled, cock still inside you and you didn't dare to make a movement or a sound. Fuck, did anybody hear you? You stayed like this for a few moments and when neither of you could hear anything in the house, Matty pulled out of you. You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of the unwelcome emptiness. You stood up, bit shaky on your legs and faced Matty with an absolutely blissful smile on your lips. "Thank you", you whispered and kissed him at which Matty just chuckled "I don't think anybody ever thanked me after fucking them" "Well that's just rude, isn't it?" you laughed and kissed him again. When you were able to feel his cum running down your legs, you asked for the toilet. You cleaned yourself up, thanked your past self for getting that IUD and went back to the living room. Matty was lying on the couch again, waiting for you to slot into position as his little spoon. You happily obliged and made yourself comfortable in his arms. "What will you tell your family tomorrow?" "That my new girlfriend surprised me in town, came home with me and saw a ghost, obviously" "Obviously" You had to laugh at that.

"I'm glad you're here. I was missing you like crazy" he confessed and kissed your neck. "I'm glad, too" you whisper. Once you were able to hear a light snore behind you, you added "I love you".

[robertbrook]

Euston Road / London / July 2019

[rainintheevening]

Part I – Part II ... Part XVII – Part XVIII

They don't set out to become the kings of St. Maurice’s School for Boys, it just sort of happens.

Peter's not trying to be a king so much as be King Peter, not trying to lead so much as care for others, but it feels so natural to speak up, to step forward, to give orders and receive respect. He doesn't ask to be called ‘sir’, as the younger boys do when he scolds them, and he feels embarrassed when he hears other boys say, “Here comes His Majesty.” He's not the king of this school, he's not even Head Boy. He's just… Peter Pevensie. And yet, somehow, he knows he's High King Peter too, he remembers being that, and it lingers in his body and mind, sinew and soul altered in ways he cannot take back. He wouldn't take it back even if he could.

It's easier for Peter to see the little things in Edmund than himself: the way he laughs freer and brighter, even as he studies harder and deeper; the calmness with which he takes insults; the concern with which he addresses people in the wrong.

Peter finds himself instinctively turning toward the sounds of shouts and fists, finds himself leaping to either halt or join the altercations, depending on their nature. He's quick to see who's at a disadvantage, quick to pick a side if there's a clear one. Ed has similar tendencies, though he's sharper with his tongue, prefers to break up fights with some pointed words, and only the threat of fists, unless his brother is already embroiled.

Peter's ear seems specially tuned to his brother's voice, easily picking it out of any row, no matter how many boys may be shouting, and he is never surprised to discover Edmund at his side in the thick of it. They look after each other, guard each other's backs as much as possible, fight for each other when they must.

By the end of the winter term, they are both widely accepted leaders across the school, Peter on a level with Head Boy Wollers, and Ed as something similar among the lower forms, who consider him more accessible than Peter.

He picks out a pattern in the whispers: If you want protection, go to Peter; if you want clever ideas, go to Edmund. And it makes him smile, another echo of their kingship and the roles they'd taken while ruling from the Cair.

They stop bullies, and lift spirits, and it's all good, it's right, it's what Aslan would want, Peter's certain.

And then they go home.

Home for the Easter hols, home to Finchley for the first time since they left it in the autumn, when the bombing had only begun, and they sit silent on the train drawing them into London, dragging them out of the near-dream they suddenly know school to have been.

They have to change trains twice, because the lines are knocked out, and slow-rising tension crawls up Peter's spine, works knots into his shoulders.

It comes in flashes between the stretches of unspoiled land: the edge of a city bombed into jagged walls against pale sky, someone's kitchen gaping open to the air like a wound, a funeral procession down a country lane.

Closing in on London in the evening, the ragged grey look of everything increases, and silence settles in their compartment. They come into Tottenham Station minutes before blackout descends, and disembark into the brokenness of patched up walls, and boarded up windows. Their train is late, no one is waiting, they'll have to walk all the way up Tottenham Road to take the Tube from Euston. Even in the station their breath makes clouds before their faces.

Outside, the cab stand is empty, and they say nothing, hoisting trunks up to their shoulders, Edmund his shadow as he turns down the street. The edge of the heavy trunk digs into Peter's shoulder, it is deucedly hard to balance with his suitcase dangling from one hand, but he breathes, walks, one foot in front of the other.

It's hard to breathe, hard to see, they are walking through wounds, great gaping wounds bleeding fire and stone, city skin torn open to vital parts, and Peter does not know this London. He walks as if in a dream, slow and stunned, only the occasional knock of Edmund's arm against his reminding Peter he is in fact awake.

Halfway there, Edmund is forced to rest; he's smaller, not as strong as Peter, but his trunk weighs nearly the same.

Ed sits on his trunk, panting, and Peter says nothing, because there is nothing to say, just stretches his back, trying to stand tall, peering up into the blackout murk, searching for the sky.

