#gauloises blondes

[emmieexplores2]

[grandboute]

#melina #cervoise #bibracte #blonde #miel #bio #organic #gauloise #jaune #celte #montBeuvray #morvan #gaulois #eduens #biere #malt #brasserie #houblon #bier #brasseur #instabeer #beer #jusDeHoublon #brewery #frenchBeer #locale #artisanale #craftbeer #beerstagram

[de-gueules-au-lion-d-or]

“Puisqu'il faut que quelqu'un se dévoue… quitte à me faire quelques nouveaux amis… je vais me répéter : il n'y a pas eu dans toute l'Europe occupée, de citoyens plus enclins au « balançage » que les französichs. Délateurs, anonymographes, faisant la queue dès potron-minet aux guichets des Kommandantur, dénonçant les tapeurs de faux tiquets, les fraudeurs d'étoiles jaunes ou tout simplement le voisin de palier qui venait de recevoir du jambon d'Auvergne, ou la petite blonde d'en face qui « ne voulait rien savoir ». Il paraît qu'à la fin, les fritz ne décachetaient même plus enveloppes. Les services étaient saturés.

Tout ça n'est pas bien grave. Des remarques, c'est tout. Je ne rêgle pas de comptes. J'en veux à personne. Je pardonne tout. Pour que tout soit bien net, j'ajouterais même ceci : je préfère les lâches aux héros. Les premiers sont fragiles, friables, inquiêts, en final assez démunis. Les seconds me font franchement peur. Ils ont presque toujours un pistolet chargé dans la tête, un meurtre qui mijote au bain-marie quelque part dans leur cerveau plein de rêves d'exploits.

Le héros d'alors était ce genre de type qui vous flinguait un soldat allemand dans le métro. Bravo, bravo ! Mais le lendemain une affiche rouge informait la population que cinquante hotages avaient été fusillés contre le mur de la Santé. Vous auriez pu être un de ces otages. Pensez-y avant d'applaudir. On peut échapper aux mouchards, beaucoup plus rarement aux héros. Personnellement, je me souviens d'avoir toujours fait très gaffe aux uns comme aux autres. Pas causant. Au bistrot, par exemple, ou dans la queue devant l'épicier, lorsqu'un de mes bouillants compatriotes exhaltait les succès militaires de la Wermarcht, je ne me serais jamais avisé de le contredire, approuvant au contraire quitte à « en remettre ». Les lieux publics étaient pleins, comme ça, de provocateurs qui passaient par là, vous glissaient un petit mot, guettaient la réponse et vous envoyaient au poteau. Beaucoup sont morts, des gens bien innocents d'avoir répondu étourdiment à leur concierge. La Résistance aurait-elle fait plus de mal que de bien ? Question à ne pas poser même trente-cinq ans après. Mais j'ai toujours eu un sens inné de ce qu'il ne faut pas écrire. Ca dérange les « paranoïaques ».

Des années plus tard, on peut toujours raconter qu'on a abrité des parachutistes anglais, zigouillé des feldwebel, niqué des « souris grises », rendu Himler maboul à force de malice. Mais lorsqu'on est dans la mouise, il y va un peu différemment. Et nous y étions ! Pour subsister, nous autres (je parle des enfants du quartier ) n'ayant pas le privilège d'opérer dans le marché noir, d'exporter des métaux non ferreux, ni de construire le mur de l'Atlantique, ni de diner chez les Abetz, on volait des vélos. Combien ? J'ai oublié. Des cycles pas toujours pimpants qu'on échangeait chez les commerçants « honnêtes » contre de la margarine, quelques litres de pinard trafiqué, ou mieux encore, de ces boissons bizarres, qui s'appelaient des trucs comme « Kina roc », des elixirs qui vous dégringolaient tout droit dans les godasses, parfois aussi contre des Gauloises piquées par des types qui travaillaient à la Régie. Tout le monde volait un petit peu. Fallait bien.”

Michel Audiard, Paris-Match n° 1525, 18 août 1975.

[parfumieren]

L'Air de Rien (Miller Harris)

L'Air de Rien wears a embroidered sheepskin Afghan coat with long, curly blonde fleece festooning the collar and cuffs. Stained from long travels, softened by hard wear, it reeks of cigarette smoke, incense, patchouli oil, lanolin, and the accumulated body odors of she who has worn it -- largely without the benefit of soap and water-- for six weeks straight.

