#fifty years of the british library

[novlr]

On July 1st, 1973, the British Library was established. It is now home to over 200 million items, and counting!

We love the British Library; it's where we source all of the beautiful illustrations we use. Let's show them some love as they celebrate 50 glorious years ❤️

[fictionadventurer]

Reading Helene Hanff's descriptions of 1970s decor to my brother like it's a horror story.

Department stores sell nylon shag bathroom carpeting

"Somehow it gets worse with each word."

I bought my tearose-pink bathroom carpeting

"Ooh. Ouch."

after my friend Richard cut it to fit the floor, he had enough left over to cover the toilet tank

"Augh! No! Make it stop!"

[semper-legens]

74. The Ministry of Time, by Kaliane Bradley

Owned?: No, library Page count: 343 My summary: In the near future, the British government are experimenting with time travel. A select group of historical personages have been brought forward to the present, people snatched away at the moment of their historical deaths, and the Ministry is now attempting to resettle them in the 21st century. One of these people is First Lieutenant Graham Gore, lately of Franklin's Lost Expedition, now fish out of water over one hundred and fifty years in his future. A young woman has been assigned to him as a 'bridge', to live with him for a year and help him assimilate. But as time wears on, their relationship starts to get less and less professional…and that's not the worst of it. Not all is well at the Ministry. It seems our duo might soon be in for a nasty surprise… My rating: 4.5/5 My commentary:

Okay. So. Here's the thing. As longtime readers of this blog may know, I have something of a fascination with the history of survival cannibalism. (Bear with me!) As such, the lost Franklin Expedition is definitely on my radar, and as part of that I both read and watched The Terror not too long ago. And then I heard about this book through the grapevine. A book that is, essentially, rpf of Graham Gore, one of the Expedition who died before the survivors set off on their last, fatal journey overland. And, to quote my least favourite New Who Doctor, my whole brain just went 'what the hell'. I was expecting this to be a bit silly, a bit weird, and a bit gratuitous, but honestly I wound up genuinely liking it a whole lot more than I was expecting. Kudos to you, The Ministry of Time. You did good, kid.

Our unnamed protagonist is a woman who is the daughter of a Cambodian refugee, mixed-race, living in London, and working for the government as a translator. She gets involved in the time-travel project without knowing what it is, but seeks to do her best for Gore and the other time-travel refugees all the same. She's an interesting character - I am fascinated by the choice not to give her a name, as well as how slow the relationship between her and Gore was to build. There was obvious attraction between the two of them, but it's not until the final third that they consumate their relationship and lay out what is lying between them. Which I appreciated - it felt a lot more natural than if this man from the 1840s was immediately jumping into bed with the first woman he saw! And it would have been wholly unprofessional and unethical for the narrator to do so. As written, however, we get to see their relationship develop smoothly and naturally over the course of the book before they get together, which is neat. Another thing I really appreciated was the subtle hints of what, in-universe, this book is. I won't spoil the ending, but the narrator is writing this for a purpose, and there are bits of foreshadowing and subtle clues scattered throughout as to what will go down. I guessed a bit of it beforehand, and was very satisfied to see my suppositions ring true.

This book could have died so quickly if Gore was mischaracterised, so I am happy to report that he is utterly charming and very plausible. While not understanding the 21st century, particularly not initially, he isn't shown to be a lost little lamb, he was a middle-aged man with experience of sailing to unfamiliar places and surviving there. Thought we don't know much about Gore the real person, the author's afterword lays out why she characterised him the way that she did - the smoking habit comes from a description of him, there's evidence that he was a pretty good shot, that sort of thing. He's very real. While he displays era-appropriate bigotry, he learns and grows the more he is exposed to the modern world, though there are some sensibilities he never loses. He's got a sense of humour, he makes friends with other 'expats', he is self-depreciating and proper and exasperated and loyal. He's a very credible person, and the author shows him off so well that, like the narrator, you can't help but fall a little in love with him.

I also really liked the other 'expats' that we see - Arthur, a man brought forward from 1916 who is a flaming fruit, and Maggie, a woman from the 1600s who adapts to the future the best and also is a giant lesbian. See! Complicated portraits of people from the past! (It's also hinted that, while Gore claims no experience with women, he may have had some experience with men, being a Navy type.) The Ministry actually has some trouble with Maggie, because she's running riot, downloading Tinder and Lex and having a wild old time. I love her to pieces. (And I also liked that our protagonist displays some attraction to her, as well!) Arthur is also very adorable in that older gay man kind of way. Every character in this book felt like a full person, with thoughts and opinions and a life outside of the purview of the narrative, which is always good to see. They were very memorable, and very entertaining.

And all in all, this book just had so much charm. The premise itself is interesting in a soft sci-fi sort of way, very clearly skipping over the complicated physics of time travel in order to get to the sociological meat inherent there. Seeing these people adapt to modern society in their various different ways is interesting in the variety - some characters are more conservative in their outlook, others more open-minded, different people struggle with different things, that sort of thing. I liked that the emphasis was less on the romantic/sexual relationship between our protagonists (though, of course, that was there) and more just on the relationships that develop between bridges and expats, and between different eras of expat. And the larger plot with the Ministry and the protagonist's shady boss balanced out the more character-driven drama brilliantly. Again, I won't spoil the ending, but I liked that the book did not have a straightforward happy ending, though it was bittersweet and still somewhat hopeful. That felt more true than the alternative, and I really admire the choice that led to it.

Next up, back to Outlander, as Claire and Jamie make their way in an America teetering on the brink…

[thethirdromana]

What could Jonathan sound like?

I've seen a few posts going around that Jonathan could or should have a Devon accent, so I wanted to look into that in more detail. This is not to be negative about anyone's headcanons, but just to provide a bit more context.

Accents in the UK are complicated; the UK has a higher level of accent diversity than nearly anywhere else in the English-speaking world. Someone's accent is determined by their region, where accents can vary between towns that are less than fifty miles apart, and by their class - not just working/middle/upper but variations within those as well.

It was much the same in the 1890s. "Standard" accents have been promoted since the 17th century, and by the end of the 19th century, "received pronunciation" (RP) was "widespread among students at fee-paying public schools and universities by the end of the 19th century." (source)

So to figure out what Jonathan might sound like, we first need to figure out where he grew up and what his social class is. For where he grew up, I'm going to assume Exeter. Plausibly he could have grown up somewhere else, then moved to Exeter, say in his teens, to have "grown into manhood" working for Peter Hawkins. But to narrow down the options, let's go with Exeter.

Then there's his social class. That's trickier. As a solicitor's clerk, he was on the lower fringes of the middle class; as a solicitor, he is more solidly established in the middle class. But in the English class system, your job is usually much less important than your background; even in the modern day, someone with long-established family wealth who went to private school who falls on hard times and ends up working in a supermarket stays upper-middle class even if they're doing a working-class job. And we don't know Jonathan's background; he's an orphan.

OK. So let's listen to some options. These are all much later than the 1890s, but I've done my best, especially working with the limitation that the British Library Sounds Archive doesn't have a straightforward search by year option that I could find.

Here's a working-class man in from Plympton, Devon (38 miles from Exeter), born 1882, speaking in 1964:

And another working-class man from Blackawton, Devon (36 miles from Exeter), born 1888, speaking in 1964:

And I can't get the preview for this to display properly, but here's a final working-class man from Swimbridge, which is also about 35 miles from Exeter but in a different direction. He was born in 1885 and the recording is from 1963.

That gives some sense of what a working-class Jonathan might sound like.

But regardless of Jonathan's actual background, I don't think he would sound like that. Frankly, I'm not sure you would find many solicitors with a strong working-class Devon accent even in the modern day, let alone the 1890s.

(Which is a damning verdict on social mobility in the UK, but never mind that right now.)

Let's compare the accents above with that of an upper-class man from Exeter, Devon, born 1881, speaking in 1942. This is William Temple, Archbishop of Canterbury:

He's a perfect example of the RP accent I mentioned above - the one that was widely used by students at fee-paying schools in the UK by the late 19th century. I'd expect Jack, Arthur and Lucy to have this kind of accent. You can't easily identify which part of the country Temple comes from, but you can instantly identify his class.

Jonathan might not have naturally had this kind of accent, nor might he have grown up speaking this way. But for an ambitious young man attempting to solidify his position in the middle class, attempting to sound like this as much as possible would be a good career move. Personally, my best guess at his accent would be that he would sound like this most of the time - maybe with a little more Devon sneaking in when he feels emotional or forgets himself. The more privileged you imagine Jonathan's background to be, the more likely he would be to use RP.