Chilly, twilight air hangs heavy with smoke and dust, sharp, angry smells that send memories flickering through Peter's head like a faulty film reel at a picture—smoke above trees, smashed stone walls, reek of blood, red streaked down Rhindon's silver blade, giant's club smashing down on Edmund, shout burning in his throat, Erah's face coated in scarlet dried to rust, stern sorrow for destruction, Ed's pale but smiling face…

“Peter? Pete!” Tugging at his sleeve, and he starts, looks over into his little brother's worried eyes. “Are you alright?”

“It's wrong.” Peter waves a hand around them, ember broke to flame in his chest. An old woman limps past, head down, torch pointed at the ground to see her way. She doesn't even glance at them. “All wrong.”

And he reaches for Rhindon, but finds nothing, his hands are empty, he's in his school uniform not armour, he's a boy alone in the streets of London–

The air-raid sirens blare.

Fear gives them strength, and the world blurs until they tumble down the steps to the underground station, trunks and all.

Packed in with the hundreds of others sheltering there, they surrender the preferred positions on top of their trunks to older folk with bad knees, and huddle beside them on the cold concrete platform, Edmund pressed close enough for Peter to hear his whisper: “I wish we'd never come back.”

A little boy with a sticking plaster on his chin is squirming in an older girl’s arms, querulous with his need for the toilet, and an old milk bottle gets passed over.

Peter is trying not to breathe too deeply, the reek of the sweaty, fearful crowd nearly enough to make him gag. He doesn't know if Ed means back from school or back from Narnia, but he agrees with either.

“I hate bombs.” He rests his head against Ed's, sticks his nose into his brother's hair that still carries a hint of Yorkshire moor mist, closes his eyes. “Rather catapults, or even a dragon.”

The fire in Peter’s heart burns there, gnaws at his breastbone, his lungs. His hands keep clenching into fists, before the ache of his muscles catches his attention and he forces himself to relax.

The ground beneath them shivers, the lights flicker.

A baby cries, a dog whines, someone begins to sing, and Peter feels as if the concrete roof has already caved in on him, he is trapped, squeezed, he can't move, he can't do anything.

Oh, for a sword, an army, for Aslan! But Peter can't imagine the great Lion in all His beauty here, in this dingy foul smelling crowd. He closes his eyes again, wraps an arm tight around Ed.

Ed sings softly with the others: Abide with me, fast falls the eventide…

It's after 11 by the time they drag up the steps of their home, and no light escapes at any window, they cannot tell if anyone is even there. The girls have been delayed letting out thanks to a suspected case of the measles, and sometimes Mother works very late…

A light is on in the kitchen.

In the front hall, Ed drops down on his trunk, wordless, but Peter halts one step into the living room.

The fire in the hearth has burned down low, but there is enough light for him to see the woman lying across the sofa, still in her factory overall, so heavily asleep two boys blundering in with their luggage could not wake her.

Behind him Edmund starts to speak, but Peter turns, grabs Ed’s arm to tow him in his wake as he fumbles blindly into the kitchen.

He thinks his heart is breaking.

He sees the table set for three, supper gone cool, everything waiting for them, she must have fallen asleep waiting, and Peter… he thinks he's going to cry.

He doesn't.

His voice sounds odd and crackly as he tells Edmund, “Go and wake her gently. I'll reheat the soup.”

Peter comes awake in his own bed, sometime early morning, perhaps when he usually rises to go out to the stables, but he lies in complete darkness, listening to mother quietly moving about the kitchen, the door shutting behind her as she leaves to catch her bus to the factory…

And then he hears the air raid sirens very faint and far away, somewhere to the west, and he doesn't know why exactly but he is crying.

He rolls over to bury his face in his pillow, muffle the sobs, but they break out hard and fast, like the wild fire in his chest has become a bird beating its wings against his ribcage, and there is no escape, there is nothing he can do. He is nobody here, nothing, he doesn't count. He is small and trapped, and wild for open sky and the woods and the great moor rolling away and a fresh horse under him.

He thinks of the boy with the sticking plaster, the girl with the glasses, the great jagged wall that had once been a bakery! he suddenly remembered, with the most delicious cinnamon stickies one could imagine. And Mother, oh, Mum, it's not fair, you shouldn't have to work like this, it's all wrong, wrong!

He is weeping, broken open with a kind of hopeless fury for the pain around him, sobbing in the dark.

A patting hand finds his head, his shoulder, and Peter catches his breath, feels Edmund's weight dipping the mattress, a fumbling offer of comfort the way he knows Peter receives it best, and Peter… Peter cannot bear it, he flinches. Sob strangling in his throat, and he jerks back from the touch, curls away from the loving warmth of his brother, covers his mouth with a hand.

He does not want to be seen or heard, not like this, so wrecked and vulnerable, so weak and useless.

Hasty, fierce, he swallows the heaving, stamps out the fire, chokes down the tears, wrestling his body into a trembling, sniffling quietude.