And what an eventful six weeks it's been! Tangiers, Marrakech, the Atlas Mountains, fueled by hashish and mint tea from morning to night... Remember the souk in Fes, spices by the sackful lined up on the paving stones? Remember sleeping on the beach at Essaouira, to be awakened at dawn by children selling fresh dates wrapped in palm leaves? Then there was that midnight camel ride under a sickle moon... was that still Morocco? Or Algiers? (Or Paris; they have camels and moons in Paris, don't they? All that bourbon can make a girl forget things...)

Anyway, Paris: pastis and cigarettes on the balcony of Jagger's suite at the Hôtel de Crillon. He was in rare form that night-- and L'Air de Rien's got the bruises to prove it. This Navajo silver-and-turquoise bracelet? Mick gave it to her, naturally... for services rendered. (But the black leather bullwhip? Well... it wasn't exactly given so much as taken; a souvenir, you understand....)

Other souvenirs housed in the coat's infernal pockets: ticket stubs, phone numbers, unpaid traffic citations, Gauloises Bleues, pot seeds, licorice cough lozenges, tear-stained love letters, soiled panties, stolen hotel room keys, a Barretta (loaded), a hash pipe (empty-- je suis désolée!), and silk-tasseled mala beads worn shiny by repeated caresses between perfumed fingers...

She shows up on your doorstep at two a.m., bleary-eyed and laughing, pushing her way past you without further invitation. You'll let me crash here, won't you, love? Ravenous from weeks on the road, she empties out your refrigerator for an impromptu feast-- and leaves a mountain of dirty dishes in your kitchen sink. She seems to smoke just to show off her French inhale, and to wear clothes just to theatrically remove them while you watch. When she's gone, your sofa cushions smell of her for weeks-- the rich and musky scent of an outlaw life, replete with unbrushed teeth, unwashed hair, and the wood smoke of a thousand bonfires.

It could be as people say-- L'Air de Rien is Muscs Koublaï Khän's spoiled little sister, coasting around the world on the last fumes of a much-abused trust fund. But you don't believe everything you hear, do you? Better to take the word of her spiritual mentor, Edna St. Vincent Millay: L'Air de Rien is one of those "gypsy souls following false paths in search of camping grounds that cannot be on earth, thirsting after poisoned springs, singers of forbidden songs, insatiable..."

Scent Elements: Oakmoss, neroli, musk, amber, vanilla

[mityenka]

jean-pierre léaud is timothée chalamet for people whose marlboro reds are gauloises blondes

[lonesomemao]

PERSONNE AU BOUT DU FIL

Une belle Emmeline

Blonde Gauloise Falbala

Dans ma résidence

Il y a une dizaine d'années

Se rappelle à moi

OTAN par Facebook

Jeudi 24 octobre 2024

[ditesdonc]

Les étés à Vézeronce 1962-1963

Texte de Jean-Claude Long

Dans les précédents numéros, Jean-Claude Long avait partagé ses souvenirs de vacances, enfant, à Curtin puis au Cholard. Nous voici déjà au 3ème et dernier volet.

Pour leurs vacances, les Lyonnais quittèrent le Cholard et son acacia. Ils n’étaient pas devenus amis des propriétaires, comme à Curtin. A Vézeronce, nous louons chez les Desvignes ; monsieur Desvignes est probablement le frère du Desvignes du Cholard. Il a « la main bien épaisse », comme dans une chanson de William Sheller découverte quarante ans après. Bleu de travail, ou salopette, un béret même l’été. Madame Desvignes est brune, vive, méridionale sans doute, peut-être méditerranéenne – en fait pas du tout, elle est du Nord Isère. Elle est tri-tri, dit ma mère. Le fils ainé, Gérard, est brun, frisé ; ma sœur et sa copine Renée le surnomment « caniche ». Sa sœur Joëlle a mon âge ; nous jouons à la bataille, au mistigri, au menteur, au cinq-mille à l’Autoroute. Nous dansons le twist et le madison, parfois dehors. J’ai des photos, j’y suis ridicule, Joëlle jamais.