RP has evolved a lot over the past century, so I think it's interesting to compare what this kind of accent sounds like in the modern day, since historic RP can sound quite strange to modern ears.

The current Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, comes from a relatively similar background to William Temple (there's that social mobility again), and he sounds like this:

(he's arguing here that the Church of England should do better on LGBT rights, in case the preview doesn't make that clear)

And that's pretty much the same accent as the fantastic Ben Galpin has in @re-dracula too.

[tumblydovereviews]

Little Bill: Nick Jr's Worst Best Show

The name of disgraced comedian Bill Cosby has, for the most part, been wiped out of existence. The Cosby Show, once a cult classic, is barely mentioned to this day. Fat Albert's movie was both a commercial and critical disappointment. Cosby himself has faded into obscurity, his last media stunt taking place in 2021, when he was released from prison. But perhaps the most forgotten about Bill Cosby creation would have to be the 1999 Little Bill preschool series and, to an extent, the franchise as a whole.

Contrary to popular belief, Willam Glover Jr's adventures did not originally start animated. Instead, Little Bill originated as a series of books meant for children slightly over the show's target audience of preschoolers. The books, written by Cosby himself, focused on a then-older Little Bill navigating everyday childhood experiences such as going to the hospital, dealing with bullies, and even grief. The series received critical acclaim from critics for the nuanced and lack of sugar coating when explaining to children these tough topics. Karen MacPherson says it best- the Little Bill books were, simply, "candid."

In 1997, it was announced that Nickelodeon would be developing the Little Bill books into three separate specials. These plans were later expanded to a full-fledged series, focusing on a now preschool-aged Little Bill exploring life in the same way he did in book form. And finally, after little over a year of anticipation from both production and fans, Little Bill officially made its broadcast debut on November 28th, 1999.

Little Bill ran for two seasons and fifty-two episodes. It received an uproar of positive praise, was nominated and awarded with both Emmy and Peabody awards during the show's five-year run, and managed to live on through reruns for almost a decade, airing on CBS, Noggin, and Nick Jr throughout its time on television.

However, in 2014, after allegations of Bill Cosby sexually assaulting dozens of women during his peak in fame surfaced, all of Little Bill's acclaim suddenly accumulated towards nothing. The preschool series was pulled off the air. Little Bill books were removed off of library shelves. To this day, the series is still unable to stream on Paramount Plus, only being available through digital purchases and old recordings. Little Bill has practically disappeared, all for good reason.

The problem with celebrity preschool shows not aging well has not ended, unfortunately. Little Ellen, a show based off comedian and former talk show host Ellen DeGeneres, was cancelled and removed from HBO Max as a tax write-off, the show's third season never seeing the light of day. The popular British children's show Tweenies was pulled off the air for a considerable amount of time after an episode featured a parody of sexual predator game show host Jimmy Saville.

However, after actually taking a moment to sit down and watch Little Bill specifically, I can't help but find it sad how such an amazing show for kids can suddenly wither because the show's creator was a shitty guy. Yes, Bill Cosby's actions were absolutely unacceptable and he fully deserves his career's falling. Separating the art from the artist is very hard when one realizes that Little Bill himself was based off the lives of Bill and his deceased son Ennis.

At the same time, in an alternate universe where Bill Cosby was never involved with the series whatsoever, I feel as if Little Bill's impact would be much more appreciated to this day.

The series contained some of the best representation I personally have seen in a preschool series produced in its time. Bill himself was a black boy, not smarter or wittier than he had to be. The adultification of children, especially Black ones, has become such an issue in today's society and it is refreshing to finally see a series that doesn't make Bill more mature than he needs to be. The show's cast spotlighted people of all races, from Black to Latino to Asian and White and even had a recurring character with cerebral palsy. Each character is carefully crafted with depth.

Little Bill never failed to 'keep it real." Bill himself is no saint and frequently makes mistakes and/or displays bratty behavior typical of a five year old. In fact, Little Bill's habit of messing up has caused him to earn the 'affectionate' title of "Black Caillou." While the nickname is funny, I, however, have to disagree with this notion in the grand scheme of things.

The problem with Caillou wasn't completely his bad behavior- Caillou's main issue is the show's lack of actual 'characters.' Caillou and the people that populate his world contain little to no personality. Caillou is just "the toddler." Rosie is just "the annoying little sister." Mommy and Daddy are "the parents," and Leo and Clementine are "the friends." Caillou doesn't have any defining traits that may cause the viewer to tolerate him more than they do.

Contrast that with Little Bill, where each character has their own distinct traits and profile. Little Bill is imaginative and isn't always the biggest fan of change and new experiences get him nervous. As the youngest of three he occasionally feels left out and ignored, trying to channel a leadership like role into his play so he can feel fulfilled. Not only does this hand-crafted personality reside with Bill but his friends and family as well. The characters, world, and stories of Little Bill are beyond the limitations of a stereotype- they are detailed and delicate.

The reason Little Bill is one of, if not Nick Jr.'s best show also happens to be the reason that it is Nick Jr's worst show. Little Bill was cared for. From the creative art style to the stellar voice acting to the research done in forming good examples of representation, a vast amount of real, tangible effort was put into making Bill an amazing show. At the same time, the very hands that formed Little Bill into what the show is today also happened to be the hands of a sexual predator, a horrible man who committed the most awful of acts.

Willam Glover's reputation may have bene tainted at the hands of his creator, but the show that he starred in has never gotten old for me.

[littlelodell]

Tag Game!!

ˏˋ°*♡➷ get to know me ༊*·˚

Thank you @happy-mokka for the tag!!

rule: name your favorite movie, character, animal, drink, song, season, book, color and hobby

This is going to be tough because I am highly suggestible & I will bury my favorites for years and then suddenly remember them.

MOVIE(S) It's a tie, and an impossible task because I can name about fifty films whose images float around in my imagination. I grew watching a lot, A LOT, of Westerns, British WWII films and movie musicals, and classic films of the 1940's...but here are two later era movies that I come back to, and influence me as a creative person. Honorable mention to Hayao Miyazaki's entire oeuvre.

The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover, 1989

dir. Peter Greenaway. Michael Nyman score.

with Helen Mirren, Michael Gambon (RIP), Richard Bohringer & Alan Howard. (and Tim Roth and Alex Kingston!)

Terrifying, horrifying, darkly funny and stunningly gorgeous. It's extremely violent in a very specific way to Greenaway, which I have a harder time with now, but it's still worth watching, if only for the scenes between Mirren and Howard, which are virtually silent. Breathtaking.

Der Himmel über Berlin (Wings of Desire) 1987 dir. Wim Wenders

This movie has EVERYTHING. Angels in dark coats, a library, Nick Cave, poetry, pre-fall of The Wall Berlin, trapeze artistry, moody smoking, Peter Falk as himself, did I mention angels? The final line gets me every time; "Ich weiss jetzt was kein Engel weiss." (excuse my German spelling.) "I know what no angel knows." In other words, love.

Character. In my current obsession? Our dear demon, Crowley. He chooses himself, but is honest enough to know he loves someone else. Silly, moody, been to actual hell and back. What's not to love? Plus us redheads have to stick together.

And of course, Kate ~ Taming of the Shrew. The OG bitch you hate to love. Runner up, Ariel from The Tempest. Gotta love a spirit that manages to be both mischievous and compassionate.

ANIMAL: Grey wolf. Canis Lupus. Their reintroduction to the wild is a very, very small pinpoint of hope for our ailing world.

Drink: Coffee. No contest. Black. Unlike Daffy here, I prefer mine iced.

Song: Currently listening to Yebba's "October Sky" on heavy rotation. She's truly gifted.

But, how could I choose just one song? I listen to jazz, 90's RandB, country, West Coast rap, deep 80's cuts, current pop, always Bowie, Prince, Kate Bush, and classical vocal rep.

"Will There Really Be a Morning?" Ricky Ian Gordon comp., set to The Belle of Amherst's poetry - a perfect song.

Season: Winter. But that's because I have to travel to get to a real winter. I love to (visit) the snow. I know, I romanticize it. I grew up in a place with brutal winters but all I remember is the Nordic skiing and playing hockey in figure skates and hot cocoa. Let me have my idyll.

Books, three, in no order, all non-fiction, or I will get too far down a rabbit-hole:

The Hakawati by Rabih Alemeddine

Sexing the Cherry by Jeanette Winterson

My Antonia by Willa Cather (my actual favorite)

Each of these authors have other, equally compelling titles, and you should read them.

Color: Shades of Blue.

Hobby: Reading, traveling, taking pictures, starting yet another language to study.

Possibly cooking, but I used to do it for a living, so it always feels like a dance with an old friend, not a hobby.