“The only place you're useless is in the kitchen making tea.”

He stiffens at Edmund's hard-edged words, unbalanced by the wondering of how much he may have said aloud, or how much Ed might have guessed.

Edmund stands, moves away. “Come on, it's nearly six, and I'm starving—let's get breakfast.”

And then he's gone, creaking down the stairs, and Peter lies still, a few more tears making their way down the side of his face to the pillow. There is a cold space at his back, he is empty inside, hungry and weary in equal measure.

He does not understand. Any of this. Or so he tells the shadows.

He only understands that it hurts.

Next

[unteriors]

Bridge Road, Euston, Victoria.

[fitzrovianews]

Licensing application: 365 Euston Road

Innpacked Ltd has submitted a licensing application to Camden Council for a “minor variation” of the existing premises licence at 365 Euston Road, on the corner with Conway Street, Fitzrovia to enable alcohol to be consumed at a proposed new children’s centre. The application, made by an agent, seeks permission for a change in the layout of the premises and a change in the business to a…

[the-time-lord-oracle]

45741 Leinster arrives at Birmingham New Street with a Wolverhampton High Level-Euston express in 1957. Jubilees were the principal motive power for the Euston-Wolves expresses for the latter part of the steam-era, with Bushbury shed having a sizable allocation of 10, including Leinster. In addition to the Bushbury Jubilees on the Euston trains, Bristol Barrow Road-based Jubilees were also an everyday sight at New Street in the 1950's, working the ex-Midland main line from Bristol to Derby. Note the Midland Red bus on Navigation Street above.

[aimeedaisies]

Court Circular | 11th December 2024

St James’s Palace

The Princess Royal, Patron, Shaftesbury, this morning visited Netteswell Rectory, Manston Road, Harlow, and was received by Mr Vincent Thompson (Deputy Lieutenant of Essex).

Her Royal Highness this afternoon visited Brightlingsea Museum, Dove House, Station Road, Brightlingsea, and was received by His Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of Essex (Mrs Jennifer Tolhurst).

The Princess Royal, Colonel-in-Chief, Intelligence Corps, later visited 1 Military Intelligence Battalion at Merville Barracks, Colchester, Essex.

Her Royal Highness, President, Racing Welfare, this evening attended a Carol Concert at Tattersalls, Terrace House, 125 High Street, Newmarket, and was received by His Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of Suffolk (Clare, Countess of Euston).

The Princess Royal, President, Racing Welfare, afterwards attended a Dinner at the Jockey Club Rooms, 101 High Street, Newmarket, and was received by the Hon Peter Stanley (Deputy Lieutenant of Suffolk).

[betterthanapokeintheeye]

Tiffany Aching's Guide to Being a Witch

[Event News]

TIffany Aching's Guide to being a Witch with Rhianna Pratchett and Gabrielle Kent at The British Library

Date: Fri 27 Oct 2023, 15:00 - 16:15

Location: Pigott Theatre, The Knowledge Centre, The British Library, 96 Euston Road, London, NW1 2DB

This event takes place in the British Library and will be simultaneously live streamed on the British Library platform. Tickets may be booked either to attend in person, or to watch on our platform (online) either live or within 48 hours on catch up. Viewing links will be sent out shortly before the event.

‘They say you don't find witchcraft, it finds you…’

Whether you're a herbologist or a headologist, this book will inspire and empower new witches and seasoned practitioners alike.

Tiffany Aching first appeared in Terry Pratchett's Discworld series of fantasy novels, starting with The Wee Free Men (2003). Tiffany grows up over the course of the series, from nine years old in the first book to being in her late teens in the last, The Shepherd's Crown.

Join us as Rhianna Pratchett and Gabrielle Kent introduce Tiffany Aching’s Guide To Being A Witch – a practical guide to being a witch in Discworld, covering everything you've ever wanted to know from telling the bees to magical cheese, from dealing with elves to making deals with demons, from tending flocks to fending off forces from other worlds.

This beautiful and practical guide has been compiled by Tiffany Aching herself, including snippets of remembered wisdom from Granny Aching alongside notes from Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, Miss Tick, and Rob Anybody who offer their own unique perspectives on all things witchcraft. Whether you're a herbologist or a headologist, this book will inspire and empower new witches and seasoned practitioners alike.

Tiffany Aching’s Guide To Being A Witch, co-written by Rhianna and Gabrielle, celebrates the 20th anniversary of the first Tiffany Aching story which first appeared in Sir Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series.

Suited to audiences aged 11 +

This event is an In-Person and Online Event.

[magpiefngrl]

sign here

for the @drarrymicrofic prompt Keep

60 words

.

Sign here. And here.

Put the quill down. Walk out of the lawyer’s office and into the crisp morning. Ignore the paparazzi. Turn left towards Euston road. Cross the street. Walk into the hotel. Take the lift to room 306. Use your key to get in. Look at his beloved face, his messy hair, his tense body.

Say, “it’s done.”