Parfois se joint à nous Josyane Rochet, d’une ferme voisine. Un jour Josyane, tombée dans une flaque de boue, doit enlever sa chemise, et se trouve gênée qu’on voie ses épaules nues. Je suis troublé, non de voir ses épaules, mais qu’elle soit gênée. C’est subtil, l’érotisme, même à onze ans.

Je joue aussi avec Marie-France, petite fille gardée par les Orélu. Le monsieur est électricien sur voitures et « roule comme un fou » dans une DS 19 jaune. Marie France porte des culottes Petit Bateau, ou avec un Mickey imprimé, trop grandes. Elle a des taches de rousseur en haut de ses cuisses blanches. Comment le sais-je ? Il y eut quelques coquineries, pas trop poussées rassurez-vous, mes premiers émois avec une fille. Bon, il y a prescription et j’avais onze ans ; elle n’avait pas l’air de s’en plaindre et revenait jouer régulièrement, mais c’est toujours ce que disent les hommes. Marie-France, si tu me lis, je ne t’ai pas oubliée. Qu’es-tu devenue ? Pourquoi étais-tu en pension chez les Orélu ?

Curtin est lié à l’école maternelle, Le Cholard à l’école primaire, Vézeronce au lycée ; on ne dit pas collège. L’enfant est maintenant ce qu’on appellerait aujourd’hui un « pré-adolescent », un peu balourd, un peu cul-cul. L’heure est au yéyé, à Salut les copains, et aux 45 tours qu’on écoute sur le Teppaz de ma sœur. L’amour de la campagne est toujours là, mais l’idée principale est d’aller le plus vite possible en vélo à Curtin, en passant « sous-verchères ». Le tunnel d’arbres touffus fait un peu peur, il faut passer à toute vitesse, en veillant à bien écrabouiller les limaces et faire éclabousser les bouses fraiches.

Ma mère s’est débrouillée pour me trouver un piano, dans une espèce de manoir entouré d’un parc, mais peut-être n’est-ce qu’une grande maison avec un jardin. On fait sonner une grosse cloche en tirant une cordelette, et une bonne vient nous ouvrir. La grand-mère vient m’écouter dans le salon, s’installe près de la baie vitrée et dit : « allez y mon petit, faites comme si je n’étais pas là ». Je suis étonné qu’elle me voussoie. Son morceau préféré est « les flots du Danube », suivi de près par « Le Marché persan ». Tiens, elle est riche et a les mêmes goûts que mon père ? (Bourdieu a tort, note du narrateur) ; un des fils de cette famille, précurseur des idées de mai 68, s’est installé comme artiste peintre sur les hauteurs boisées et mystérieuses du Supet. Nous allons le voir car ma tante veut acheter un tableau. Echec ; « mais enfin, ça ne ressemble à rien », dit-elle au retour.

Mais la grande affaire de Vézeronce, c’est « un Amour de ma sœur ». Jean-Paul Orélu, chacun le trouve beau, il sent le chaud et la cigarette, chevauche sa petite moto torse nu, épaules musclées, sans casque, cheveux châtain clair presque blonds au vent, gauloise aux lèvres. Il ressemble à Gérard Philippe et fait penser à James Dean dans ses attitudes. Double mythe, la séduction est inévitable ; ma sœur est amoureuse, ils engagent la relation et cela finira mal.

« Je vous avais bien dit qu’ils étaient trop jeunes » dit madame Teillon à ma mère.

Je voudrais avoir des nouvelles de

Joëlle Desvignes

Josyane Rochet

Marie-France

Du peintre. Ma tante a-t-elle raté l’occasion de faire fortune ?

Composition VIII, Vassily Kandinsky, 1923

[luckyantorsty-blog]

Nenad Zujic for Gauloises Blondes

[kheelan]

[writerwhowritesao3]

I wanna run a train on him. Like I want to tie him to railroad tracks, set up a lawn chair, and wait for the 4:00 freight to come.

I wanna rearrange Neil Hargroves guts in the not sexy kind of way 🤪

[my1001beers]

1050. La Gauloise Blonde. Brasserie du Bocq. 01/08/20.

Page 412 on the official list

ABV 6.3%

7.5/10

Beer of Belgium

A purchase off the internet to give me chance to sample yet another beer on the list. Drunk in the evening in the comfort of home with a meal cooked by the wonderful Mrs H.