I'll tag @reloha and @risingphoenix761 but don't feel obligated at all. If I did this again tomorrow, I would have completely different answers.

[shallowseeker]

Fic idea: Dean's adventures in physical therapy

Working title: Weak in the knees

Start of a Post-13x22 ficlet, with the knee pain and the stretching

Idea: As the Apocalypse World refugees settle into the bunker, Sam and company draw up a very detailed training regimen for all who seek to become official hunters. (Basically, Sam starts a puketacular morning jogging group and Not-Bobby and Mary hog the bunker gym.)

Dean tries his darnedest to become invisible, but on one particular "sore-knee day," a refugee named Jules corners him against the punching bag. Turns out she's a former physical therapist. Her directive? "Work on your tight hips and weak abductors." She makes it a whole friggin' routine.

But the stretches and strengthening exercises are easier said than done, especially when an exuberant Jack takes an interest the subject. If his poking and prodding ain't bad enough, he drags Cas into the madness, and Dean's hope of "relaxing into the stretch" are blown to smithereens.

///

01

Dean startles awake and gets that uncomfortable, topsy-turvy, where-the-Hell-am-I feeling.

Oh. Bunker's library.

Holy shit. They really did make it home.

Not still in Not-Bobby's refugee camp, wringing their hands over how to get fifty folks through a quickly vanishing rift.

Dean looks around. Doesn't recognize half the people strewn about in library chairs. Two of them are flanked by small piles of vomit. Gross. Like a made-for-TV college party film.

His gaze lands on not-Charlie, and even though it's not her, his heart swells up like a balloon. She's rubbing her eyes and yawning, and when her eyes meet Dean's, she looks cagey and unsure.

"Well, that was some party," pipes Arthur-freakin'-Ketch from somewhere near her feet. He sways to his feet, then nudges his elbow into her ribs, like they're friggin' besties or somethin.

"If there were less clothes in the fray, you'd think a spectacular orgy had taken place here." He throws an arm around her waist and cackles, squeezing her faux-gentlemanly.

Which is weird. That's weird, right?

Maybe they are besties.

Charlie rolls her eyes and extricates herself.

"You're not my kinda pretty," she rasps. She too gets unsteadily to her feet. "God. This is not where my ten-year college plan put me."

"Stranded in an entirely unfamiliar world and hungover from the world's most smashing victory party?" Ketch asks, too happily and not at all like the Arthur Ketch Dean had been acquainted with during his British Men of Letters run.

"Ung," Charlie answers, screwing up her eyes and massaging her temples.

Sam chooses that moment to enter, looking fresh and definitely not hungover like the rest of them.

Asshole.

Dean wonders where Cas and Jack are. Or Mom.

They'd all really made it back. It feels surreal, like they've finally caught a real break.

"Oh, geez," Sam sniffs, taking in the state of the room and sniffing like the princess he is. "I offered to get you guys set up in rooms last night--"

Several of the guys raise their hands and groan hopefully, little white flags of desperation waving in the air.

"---and the offer's still open, if any of you can walk."

Most of the guys make it to their feet, but a coupla the the blackout drunks fare pretty badly. Dean sees Sam shiver in disgust when he notices the vomit.

"You get to clean that," Sam says to Arthur Ketch. "That is, if you want to stay."

"That's not proper fair, now is it?" Ketch huffs, and when Charlie nods at him, he actually relents and gives Sam an acquiescent shrug.

"Yes. Why not?"

It's strange to see how much sway this Charlie has over him.

Finally, Dean nods a morning greeting to his brother and gets to his feet.

Chive and smoked cheddar pancakes are on the menu for a quick hangover cure, but damn if his knees aren't sore as Hell. He limps towards the kitchen. The Apocalypse world terrain had not been kind to any of his joints.

///

"So, let me get this straight," Mary says later, swiveling her orange juice over a plate of simmering bacon. "You plan to lecture these guys on the ways of this world, and then turn them loose?"

"Relocate them," Sam corrects. "And whoever wants to, can stay here, in the Bunker with us. That's what it was originally for."

Dean tries not to balk. It's true. This had been a communal hideaway for hunters--

"And what if they have legal doppelgangers?" Mary presses.

"We're already on that," Sam sighs, "and most of them don't, by the way."

"Funny how the butterfly effect works like that," Dean calls from where he's bent low over the stove, so close that the heat from the pan dampens his cheeks.

Not-Bobby is quiet and surly in his corner seat, back to the wall.

"I thought you told us we'd still be in the fight," he grouses finally, turning hard eyes on Sam. "I thought you told us we'd be looking for a way to save our world. To go back and gank that sonuva-bitch-Michael."

"And I meant it," Sam rushes hastily, turning his eyes over to Dean in a panic, looking for support. "But I think it's only fair to offer anyone who wants an out an actual out."

Bobby stares at all of them, considering.

"Whoever wants to fight can stay in the fight," Sam tacks on, "We'll train them. Rest and recover the rest. Cas can heal whoever's not up to speed, and we can start a fresh training program."

Dean's not sure he likes the sound of that.

He looks over to Mary, and she looks back at him, chewing her lip nervously.

"Fine," Bobby grumps. "That's fair. We recuperate. No sure anyone's gonna let that angel touch 'em though." He raises his eyebrows at Dean, like his opinion matters when it comes to this. "No offense."

Dean purses his lips.

Whatever.

Sam looks unsure at that reaction, but recovers.

"Right. There's a gym here," he says, too proudly, like he wants to impress this Bobby.

"Well, what haven't you got here," Bobby sighs, sounding resigned.

///

02

After Bobby leaves, trudging off to whatever room he'd been set up in, Mary rounds on his baby bro.

“Sam,” she hisses, “That was…”

She breathes out, trying to get her nerves under control.

“What?” he asks, looking genuinely perplexed by her reaction.

Poor Sam. Sometimes, he just doesn’t get it.

Dean flips another chive-and-smoked cheddar pancake, adding it to his rapidly-growing stack. He throws more batter to the skillet and shoves one of the cooling cakes into his mouth. He chews and continues to watch Mom struggle for words.

He swallows. “What she means is, you’re moving a little fast there, Sammy. Slow the Hell down, yanno? We've not even been back a day."

Sam bristles.

“Having a plan isn’t incompatible with rest,” he protests. “I didn’t mean we weren’t going to rest. I-Bobby sounded like he wanted to jump into hunting for ways to beat Michael. You both heard him.”

“What Bobby says and what Bobby needs are two different things, Sam,” Mary sighs, and she down her glass of OJ.

She’s probably a little hungover, too, Dean realizes, so he slides two pancakes onto a plate and crosses the room to give them to her.

“Thanks,” she says absently, and she grabs one of them bare-handed. She shoves nearly the entire thing in her mouth. Then, “Jesus, Dean.” She turns her attention to the cakes more fully and promptly gobbles more of them them down.

“Don't choke. And hey, these’re good for hangovers,” he explains, winking. "Real savory."

It feels so unbelievably good to have her back here.

And Hell. Maybe Sam’s plan is a good one, after all. With some structure, she might actually stay here this time. It’d be cool to have not-Bobby, too. Even if it is weird.

“And yeah, maybe a plan is good,” he amends, throwing Sam a bone. “It just needs to be slow, right? No one wants to get up at ass o'clock in the morning and go running with you. Capische?”

The sounds of footsteps breaks the flow of the conversation.

Dean' had 's barely paid attention to the individual refugees, especially with all the angel shit that'd been swinging their way. So, the last group he expects this early in the morning is the adorable little family that waltzes in.

There’s a plain-looking couple and two little girls, and he’s one hundred percent sure they all just heard him say ass o'clock.

The dad’s clad in hunter uniform: blue Henley and green plaid overshirt. Mom’s in a sweater and blue jeans. Little girls're wearing denim overalls and dress.

All look freshly laundered.

“Oh,” sweater-woman says, looking awkward as her eyes slide to Mary in question. “I’m sorry. Are we interrupting?”

“No, no!” Sam hurries to say, flustered in that clumsy Sammy-boy way. “You’re not. You must be--”

“I’m hungry! Mary, pwease,” the littlest girl cuts in, bratty and grumpy in the way that only little kids can be. She tugs on her pink dress, then clutches an old stuffed monkey like she’s trying to suffocate it.

“Lily, shush,” the older sister bosses, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her back.

In reply, the littlest girl, Lily, shoves at her sister angrily. They’re maybe ten and six, Dean thinks, trying to hide his grin at their antics.

Mary seems equally charmed by them.