The book says: Hazy yellow gold with a loose white head and a toffee vanilla aroma with some hops and yeasty esters, this has a clean but full citric, banaana-tinged palate with restrained leafy hops leading to more citrus and mild hops in a pleasantly rounded finish.

They say:  A powerful beer structure and a lovely strength. The bubble is fine and soft . The palate is smooth, round and fruity (pear, orange, blond tobacco, milk chocolate). In the end palate, a tangy side and a little bitterness is clearer, giving it balance with its freshness.

I say:  A very light haze to the golden pour with a small white head. The aroma was malty, with hints of bananas and yeast. The taste was malty, again with some banana and other yeasty notes. There was more though, some green herbs and a touch of fruitiness. Good for a continental lager.

www: http://bocq.be/en/

[grandboute]

#cervoise #bibracte #melina #blonde #miel #jaune #gauloise #bio #biologique #organic #brasseursDuSornin #montBeuvray #bourgogne #morvan #eduens #celtes #biere #malt #houblon #bier #brasseur #instabeer #beer #jusDeHoublon #frenchBeer #locale #artisanale #craftbeer #beerstagram https://www.instagram.com/p/ChKpjBXq9Yd/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[ocw-archive]

Rolling Stone, July 2005

Wedding Crashers Owen & Vince are Hollywood's reigning pranksters and most eligible bachelors By ERIK HEDEGAARD At first, it's a little disconcerting hanging out with Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn at Dodger Stadium, in Los Angeles, watching a ballgame. Given what you know about them from their movies, you expect a few things. You expect Owen to act lazy, goofy and stoned-out, and Vince to be tossing off raised- eyebrow wisecracks, and girls to be gathered around, hoping for a ride home. Instead, after ordering two hot dogs, two bottles of water, two Cokes, nachos and a bag of peanuts, they turn to each other and start riffing in a Gauloise-smoking, grad-student kind of way, not a joke in sight. "What exactly does the word 'circa' mean, do you think?" Vince says to Owen, apropos of nothing, really. "It means 'around,' " Owen says to Vince.

"Right. But what exactly does it mean?" "It's just a bullshit kind of thing to say to sound kind of smart. 'Presupposes' is another." " 'Presupposes.' " "And 'Cite your sources.' " " 'Cite your sources.' " Then Vince offers up an example of his own. " 'Parenthetically speaking.' " " Oh, yeah," says Owen, savoring the phrase. "That's a good one." Briefly, both are silent. But then, suddenly, Vince erupts with another random query: "Who was the president of the Confederacy?" Owen: "Jefferson Davis. Who wouldn't know that?" This is all very well and good, but it isn't exactly what you want to hear from these two, especially since they've got a movie coming out called Wedding Crashers, about a pair of pickup artists who specialize in hooking up at weddings. Skip the history lesson. Let's talk chicks. But that would be so crass, so expected. So, the conversation veers off in any number of different directions. They both firmly deny that they, along with Ben Stiller, Jack Black, Will Ferrell and Owen's actor-brother Luke, are part of some highly organized, tightknit, power-consolidating, new- order comedy mafia, as recently postulated by the thinking heads at the New York Times. Getting back to the game, they both say that as kids they stunk at baseball. "I just wasn't any good," Owen says, looking a bit down. "I'm afraid of the ball." Licking nacho goo off his fingers, Vince says, "On my team, they called me Eagle Eye. At first, I was excited, like, 'Hey, Dad, they love my eye!' And then, when I'm at bat, they tell me, 'Come on, Eagle Eye. A walk's as good as a hit.' And then I sort of figure it out: 'Hey, wait a minute. They're not cheering me on to swing but to not swing!' It wasn't exactly flattering." Owen is about to add more of his two cents when out of the blue a dolled-up, exceedingly top-heavy brunette makes an appearance a few rows away. All talk of childhood traumas comes to an end. Vince checks her out. "There'll be no babies starving on her shift!" he says. Owen grins. And suddenly all is right with the world again. Owen Wilson is most often seen around L.A. wearing jeans and a T-shirt, chewing peppermint Altoids gum, maybe sitting on the lap of some Playboy Bunny or other, his blunted, twice-broken nose not holding him back any, flopsy- mopsy blond hair looking beach-boy-slacker perfect. On the Internet, Wilson watchers refer to him as "the Butterscotch Stallion," for the color of his hair and his presumed wild, wild ways. It's well known but bears repeating: He's a writer as well as an actor, and with senior-year University of Texas roommate Wes Anderson has penned three great movies, Bottle Rocket, Rushmore and the Oscar-nominated Royal Tenenbaums, all of them featuring the roundabout loopy dialogue that suits him so well when he speaks it. His snappy flapping lip single-handedly saved Armageddon from being totally unwatchable, and he's not a bad flyboy-hero-under-pressure, either (Behind Enemy Lines). Vince Vaughn is staggeringly tall and pretty beefy, with a sometimes puffy-looking face and an odd penchant for wearing fatherly wingtip shoes. Whereas Wilson's laugh is honk-honk-honk, Vaughn's can be a nearly girlish squeal. His first major movie role, playing fast-talking semi- loutish Trent in 1996's Swingers, made him an instant star, though in the movies that followed (way-serious acting roles in The Locusts, the dreadful Gus Van Sant remake of Psycho, The Cell, etc.) he lost his way, only to find it again starting in 2003, in comedies like Old School and then DodgeBall: A True Underdog Story. Nowadays he's most often seen playing a softer, mellower version of his old Swingers self, a welcome sight. In the past, Wilson has dated Sheryl Crow and, most recently, Argentine burlesque dancer Carolina Cerisola. Vaughn once dated Ashley Judd, Joey Lauren Adams and Janeane Garofalo. At the moment, however, neither is seeing anybody. They're single, out there, on the loose, a couple of ladies' men who are pleased to be free and, of course, free to be pleased, just like their characters in

Wedding Crashers. On the lush green grounds of the Getty Museum, in Los Angeles, Wilson is sitting in the shade, at a table, munching away on a Rice Krispie Treat, just hanging out and talking about some of his preferences in women. He is, he says, primarily an ass man. "It seems to me if a girl has a good ass, she has a good body," he's saying, "but I'd almost just as soon not have sex if you're going to have to wear one of those, even though it's hard to find the moral high ground when making that argument to a girl. Anyway, there are other ways." As it turns out, this overall general attitude of his recently made the news, in a half-blind item in the New York Post, as follows: "Which blond stud, nicknamed the 'Butterscotch Stallion,' has a perverse sexual bent? He recently picked up a girl at a wedding [!], and the two went back to his hotel room. When the woman asked if he had a condom, the actor replied, 'I don't want to have sex with you, but I do want to do something else' -- and proceeded to lick her buttocks for 'over two hours.' " OK, so Wilson's real interest in butts is allegedly as objects to be licked. It's nothing to be ashamed of, really, and Wilson probably isn't, nor is he likely to be upset by his fling's loose talk. It comes with the territory, and he's got a sunny attitude about such things. "It's like, 'Who cares?' " he says. "I play it as it lays. OK, so I may not be the greatest lover in the world. Well, let's make that angle work. There's lots of different paths to the waterfall. You don't have to be Don Juan. And wasn't it Gloria Steinem who said that women have to be responsible for their own orgasms? Well, I take her at her word. I'll do my best, OK, but at a certain point you've got to, like, you know...."

[itsjustacigarrette]

itsjustacigarette

[justthehiddleswrites]

Bah Hiddleston | Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Tamra Harmon) | Chapter 3 | Not What I Expected

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Tamra Harmon)

Summary:  Tamra Harmon has no mind to mess with Christmas. All that talk about Christmas magic and the joy of the holidays is just a bunch of mumbo jumbo. But will a chance encounter with perennial Christmas lover Tom Hiddleston change all that?

This chapter:   Luke is not pleased with Tom’s scheme but Tom is relentless in his pursuit to find Tamra’s Christmas spirit. Perhaps a bit of Christmas shopping will do the trick.

Warnings for story: smut, oral sex, implied smut, vaginal sex, light angst

-

“What on earth do you need to tell me at 10 at night two weeks before Christmas?” Luke’s voice boomed through the phone as Tom walked up the stairs to his home.

“Listen Luke, I thought I should be the first to tell you… for once,” Tom muttered those last words.

“Tell me what, Tom.” Luke spat back.

“Over the next few days you might see pictures of me with a mystery blonde woman. Nothing is going on between us. We are just friends.” Tom blurted out before he realized what he had said.

Silence. “Luke?” Tom asked.