“Of course you are, Lily,” she says, walking over and crouching down to her eye level. “Don’t worry. We’ll scrounge up something for you.” Then, to the parents: “I don’t think we all met formally. Things were…tough at the camp.”

“It’s fine, Mary,” the man says, looking too earnest, “We owe you everything. You and Jack.”

“Caleb, Billy–these are my sons. This is Dean. This is Sam.”

Dean strolls back over to the pan and flips another pancake.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, tone just a shade too rough, like Charlie’s had been. “Both of you. And your princesses are--?”

The older sister puffs up her chest, putting proud little thumbs in the straps of her overalls. “I’m Dana. This is Lily.”

“I’m not a princess,” Lily gripes, scowling. “I’m a knight.”

“Of course you are,” Sam throws in, a little awkwardly.

Mary throws a smile over her shoulder at Dean, then turns back to them.

“Do you guys like cheddar pancakes?"

The older girl, Dana, pulls a face, because of course she does. What little girl would want hangover pancakes?

"That sounds gross.”

Lily, on the other hand, seems to take it as a challenge, “Well, I’m not scared of grownup food.” She turns her attention to Dean, “Mom always says Dana’s a picky eater.”

This kid’s got spunk in spades.

Dean laughs.

“Spoken like a true knight.”

Lily beams.

“Lily,” blue-shirt-dad-guy-Caleb admonishes quietly, and then he locks eyes with Dean in apology. “I’m sorry. Cereal or anything would be fine. O-or we can walk to a store if there’s one nearby.”

“I already went grocery shopping this morning,” Sam announces happily. “We’ve got all kinds of cereal: Raisin Bran, Golden Flax, Cheerios.”

Dean shakes his head with a proud smile. Leave it to friggin’ Sammy to get up at the buttcrack of dawn for complete strangers. The family stares at him with a look of total confusion, though, like they haven’t heard of any of these cereals, and Sam’s grin falters.

“What’s cereal?” Lily stage-whispers, and Dean huffs out a laugh.

On the other hand, had things had been so bad over there that the littlest one hasn’t even heard of cereal?

On Sam’s wavering smile and Mary’s nervous frown, they must be thinking the same thing. Dean steps in.

He doesn’t really wanna cook when he’s got a hangover from Hell, but the girls are pretty damn cute.

“Okay, well. How about regular pancakes then?”

Lily squeals.

///

03

///

Dean winds up finishing up the stack of hangover pancakes before making regular pancakes, banana pancakes, and cinnamon pancakes.

Mary scrapes together some bacon, and after burning a few strips, she seems to get the hang of the temperature.

Sam is almost useless, except that he puts on a fresh pot of coffee and makes incessant small talk with Caleb and Billy, or “the Sanders family,” as Dean soon learns to call them.

The oldest girl, Dana, seems pretty taken with Sam, marveling at his height and telling him all about how much she’d liked the shower in The Bunker.

Turns out she’d not had a real bath in the entire eight months before coming here.

Lily, on the other hand, scowls at almost everyone and keeps looking expectantly at Dean.

When he brings a stack of pancakes and bacon to the table, she shouts, “Finally!” before digging in.

Turns out, she likes the hangover cheddar pancakes best of all.

///

Before too long, the smell of cinnamon lures Jack into the kitchen, just like Dean hoped it would.

He’s surprised to see that the kid actually looks bad.

Exhausted-like. Exhausted like he’s been fighting a war. Which, of course, Dean reminds himself, he has.

Jack hovers in the doorway for a few moments, like he’s not sure if he’s welcome inside, which is ridiculous. The Bunker is more the kid’s home than any of these friggin’ refugees.

“Jack, come getcha a hot one,” he says gruffly, and Jack shoots him a surprised glance before shuffling over. “Come on,” Dean urges, trying to banish that damn impersonal hesitancy of his. “You like the cinnamon crap, right?”

Jack sniffs the air, like he’s trying his darnedest not to look too excited. “Yes. How did you--?”

“I have eyes. You always eat the sweet stuff. Here.” Dean slides a stack of four onto a plate and shoves it the kid’s way without looking at him directly.

Jack’s eyes grow even bigger, and Dean sees his fingertips flex on the plate. “Th-thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mumbles. “Welcome home. By the way.”

Jack seizes up. He takes in a quick little breath, and then he nods.

As Jack makes his way over to the secondary table Sam had set up in the middle of the kitchen, Dean sees Mary staring sidelong at him, sappy and happy-looking.

Jeez.

It's not that bigga deal.

She puts on more bacon. Dean pours more batter.

///

It’s quickly apparent how much Lily likes Jack.

She tells Sam loudly all about how Jack can fly and protect them from “sky-fire” and how he can even make special animal shadow shows.

After she finishes her cheddar pancakes, she clambers over to the table where Jack’s at and plops herself into the chair right next to him. She starts asking him a shit-ton of random questions, like: “What’s your favorite color? Have you ever seen a giraffe? Can you fly all the way to the moon?”

“Lily,” Billy-the-sweater-mom warns, and Lily shoot her a guilty gaze.

“Bobby says he’s a good angel,” she fires back, defensive. Sweater-mom jolts. (Almost like "angel" is some kind of filthy swear-word.)

Mary’s eyes cut over to them sharply, shifting rapidly from Jack to Billy, like she’s thinking about inserting herself into the conversation.

Dean catches movement in the corner of his eye, and he’s relieved to see that Cas has finally made his appearance in the doorway. He locks eyes with Dean and gives him a curt, good-morning nod.

Hey, Dean thinks, unnaturally relieved to see him.

Probably because of all the friggin' people.

(It's overwhelming round here.)

Meanwhile, sweater-mom lets out a shaky laugh.

“No, No. Honey, I know. We trust Jack.” She gives Jack a watered down smile, and he tentatively returns it. “That’s not…I just don’t want you to make him tired, that’s all. Jack’s been fighting for us non-stop, and he looks exhausted, Sweetie. Let him eat something.”

Lily squints at Jack, biting her lips.

“Yeah," she whispers. "You do look tired.” On a wave of frantic inspiration, she shouts, “I can help! I’ll get you a drink!” Too exuberantly, she scoots her chair back and trips.

Dean’s not fast enough to get to her.

No one is.

She lands hard on her elbow, and then she gives a little muted cry of surprise. It’s too quiet, like she’s spent an entire lifetime learning not to sound off her signs of distress.

“Oh, Lily!” the sister growls, sounding exasperated. “You’re so clumsy.”

Jack scoots his own chair out in alarm, but Cas beats them all to Lily’s side. He carefully crouches down next to her, dipping his head gently, like a hawk baring its neck to a little bluejay.

Like, I won't hurt you.

But Cas’s superhuman speed has an immediate chilling effect.

The Sanders couple immediately get to their feet, like they're going off instinct. Billy the sweater-mom starts gasping, like she’s fighting down a panic attack, and Dean sees the Caleb the henley-dad wrap a fist aggressively round his fork.

Makeshift weapon. Huh?

Oh.

They don’t like that Cas is a full-blooded, bonafide angel. No matter how much he's helped them so far. Dean taps Mary’s shoulder, silently urging her to man the food, and then he strides over to jump into the fray.

“Hey. Whoa, whoa,” he says, putting himself between them. “It’s just Cas. We trust Cas, too, all right?”

Henley-dad-guy makes a pained noise, and Jack slowly gets to his feet, trying to look unthreatening and in control.

“It’s okay, Billy…Caleb. Cas is my,” he seems to struggle for the right word. “Well, he’s my dad.”

Cas’s head whips up to Jack, something unreadable passing over his face.

Peripherally, Dean sees Caleb put a hand on his wife'e shoulder and nudge her behind him. “That means he’s a-a-?”

“I’m an angel, yes,” Cas says firmly. “I will not harm your daughter, though I can’t blame you for being cautious of me.” His smile turns wry. “I’d say your reticence is very wise.”

Caleb-Henley-dad-guy seems to relax a little bit.

“Okay,” he says cautiously.

“May I see your elbow?” Cas says, turning gentle eyes to Lily. His voice is a deep rumble: “That looks like some bruise.”

Lily winces.

“Yeah, but I’m brave. It doesn’t hurt all that much,” she quips.

When she brings her little elbow forward, Dean hears sweater-mom take in another rattling gasp.

Calm down, Lady. Yeesh.

“You certainly are brave,” Cas agrees, brushing his fingertips just barely along her skin. “You fall scared even me. May I fix your bruise?”

Lily turns her eyes to her frozen parents and licks her lips nervously. Next, she tracks her eyes to Dean, and finally she looks to Jack.

“If he’s Jack’s daddy,” she says, shifting her gaze to her own father and then back to Cas, “Then he’s safe.”