“Sorry, mate. I’m marking down the date as the STUPIDEST FUCKING THING EVER!!”

Tom held the phone away from his ear. “Did you really need to shout, Luke?!” Tom replied, anger growing. “For once, I call you ahead of time to tell you about some upcoming potential problem and I am rewarded with you bellowing in my ear. Now I appreciate why they say it’s better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.”

“I might have overreacted.”

“Might?!”

“I overreacted. Apologies. Now pray tell why you are hanging around with a mystery blonde woman?”

“None of your business.” Tom snapped as he flicked the light on in his bedroom, Bobby nipping at his heels.

“In your fucking dreams, Thomas!” Tom overheard a loud thud in the background.

“How’s your hand?”

“Hurts.”

“Next time don’t bang it against the counter. Now if you can keep calm, I will explain that it is none of your business because there is not nothing to manage. She is a friend in town for the next two weeks and she is keeping me company through the holidays.”

“When do I get to meet her?”

“If everything goes to plan, never. Luke, trust me. I got this under control.”

Luke sighed heavy into the phone. “The last time I trusted you, I didn’t sleep for three days.”

“I’m not living that down, am I?”

“Not in the foreseeable future.” Luke grunted. “Okay, Tom, I won’t push you for information for now. But if things get crazy, you will force my hand.”

“Fair enough. You are a good friend and a great publicist.”

“I won’t argue with you on that point. Goodnight Tom.”

“Night Luke.”

Tom hung up the phone and changed into pajamas before sliding underneath the blankets of his inviting bed. But sleep did not come. His mind raced at the possibilities for tomorrow. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and pulled up the web browser. Before long, he found himself engrossed in the website for the British Museum.

“I really need to get out more.” he muttered to himself as he scrolled the site.

“Oh, this is perfect!” he exclaimed as something came across the screen. He tapped the screen a few times to purchase tickets before setting the phone back down. He drifted off to sleep with a smug smile on his face.

-

Tamra awoke the next morning to a loud pounding. At first, she thought she was dreaming, but the pounding became more insistent and more frantic. She popped open one eye to view light streaming through the window next to the bed.

“Go away!” Tamara yelled at the unknown knocker as she rose to answer the door, wrapping a robe around her frame.

“What do you—” Tamra groaned as she opened the door. Tom bursted through running hard into her shoulder.

“I have been ringing you for an hour! I almost called the police! Did you not hear your phone?”

Tamra rubbed her shoulder, still sore from the first encounter with Tom.

“Are you made from marble? That hurts.” Tom gave a withering glance towards her. Tamra rolled her eyes. “Sorry! Heard of jet lag?”

“You worried me. Now get dressed so we can get breakfast.”

“Now?”

“No, tomorrow. Yes now! We are burning daylight as we speak.”

“Oh god.” Tamra groaned as she turned away from Tom still standing in her kitchen.

“Oh god what? What have I done now to earn a Tamra Harmon groan?”

“It’s… you’re a morning person aren’t you?” she rifled through the drawers to find clothes for the day.

“You say that like being a morning person a bad thing.”

“It is. I’m going to take a shower.”

Tom moved as if to follow her before stopping in his tracks when she shot daggers at him.

“I’m joking. I am the consummate gentleman. Lighten up.”

“I’ll lighten up once I get coffee.” Tamra yelled as she disappeared into the bathroom.

“That can be arranged.” Tom whispered to himself as he surveyed the small flat.

The whole place was small but well appointed. A small kitchen and living area with the bed tucked into one corner. Tom settled onto the small couch as he waited for Tamra to finish getting ready. He spied a well worn folded piece of paper on a nearby table. He glanced to check if Tamra was ready yet and then rose to pick it up.

“What are you doing?” Tamra’s voice rang out as Tom unfolded the sheet of paper.

“Looking at your…” Tom turned his head to the side to read the paper as he righted it. “… itinerary. My, you have planned things out haven’t you?”

“Give that back!” Tamra snapped as she moved to rip the paper from Tom’s hand but he moved too quick, holding the paper high above his head. Tamra took two jumps before retrieving the paper. She folded the paper back up before tucking the whole thing into her wallet.

“Now what is the plan today?” Tamra asked as she grabbed her coat, impatient to get Tom out of her flat.

“We can discuss that over breakfast because I promised you coffee. I found a place down the road that serves the best French pastries.”