Dean nods at Cas, and Cas sends a flutter of grace into her arm.

Lily’s mouth opens in a small, silent, “oh,” but she doesn’t look afraid. Instead, she seems struck as she stares up into Cas’s eyes. Then, she wiggles her elbow and rotates it around happily.

“Oh,” she whispers. “You did fix it. Thank you.”

Dean grins.

"Yup. That's Cas."

///

[purpleshift]

TIL that other countries' equivalents of Trove are neither free nor an official project of their national libraries? (thanks based National Library of Australia for making it free everywhere I guess - I found it on the Library of Congress's e-resources page while checking the LoC's e-resources access conditions for news databases lol)

As other people in the notes have said, for more historical newspaper action you can go to:

your local public library (or more likely, the public library network that's closest to where said niche flour brand operated, unless you're very sure that the interlibrary loans systems will play nice with each other (sometimes there's a fee for cost of services and that's normal for the system, sometimes a library network tries to charge out of network ILL fees and then the rest of the libraries in the Greater Sydney Metropolitan Area retaliate by refusing them service)

(probably important to note here that ILL librarians are not allowed to retain copies of stuff they've made copies of for you under copyright law, so you'd better hang on to those copies or you'll have to go through the whole process again)

your local university library, assuming they've reopened to the public after COVID (or were ever open to the public in the first place, like the UTS library)

I'd just like to add a few extra alternatives for completeness:

your local state/territory/province/other sub-national entity library - aside from the aforementioned free-everywhere service Trove, in Australia it's mostly the state/university/national libraries that subscribe to databases and other such e-resources because, like, it's definitely not super cost effective to purchase database access for a user population of *checks notes* about 100k people per metropolitan council? The State Libraries (at least the SLNSW does, this is most likely the case for other Australian states and territories too) also support (read: partially fund and provide state wide services to) public libraries, so some (not all, but some) are part of the state library consortia that buy access licences to the e-resources, so you can end up logging in with your public library card to the state library website for e-resource access like a newspaper archive database

(sorry I cbf looking at all fifty US states plus your territories to check if they offer remote e-resource access, I wanna catch the first ever Carlingford light rail tram at 5:00 am in a few hours and it will take more than three hours to check that)

your local national library - if your local $SUBNATIONAL library is lucky enough to have remote access to e-resources but for some reason the connection is slow, say for example, you logged on while the librarian training classes are doing "intro to XYZ database" class today, maybe your local national library _also_ offers remote access to e-resources? It's worth a shot!

(unfortunately you will be SOL if you're in the US because the Library of Congress only has "free public access" and "on-site access" (or also "on-site Congressional Research Service staff and contractors", but that's not really something a member of the public really needs to worry about) access levels, so unless you're able to get to the reference rooms in Washington DC, you just can't use some of them)

(you will also be SOL if you're in the UK and looking for the national library to help you out there but that's because the British Library still hasn't restored access to things like their databases and e-resources after the cyber attack in October 2023 (yes as of December 2024, that was more than a year ago, who is underfunding the libraries gdi), with it being projected for 2025)

maybe there's a secret flour/wheat/wheat by-products industry consortium that has a business library of some kind? business libraries are real, though they're usually called "special libraries". I have no idea how to find one in countries that aren't Australia but in the unlikely chance that you are looking for something in Australia, you can find an Australian library that participates in Libraries Australia things (like Trove) on the Australian Libraries Gateway

(that's about half the recognised library sectors except school libraries (i.e. K-12/13 etc primary/secondary/middle schools) and health libraries (in hospitals, but the ones for the doctors) haha!)

Also if you're looking for news articles I'd recommend stuff like Factiva (by Dow Jones) (which is on-site access only for the LoC) but if you're looking for the advertisements, uh, I dunno any specific non-Australian ones but you wanna look for the word "facsimile" in the database description, like in the Gale Primary Sources Times Digital Archive. Good luck anon!

I would like to say that your passion for sphinxes has inspired me to work on researching my own niche interest! Love your videos and wish me luck finding info on a small flour brand that shut down in the 90s with five related search results left on the internet!

I recommend trying newspapers.com!!

The subscription is insanely expensive I’ve had like 4 different free trials with different emails. This is the way.

[rsfannan6]

Our walk has ended.

Alas, we have completed traversing The Peddars Way. For Diane and me, this makes the fifth walk we have completed here in The U.K.  At some point, we will probably be searching The Let’s Go Walking UK website for our next adventure.  

But, this expedition is not over.  

A morning bus from Hunstanton got us to King’s Lynn where we boarded the train for Cambridge for a five night stay.  This town will be the base of operations as we explore Cambridge itself, as well as side trips to Ely and Bury St. Edmunds, two small towns not too far away.  Rather than a chronological log of our exploits, the next posts on this blog of sorts will be geographical in nature, pointing out our favorite activities and points of interest at each locale.

Cambridge.

Diane had booked us into The Centennial Hotel, just a ten minute walk from the train station.  It was the most upscale of our lodgings.  Quite modern furnishings in an old building.  This family run hotel was bought fifty years ago when the building itself, an eight room inn turned 100 years old.  Hence the name Centennial.  Since then, it has extended down the block and has about fifty rooms.  A delightful walk has us in the middle of the old town in about 15 minutes.

Cambridge is located on the River Cam, 55 miles north of London.  It became an important trading center during the Roman and Vikings ages, and there is archaeological evidence of a settlement in the area as early as the Bronze Age.  The city is best known for the University of Cambridge, which was founded in 1209.  Thirty one colleges, each rather distinct, make up the University of Cambridge system.  Each is housed in old and beautiful buildings all around the town.  A few of the most popular are the King’s College Chapel, the Cavendish Laboratory, and the Cambridge University Library, one of the largest libraries in the world.  The skyline is dominated by several large buildings like The Fitzwilliam Museum along with the spire of the Our Lady and The English Martyrs Church, reaching what seems to be halfway to heaven.  

Pretty much smack dab in the middle of town is Parker’s Piece, a 25 acre flat square green common.  Named for Edward Parker who leased the land and used it for grazing, it is now used for picnics, games of futbol and cricket, as well as the occasional town fairs.  It was here on Parker’s Piece (piece is just an old name for a tract of land) that in 1848, a group of University students agreed on a single set of rules by which to play futbol on this green.  This first set of rules was adopted fly the Football Association in 1863.  

On our first day, it was raining pretty good, so we ended up in the first bar/pub we encountered in the old part of town to get a bite to eat, an adult beverage and shelter from the storm.  Luck was on our side once again, as we found ourselves in The Eagle.  The Eagle is one of Cambridge’s oldest inns, dating back to the 14th century.  This tavern was frequented by the staff of the Cavendish Laboratory, located just down the lane for 100 years from 1874-1974. The patrons included Francis Crick and James Watson, who on February 28, 1953, walked into The Eagle and announced “we have discovered the secret of life”, referring to, of course, to their discovery of the double helix structure of DNA.  Throughout their lives, they dined here six days a week!  Aside from this monumental announcement, The Eagle is best known for being an RAF bar.  The walls are rich with WWII memorabilia, and the ceiling is covered in the graffiti of British and American pilots who burned their names and squadrons numbers using cigarette lighters, candles, and lipstick.  What seems like a small place is actually a very cool labyrinth of hallways, small rooms, cubby holes, and of course, bars.  It was packed but we found a table for eight and had a lovely lunch.  Terrific pub fare.  

On one of our outings in Cambridge, we were joined by two Cambridge students,  Alex and Adam, who guided us to The Fitzwilliam Museum, where Alex and a group of students were in charge of putting on the exhibit, “Botticelli in Cambridge”.  Alex’s grandmother is our very own Carol Murdock.  Listening to these two simply brilliant young people gave me hope that the next generations may have a good chance at returning some sanity into this absolutely insane world that we have bequeathed to them.  

Besides just walking around this fair city, there are two touristy things that you really should do if you are ever in the area.  Take a ride on the hop on-hop bus.  The double decker bus (we, of course, opted for the open air top level) takes you on a tour of the city with a terrific history lesson included.  We caught it on a sunny day and it was marvelous.  The other excursion is punting on the River Cam.  A punt is a flat bottomed small boat that is navigated down this river that cuts through Cambridge using a long pole.  You have a choice of poling your own punt or having an experienced guide do it for you while giving a history lesson along the way.  We chose the latter, which was great and afforded us the opportunity of watching those who had chosen the former flail at the task.  Win-win.  Once again, the weather was perfect for this 90 minutes of glorious relaxation.

We had but two full days here in Cambridge, but it certainly deserves another visit, as we barely scratched the surface of things to see.  

More to come…..

[rithebard]

On Thursday; #ChattingWithSherri welcomes back #crimenovelist, #editor and #PresidentoftheDetectionClub; #MartinEdwards on 4/25/24 at 7pm pt;  http://tobtr.com/12329171  #interview #goldenagemysteries

[amitapaul]

25/16

16/4/24

Inverted Head Four Annas 1854

( The Curious Case of An Upside Down Postage Stamp )

Inverted Head Four Annas Stamp of Eighteen Fifty Four

Merely showed coming events cast their shadows long before !

Survey Office Calcutta of the Mighty Brit Empire

Lithographed octagonally a Die Printing Entire

The frame was red the head was blue the head of Queen Victoria

Some illiterate native workman goofed up in his euphoria

On Day One of the Operation the red frames were imprinted

And left to dry so that next day the blue head could be printed

October the Thirteenth of Eighteen hundred Fifty Four

Was that first day and all went well on that Oriental shore

October the Fourteenth however proved another matter

Perhaps the first day’s concentration had begun to scatter

At least six sheets with the red frames were turned top down and then

The Monarch’s head in Royal Blue was added by workmen

The head was not inverted, mind, it was in fact the frame

And yet the end result was upside down heads all the same

No offence meant, it was all done quite inadvertently

And proof that it was so is before us historically

For although two million six thousand forty stamps were printed

It was a score of years before someone so squarely squinted

That they could see the mistake and ensure in the reprint

Of Eighteen Ninety One the stamp was right and fresh as mint

EA Smythies has noted that the issue came to light

In London Eighteen Seventy Four’s Philatelic Oversight

LR Hausberg has mentioned it in Nineteen Hundred Seven

Mr Sefi a year after Nineteen Hundred Eleven

Three cut to shape examples are in the Tapling Collection

At the British Library, London, in all their flawed perfection

Including two (positions three and four on the printed sheet )

On cover indicating that detection was complete

The error was created by an incorrect sheet placement

Rather than careless die transfer, that is the final judgement.

In all, now , only twenty-eight examples can be found

That can be certified as genuine, valuable, sound.

Valued today at one million and seventy thousand dollars

These stamps can leave many collectors hot under their collars

A stamp that at the time was not worth more than dime or quarter

Has got back its revenge today in international barter

Imperialism has been made to stand upon its head

And forced to issue repeated apologies instead.

Therefore I say Inverted Head Stamp Eighteen Fifty Four

Merely showed coming events casting their shadows before !

( ASA )

#amitasinfinity

#24GloPoNaPoWriMo

[infjtarot]

Emperor. Weiser Waite Smith Tarot Emperor

A man sits on a throne in a sparse setting. His throne is often decorated with rams’ heads. The Emperor represents order and power. He is the patriarch, and so his concern is with establishing a foundation for not only his own work but also that of generations to come. He takes full responsibility for his actions. He provides structure. He is represented by the number four. Where the Empress is soft, the Emperor is strong. Where the Empress is emotional, the Emperor is detached. He wants to maintain order, and he is building something that is going to take the next fifty years to manifest. He is patient and forward looking, because where the Empress wants to express herself, the Emperor wants to gain power.

This might sound a bit icky to some of you. You might not want to admit to yourself that you wish to dominate and control. You might think it’s gross to mix power and art. But someone’s gotta win the Nobel Prize every year, right? And to have that as a goal—not just the ego gratification part of it but also the achieving excellence part of it—is not a terrible thing. Consider the Emperor to be the Germany card. Contemporary Germany, not . . . you know. The trains run on time, there is an order to things, there is a focus on planning for the future of both its citizens and its economy, there is a sense of logic and reason to the decisions the government makes.

The Emperor doesn’t have to be rapacious, taking from others to add to what it has already, which is more of a Seven of Swords or the Devil kind of thing. It’s about tending to its own state in a reasonable way.

Using that energy creatively, we might think of the Emperor as being someone like the British writer C. S. Lewis. He plotted out the Chronicles of Narnia, finding the orderly structure to the seven books before he started work. Unlike other multiple-volume stories, the tone and the structure remain consistent throughout, because the series, published from 1950 to 1956, was planned so carefully. There are no wobbly to-and-fro plotlines like on the long-running television show Lost, which was clearly made up as it went along. Instead, Narnia was based on Lewis’s deep learning of Greek and Roman mythology as well as Christian theology and fairy tales, and it functions both as adventure and as allegory. Lewis is also a suitable Emperor figure because he was the chair of the literature department at Cambridge University. Emperors think in terms of career; they do not up and move from project to project. Everything builds on what came before it. Teaching is a fitting job for the Emperor, because he can spread his influence and leave a lasting legacy through his students. The Emperor might seem conservative to some. Stability is important, rather than spontaneity and experimentation. But stability has its place alongside spontaneity and experimentation. There’s a sense of lineage here, of working within an already established tradition. He is well complemented by the Fool, however.

The Fool, or jester, traditionally acted out the mirth that the king or other leader was not allowed to. He was like the Emperor’s shadow. Together they make a powerful alliance, with the Emperor trying to establish longevity, and the Fool bringing in light and humor. The Emperor paired with other heavy, traditional cards, however, could indicate that you’re thinking too much about what you’ll leave behind and not enough about what you should be doing now. Too much Emperor, and you can become so rigid that if you topple over, you’ll shatter into a million pieces. RECOMMENDED MATERIALS The Chronicles of Narnia, book series by C. S. Lewis Carnegie Libraries Across America, book by Theodore Jones Jessa Crispin

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

So I’m guessing the answer is never, but would the cast of HP or even say Tom and Lily (the two smartest people) be able to find Kira?

The cast of HP? Harry Potter and friends? God no.

Harry Potter

Harry would enter seething rage when Kira murders Sirius (displayed on muggle news for the murder of dozens of people) and swear himself to revenge. He, of course, assumes Kira is British because Everything is British (TM).

He gets the team together and Hermione researches what Kira could possibly be in the library. She finds nothing, she notes to Harry that they have no guarantees that Kira is British or that Sirius was an explicit target any more so than the hundreds of thousands of others that Kira has murdered.

Harry kicks her out of the friend group and refuses to speak to her for two months.

Harry normally would blame Snape or Draco. He follows Draco around for two months uselessly, certain it must be him, but even Harry has to acknowledge the scale of this is... huge.

He blames Voldemort: Voldemort is Kira.

It fits his MO and everything: he's killing muggles! He killed Sirius! THAT BASTARD.

Harry is very upset that Dumbledore refuses to allow Harry to participate in the investigation/stopping Voldemort's evil evilness. He tries to enter Voldemort's dreams for once, to gain vital intelligence: he gets nothing.

He tries this for the entire Kira debacle.

Harry never realizes that Voldemort was not, in fact, Kira.

Dumbledore

Dumbledore also thinks Tom Riddle must be Kira. This is so diabolical, so heinous, that it must be him. This is the first of his twelve step plan to get the muggles to worship him as a God when he appears before them as Kira in a physical body.

Dumbledore hyper focuses on this and pumps Snape for information.

Snape has none, Voldemort's telling him nothing, which is indicative of nothing. Tom could be playing it close to the chest or else he's not Kira. Unclear.

Dumbledore goes about investigating in his usual manner which is pretty much the way he investigates everything: trying to get memories from very reluctant sources. He wastes a year trying to get Slughorn to give him a memory of a Christmas party from fifty years ago.

Dumbledore never realizes that Tom was not, in fact, Kira.

Your Intriguing AU

Per your ask though, we get to pull out all the stops. For some reason, we're in a detective AU in which Tom and Lily are partners hell bent on stopping Kira: even though nobody cares. I don't know how we reached this AU, anon, but it intrigues me nonetheless.

The Rules

No L, as that would be cheating and all Tom and Lily would have to do is follow his leave/infiltrate the muggle investigation.

Wizards also have no distinct advantage to muggles: they can't see shinigami either unless they touch the notebook. Otherwise they're just cheating.

Our Aurors

Tom Riddle and Lily Evans are partners in this weird noir spin off to the Harry Potter universe. Lily Evans is a muggle born woman that nobody takes seriously, Tom Riddle is presumed muggle born by society and no one takes him seriously, they always get stuck with the absolute worst jobs by the department.

Kira is not the job they're stuck with.

Lily, following muggle news, becomes very concerned very quickly. Someone is a) murdering people left and right with magic on a massive scale, b) using magic Lily can scarcely comprehend, c) flagrantly breaking the statute of secrecy on an international level.

She gets brushed aside: muggles die of heart attacks all the time, international wizards with more experience will take care of it, shut up and go back to giving out apparation misuse tickets.