“Color me intrigued. Lead the way, tour guide.” Tamra opened the door and Tom stepped through.

They took the short walk to La Gauloise and Tom held the door for Tamra. The small cafe smelled of warm bread and coffee. Tamra took a deep breath. Tom looked over and smiled at the sight of her taking in the smells, eyes closed.

“Shall we?” Tamra nodded. Tom ordered two coffees and two pain au chocolats. The cashier turned to fixed the coffee.

“Pain chocolate?” Tamra wrinkled her nose.

“Pain au chocolat.” Tom repeated with a French flair. “It’s a croissant with chocolate in the middle.”

Tamra grabbed the bag of pastries while Tom sat a nearby table. “Do you eat any meals without chocolate in them?”

“Usually yes, but it is the holidays. I like to indulge.” he raised his hands.

“Fair enough.” Tamra took a bite with the pastry shattering against her face. “So we should go to Victoria and Albert—”

“I already made the plans for the day.” Tom fished an envelope from his jacket. “Here.”

Tamra opened the envelope to find a printout for tickets to a lecture at the British Museum. “You bought tickets to a lecture?”

“I did.”

“But the lecture isn’t until 5:30.”

Tom leaned over to glance and what he already knew. “So it is. I guess we will need to do something else to fill the day.” Tom’s pulled into a smug expression.

“That’s not part of our deal.” Tom held up a finger to shush her.

“Our deal is that you get to go to one museum a day and I get to show you the wonders of Christmas.”

“But…”

“No buts, I have fulfilled by part of the bargain. Now…” Tom leaned in close to Tamra. “How do you feel about Christmas shopping?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

-

“When you said Christmas shopping, I did not expect this.” Tamra yelled after Tom down the aisle.

Tom popped his head around as he jogged back. “Did you expect Harrod’s? Personal shoppers? Glitz and glamour?”

“Kind of.”

Tom moved in close to whisper in her ear. “I’m not that kind of celebrity.” And he took off down another aisle.

“But a bookstore?”

“Foyle’s is perfect. Books are the perfect present.”

“For a nerd.”

“Are you insulting my people?” Tom said in mock hurt.

“Not at all. I am your people.” She said with a smile.

“Excellent. Now help me find a book suitable for my younger sister?”

Tamra laughed before taking off towards the fiction section. The two of them spent the better part of the morning roaming the store, picking out books as both presents and a few for themselves. Tom insisted on paying for everything and even arranged for the store hold the purchases until tomorrow when someone would pick them up. While they shopped, a light dusting of snow collected on the ground and a brisk wind blew as they stepped outside. Tamra pulled her jacket tight around her but it did little to keep the wind from chilling her bones.

“We must do something about your jacket.” Tom commented as he buttoned his own wool coat up.

“I’m fine.”

“Your teeth are chattering. You’re not fine. Just let me help you.”

Tom grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her inside a clothing store. He didn’t let go until they stood in front of a confused sales associate.

“She needs a warm coat for the inclement weather. Preferably wool.”

The sales associate looked Tamra up and down. She raised an eyebrow at Tamra’s thin jacket.

“I’m from Florida.” Tamra offered.

“I see.” the sale associate replied, a smile growing across her face. “We have the thing.” She led Tamra off to a far wall by the arm, while Tom chuckled from behind.

By the time Tom reached the two women, Tamra wore a grey wool pea coat, very similar to Tom’s.

“And you can match your boyfriend.” the sales associate said, out of earshot from Tom.

“Not my boyfriend.” Tamra hissed.

“Could have fooled me.”

“How are the two of you getting along?” Tom popped in. Tamra jumped. “You look smashing.”

“Thanks. I will wear it out of the store.”

The associate snipped the tag and Tom again insisted on paying.

“I can pay my own way, Tom.”

“I respect your wishes, but I want to pay. Consider it my gentlemanly duty.”

Tamra rolled her eyes.

“Let him pay, darling.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Tom finished the transaction, and they headed out of the store. The snow fell more steady as they stepped back out.

“Warmer?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tom’s stomach growled. “We skipped lunch.”

Tamra’s stomach growled in response. “We did.”

“Let’s walk until we find a place to eat.”

Tamra nodded in agreement. As they walked, they passed by the Donmar Warehouse. Tom tugged on Tamra’s sleeve.

“That’s the Donmar Warehouse. I played Coriolanus there.”

Tamra noticed how Tom’s eyes twinkled as he talked about his time performing. Tamra looked at him in wonder.

“You really love Shakespeare.”

“I feel the most alive when I perform the Bard’s work.” Tom responded. He grabbed her hand for a moment and squeezed. “But right now, I may not go on living if we don’t get sustenance soon.”

“Agreed.”

They found a restaurant and sat down for a bite to eat. They continued to talk about work as they ate. Tom asked about Tamra’s job at the museum.

“I love being a curator!” she exclaimed. “Putting the exhibits together and imparting all the knowledge to our visitors. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

Tom leaned onto his elbows. Not once since he met her, Tamra never spoke with such passion as she did about her job. Tom found himself hanging on her words.

“I can tell you care about your work. It is rare to come across that sort dedication and passion these days.”

Tamra blushed. “Thank you, you’re making me blush. You seemed to be passionate as well. While I don’t share your enthusiasm for Christmas, I appreciate your passion for your work and life. More people could do with a healthy dose of passion.”

“Now it’s my turn to blush.”

They finished their meal and headed off to the British Museum. The lecture was titled “A Tudor Christmas”. Not a particularly interesting topic for Tom but he figured Tamra would appreciate the history aspect. He was not wrong.

Tamra hung on every word of the lecturer. She didn’t notice Tom sneaking glances at her throughout the lecture, smiling the entire time. When the lecture ended, Tamra jumped up to move to the front. Tom waited for the room to empty before heading to meet Tamra. Tom saw here towering over the diminutive lecturer, gesturing wildly.

“Lovely talk.” Tom shook the hand of the lecture. “My friend here really enjoyed it.”

Tamra nodded. They continued to talk for a few more minutes before leaving the now empty lecture room.

-

“Did you enjoy the talk about Christmas?” Tom asked outside of Tamra’s flat.

“I enjoyed the talk about history. Christmas happened to be the topic of that lecture.”

“I bet you are a hit at cocktail parties with that winning conversational style.”

Tamra did a little curtsy and twirl. “You should see me in a dress.”

“Another time. I will pick you up tomorrow.”

“Goodnight Tom.”

“Wake up in the morning this time.”

“I make no promises.”

Tamra smiled as she extended her hand to Tom. He took it and then pulled her into an embrace.

“Just so you know, I’m not above breaking and entering.” Tom whispered into her ear.

Tamra pulled away laughing. “Goodnight, psycho.” She closed the door behind her.

Tom pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Ben. Yes I’m aware of the time. I’m sorry if I woke the kids. Yes, get Sophie on the line.”

Tom tapped his foot.

“I need a favor.”

[undefeatednils]

Music Shuffle

Rules: Put your music library on shuffle and share the first 25 songs that come up. I got tagged for this by @banashee yesterday, thank you ^^ Now let’s get going!

1) “One More Time” by Daft Punk

2) “Bustin“ by Neil Cicierega

3) “Hals über Kopf” by Bina Bianca

4) “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt

5) “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears For Fears

6) “Chandelier” by Sia

7) “Hey Ya!” by OutKast

8) “El Cóndor Pase (If I Could)” by Simon & Garfunkle

9) “Always On My Mind” by Pet Shop Boys

10) “Hard Times” by Paramore

11) “Bood Up” by Ella Mai

12) “The Scientist” by Coldplay

13) “Somebody To Love” by Jefferson Airplane

14) “We Are The Champions” by Queen

15) “Ohrwurm” by Wise Guys

16) “We Are Young” by fun.

17) “What’s Up?” by 4 Non Blondes

18) “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga

19) “Kiss” by Prince

20) “Mario Paint With Lyrics” by Brentalfloss

21) “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)” by ABBA

22) “Balea” by Jan Hegenberg

23) “Boom Clap” by Charli XCX

24) “I Will Wait” by Mumford & Sons

25) “American Boy” by Estelle ft. Kanye West

I’m tagging @acidmatze, @fan-girls-are-cool, @juli-gauloises, @100mal, @singinganddancinghorribly, @transbianbanana, and @fierce-katzchen. However, if you don’t wanna do this, no pressure, and if you wanna do this but I haven’t tagged you, feel free to do it and tag me in it.