It doesn't get better though. It gets much worse.

No one seems to be able to find Kira and has no idea what country he or she is even operating in. No one knows what magic he or she could possibly be using. And... the wizarding world is starting to take advantage of this.

Criminals previously too difficult or dangerous to catch? They run stories in muggle media, whamo, their good friend is now dead with no injuries to the auror corps. Good show, Kira.

Lily and Tom have a drunk conversation somewhere where they decide they must take this on themselves. Well, Lily does, Tom takes a bit of convincing as he, for one, welcomes their new ant overlords and has reached a level of cynicism that knows no bounds. But alright, two maverick, wizard cops, are going to track down Kira.

How do they do it?

I imagine they start where L presumably started: they look for patterns in the initial deaths. Doing this long enough, they can likely pinpoint Kira to Japan and conclude that, for a while, he seemed to kill outside the hours of 8 to 4. Kira is likely a student or else works with a student's schedule.

It's not much but the pair take extended leave and head to Tokyo.

There they probably resort to magical means and this... might get them pretty decent results depending. It's unclear how divination actually works, but it may be able to pick up traces of other to get them in Ryuk's vicinity or else get them Light's face.

(Again, this may be a bit of cheating on my part, but it's something that feels in line with what magic could accomplish and thus within the range of Lily and Tom's abilities).

Of course, the question is a) if this kid really is Kira b) how do they prove it? Tom argues there's no need to prove it, they give Kira the Kira treatment: whack him over the head and throw his body in the gutter.

Lily does not approve.

As for proving whether he is, well, that's what legilimency is for. Lily doesn't like doing that without a warrant, but they're on vacation and Tom only has so much leave. Tom reads Light's mind and... well... this is complicated.

Turns out Shinigami are a thing no one knew about. They really do have ant overlords who might kill them at any moment.

Lily decides she can't even and burns the notebook. Ryuk is devastated, Light now has no memories of being Kira, and finds himself sitting on a park bench with two Brits with the worst fashion taste in the world.

Lily wonders if they can or even should arrest Light when he appears to a) have no memories of being Kira b) Lily and Tom... have no warrant and no backing. Tom thinks they've done enough, he wants to go on vacation for real now.

Tom pats a confused Light on the shoulder and suggests he invest in therapy.

Three months later, Ryuk drops another notebook.

[erodedauthenticity]

"Yell all you want, pharaoh. You've been in there 54 years. You're not getting out tonight."  

History of Ahkmenrah, Cecil, and the tablet.

The Tablet and sarcophagus of Ahkmenrah arrived at the American Museum of Natural History in 1952.

It is revealed that the seasoned night guard, Cecil J. (CJ) Fredricks, joined an archeological exhibition and stumbled upon the tomb of Ahkmenrah in 1938. Following a tumble into a pit, Cecil discovered the tablet and dawned a desire to learn of it. It birthed the beginning of an obsession to understand a quoted 'curse'.

The mummified remains of Ahkmenrah and his parents were separated. The tablet was joined with the young king and shipped to Cambrige University for observation and temporary display. The mummified remains of both parents, Shepseheret and Merenkahre were taken to the British Museum. It is in Cambrige University that the tablet gifted life to everything within the confines of the university. In the very same year, 1938, After four thousand years, Ahkmenrah woke within unfamiliar surroundings. 

Needless to say, this was likely the most jarring experience. Life anew in a familiar world evolved beyond comprehension. 

It is over the span of a few years that Ahkmenrah attempts to learn the common language of this new world. In this same stretch of time, Cecil begins his research. He takes up a job at a library to further his research. After fourteen long years of one learning of modern day, the other learning of the past, the sarcophagus and tablet are transferred to the American Museum of Natural History in 1952.

After hearing of the tablet's new whereabouts, Cecil takes up a job as a night guard at age twenty-six. 1952 marks the first year in which the exhibits of the museum experience life anew, just as the mummified counterpart. 

Muffle the mummy, he scares the others. - The Tablet of Ahkmenrah

The resting place of Ahkmenrah is displayed with the tablet in the museum wing titled the Temple of Ahkmenrah. The sarcophagus is carried and set into stone casing. The heavyset slab atop is positioned to contrast fine gold, weighing the display. Cecil was allowed a firsthand look over the tablet, and in its magnificence, he became witness to its tenebrous glow at sundown. Words passed to him from long ago seem to resonate, words about a curse- The lid to the sarcophagus of Ahkmenrah stirs. Things that go bump in the night cause quite a fright.Why, this is the Mummy's Curse.

The stone casing is drawn to a close by Cecil, in a bout of unbridled fear - adrenaline seemingly encouraging strength. The two are faced with a battle. One to escape, the other to contain. Shouts resonate from within, frantic and wild.The life beyond hunched shoulders goes unnoticed. The 'others' behold a man struggling to contain a mummy.This fight lasts through the evening. Pressure is withdrawn when cries are no more. 

After the mummy is dealt with, Cecil faces the inanimate figures within the museum. The challenge is met with astonishment. A restless night is graced with research, with comprehension.

By morning, the sarcophagus is bolted shut. A set of instructions are written. 

It is rule #5. By nightfall, muffle the mummy. Push the slab atop the sarcophagus.  Muffle the Mummy. His screams scare the others. 

Release - Fifty-four years later

A new routine is readily followed. A set of instructions are adhered to. Other night guards are recruited and tasked with keeping the secret of the tablet, this curse. For fifty-four years, Ahkmenrah was given life, and he endured life trapped within the confines of his own tomb. He strikes his palms into the lid, and it rattles. He struggles until the sun rises, and he is silent in death.Fifty-four years. The tablet does far more than grant life anew to figures within the museum. It regenerates youth, it enhances strength beyond what is natural for mankind. Health is restored. It is new life.An artifact such as this cannot fall into the wrong hands, and Cecil's is the wrong kind. 

The eighty year old Cecil continues to work within the museum, expecting another guard to take his place, to take the fall for future theft. Larry Daley is chosen among several other applicants. Instructions are passed along to his hands, and the everyman is tasked with the odd job, unaware of its secret. It is when the tablet is stolen by Cecil, when Larry is locked within the Hall of Ancient Egypt, that the new night guard turns to the sarcophagus. 

With similar strength, strength beyond what is common for man, he pushes the limestone slab away. And, with similar strength, strength beyond what is common for man, Ahkmenrah propels the golden lid from his casket.

The pharaoh Ahkmenrah is set free, and it is here that he is met with the first person within the modern world.

Evidently, there was never an opportunity to speak with the living in Cambrige. Ahkmenrah is tasked with learning of what has become of his kingdom, who he is intended to rule, and the role he must adopt. After the tablet is returned, Ahkmenrah is no longer met with a sealed sarcophagus. Larry, the new night guard, closes the sarcophagus just before daylight.

The trauma will always be with him. 

Power of the tablet - Ahkmenrah as Pharaoh

Ahkmenrah is a powerful pharaoh, as he is human with strength enhanced by the tablet. He is also the most amicable figures within the museum, merely interested in learning of the world he faces today.

He is the only one (apart from his family, and apart from Kahmunrah, his murderer) that knows how to use the tablet to a greater extent.The tablet is capable of controlling exhibits, of putting others under a trance to follow every command. It can be abused. As quoted by Kahmunrah, the ability to bring life is just a 'parlor trick'. There is much more to the tablet. More than Cecil ever realized, and it is Larry, the fairer night guard who keeps this secret alongside the pharaoh.

Perhaps it is the age in which he was killed, but he maintains a youthful fascination towards life, willing to embrace life in the new world. It is not with wrath that Ahkmenrah greets Larry after shouting for help, begging for freedom from his sarcophagus. Years of darkness have not yet prompted him to give up. Every night will be new, one night will be different. He first greeted Larry who freed him with a joke to help calm him.It is still his role to behave tactfully. 

It is difficult to imagine what a young pharaoh experienced prior to the joys of new life.

Ahkmenrah rules his people fairly, and he remains good at heart, eager to experience what lies just outside of the museum doors. 

Adventure awaits. 

[mariacallous]

Fifty years ago, when racists called and wrote daily letters to ITV’s Today programme in 1968 telling the corporation “Get that nigger off our screens”, they were speaking about me, the first visibly Black TV journalist in Britain.

It resulted in me losing my job, having been in post just nine months. The official excuse at the time was, “She didn’t fit in with the programme.” But this was not what I was told when the producer showed me the complaint letters, and then the door.

It hurt. Not least because, only a few weeks prior to that, the British government had passed the Race Relations Act, making it illegal to discriminate against people in housing, education or jobs based on their race or religion. I had even attended parliament to hear the debate. My employers, Thames Television, could have told the racists they they would have been breaking the law by terminating my job. They didn’t: they sided with the racists instead.

It hurt even more 50 years later, in 2021, when I learned from research published in the Guardian that that same year, the Queen’s courtiers had banned “coloured immigrants or foreigners from serving in clerical roles in the royal household”. No wonder Thames Television felt able to stop me contaminating their black-and-white TV screens. If the Queen did it, why not them?

Yes, TV was black and white then, which is probably why Eric Anthony Abrahams, a Jamaican journalist at the BBC a few years before I got my job, escaped the same fate as me. His paler skin had not appeared dark enough on TV screens to receive the same racism that mine inspired. Skin tone mattered. It always has.

There is a startling illustration in the Jamaican National Library showing three slave women washing clothes in a river. One is a beautiful, near-white woman with Caucasian facial features. The fact that she is a slave is clear because of the work all three women are doing. Those light-coloured “mulatto” and “quadroon” slaves were born from the unions of Caribbean slave owners, who were all white men, with the African women they had enslaved. This miscegenation produced many children living with the disadvantage of their “one drop” of African blood. Still, some slave owners were fond of their mixed-race children, paying for the manumission of their mothers, sending them to be educated in Britain and leaving them property, money and slaves in their wills.

There is no escape from the negative association of having that “one drop”, no matter how light-skinned the person is, as Meghan Markle has discovered. The word black with a “b” is first associated with the spectrum colour, but also with black magic, blackmail, blackboard, evil, darkness, despair. It is not just the negative connotations of the word black, but how confusing it is when used to describe the many hues of the African race – from milk chocolate to ebony. For this reason, calling Black people Black with a “B” needs to become universally adopted by the print media, for clarity and understanding when a person’s race is referred to.

Looking now from Jamaica, where I live, I know that Britain – and Black Britain – is a different place, but still I find it hard to be too optimistic. The attitudes of racism seem embedded, with violations by the police of basic human rights. All signs of a rush to Black Lives Matter-style action after George Floyd’s death have disappeared. The Barbara Blake-Hannah Press Gazette award, which was created for up-and-coming Black and minority ethnic journalists in the wake of the BLM protests in 2020 and named after me, was cancelled after just two years. The excuse the awards organisers gave was that they wanted to “ensure a diverse range of people are recognised across the awards, not focused on one category”. The “one category” being Black journalists. It’s dispiriting, but all I can do is fight on.

As Emperor Haile Selassie said: “Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited … until the colour of man’s skin is of no more significance than the colour of his eyes … the dream of lasting peace, world citizenship and the rule of international morality will remain but a fleeting illusion to be pursued, but never

[socialitesleuth]

Stressed is not a word that Penelope's vocabulary is overly familiar with. She's the epitome of the quaint and oft-overused British saying of Keep Calm and Carry On. Years of handling situations that were less than ideal meant that Penelope had an astute ability to remain unfazed by sudden predicaments.

Such as this one.

Calm and collected, her mind is already attempting to solve a compendium of possible conundrums, solutions to various problems that could occur should the storm become anymore worrisome.

She's unflinching as the manor begins to take a battering from the gale, nonplussed when the hears a scream echo from the entryway down the hall.

Utterly composed. After all, panicking never helped anyone resolve anything.

"Flying gazebos, you say?" Penelope can't let that comment slip by.

As she leaves her position by the window, her lips curve into an amused little grin. She directs it at the little figure hovering in the the centre of her faux cosmetic compact. "Don't be saying things like that around our dear friend Fischler. I'm sure he'd find the concept absolutely splendid!"

She, like John, did not. The imagery of out-of-control tents soaring haphazardly through the skies is enough to have her hurrying along the hallway, towards the entrance.

The corridor acts like a wind tunnel. The closer she gets to the open entrance, the stronger the draught is. Penelope fights against the gusts, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the whistling gale.

"I believe this particular event was to have upwards of fifty in attendance. It's not one of my biggest events of the year, I'm pleased to report, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about anyone who might still be travelling getting caught up in this storm."

Howling, strong breezes rattle through the open doorway. Parker is already there, standing stalwart with a white knuckle grip on the cast-iron handles. He's ushering in the guests, offering up a hand to the slightly older couple who are straggling behind the rest. To describe the group as windswept would be an understatement; even their clothes are lopsided from their brief tussle with the storm.

A quick headcount has them at fifteen and, without hesitation, Penelope guides them all through to one of the manor's many libraries. Normally this is one that remains closed to the public. Old texts and unique editions are housed in there, usually off-limits to any possible prying eyes, but Penelope makes an exception to the rules.

Out in the corridor, the thump of the large outer doors being closed reverberates through to them and Parker appears moments later.

"Cor, blimey!" He says. "Ain't seen a storm this bad for donkey's years. Everyone h'alright?"

He attends to the guests, assessing and checking on each and every one in turn.

Leaving them in Parker's capable hands, Penelope takes a seat on an Ottoman on the other side of the library. Her shoulders are slightly hunched but she still sounds as composed as she was when she first picked up John's call.

"Worry not, we've taken shelter in the West Wing. No-one appears injured, just a little shaken up. Understandable, given the circumstances."

The wind's howls sound more like roars in the rafters above. Rain continues to pelt against the windows, turning the visibility to effectively zero. If the grey clouds had sunk down to ground level, no-one inside the manor would have known; it all looked grey and opaque outside now.

A sudden crash occurs from somewhere outside and a few of the guests jump out of their skin. Even Parker seems to wince at the sound.

"Any idea how long this storm is going to last, John?"

Garden Party Gale [RP]

@socialitesleuth:

Penelope had since risen from her armchair and repositioned herself by the window, as if her taking a proper look herself would change matters. Lips purse in consideration. Abandon plans...? But so much effort had already gone into the event. It seemed unfair to be beaten by a little rain, but Penelope knew when to listen. Especially when it was John, and especially when he sounded so concerned. She flicks a strand of blonde from her face, noting with her own eyes the car that has now arrived. "I suppose we could bring the party indoors, though I'm not sure how well Parker will take it. He's spent the last couple of days organising and setting it up. Still, it is better to be safe than sorry." After all, Creighton-Wards never quit, unless they absolutely had to, and this situation most definitely fell under the banner of what was an acceptable defeat. "Parker!" She calls out briefly over her shoulder, and as far away from the communicator to avoid possibly defeaning her friend, before replying directly to John again. "It was a good few years ago. I believe they signed us off as fine, but... Well, Parker has been expressing concern over the East Wing these last few months. He wanted to bring some surveyors in, but I'm afraid we haven't had the chance. Work has kept us rather... tied up, on occasion." As nice as it had been to visit Southern France last month, Penelope hadn't been appreciative of the criminal she and Parker had been tracking down. The lack of manners was astonishing, to say the least. Realising this probably wouldn't help John in feeling less worried, Penelope offers a quick, soft, reassuring smile in an attempt to lessen his concern. "We'll make sure we bunker down somewhere safe, John."

A strong gust of wind buffets the wall outside, rattling the window panes violently in their frames. It must be loud enough for John to hear over the comm because his eyes flick to the side, ginger brows furrowing. The sky outside the window is black with thick, heavy storm clouds. The darkness hangs threateningly over the manor - the air seems just about ready to burst.

"You’ll have to pass my apologies on to Parker.” John says, which is rather charming considering he has no control over the weather. “I'm not talking just a little British rain, Penelope. Upwards of sixty three miles per hour," John shakes his head, clearly trying to convey the severity of her situation, “we're looking at flying gazebos.” And the straight face the man keeps, saying things like that, is genuinely impressive. “Let him know to hurry. I’d hate for anyone to get caught out there… and speaking of, you better get your guests inside. How many people were on your invite list this time anyway?”

He thinks he could probably call anyone else in transit and warn them to return home or, if the rain and wind is about to get as bad as his meteorological predictions suggest, to take shelter. John turns to the side and swipes the weather map, with its rolling red of oncoming inclement weather, up to the top of his periphery and expands his palms to open a new window as another thought hits him.

“And keep away from that East Wing.” He’s pulled up a perhaps-not-entirely-legal three dimensional satellite map of her estate, and is busy examining the building.

“Eos, could you run a structural analysis on these segments of the manor for me?” He earmarks something Penny can't see with a few quick, short taps.

There’s a chirpy little FAB John, before the information begins to cascade into his hands. 

On the ground, the first few drops of rain fall, bursting against Penny's antique glass windows like tiny, wet grenades. It's going to be, what they call in England, a bloody great storm.