#gp is saying that he slept with her for the role

[seasami]

VOGUE you’re embarrassing yourselves luv x 

[This stunt literally portrays Harry as a home-wrecker who slept with 10 yrs older woman for a role in a film she’s directing. THIS IS WHAT GP IS EATING UP. THIS ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING AND HURTFUL IMAGE OF HARRY. How is that good for his career? Like? He’s PR is pure shit atm. And also almost no one believes in it. Why are they pushing this narrative. AND VOGUE? No thank you.] 

[skepticalarrie]

Hiii so I've seen a bunch of people asking "why did Harry agree to Holivia?" and I've also seen many people answer their own opinions, so I'd like to give my own too if you don't mind. So I think that this whole thing is mainly to promote the movie but also acts as another beard for Harry so I thinlk he just saw it as that, just another PR stunt like all the many he's done before and his/her/the movie's team just saw the promotion (and possible money) they could get out of it. So all that problematic aspect we saw, like the fact that she's the director and he's an actor which could be seen as he slept with her to get the role (I saw many from GP saying that) they just overlooked it, like they didn't think too hard about it. Remember how some articles came out saying they were very lowkey during filming after they got all that backslash?? I think that was some kind of damage control. Stunts are not particularly known for having a solid story that actually makes sense, you know? Hahaha

So yeah those are my thoughts, thqnks for reading! 💞

Hello anon! Thank you for sharing your opinion. To be honest, and maybe it was very naive of my part, but I didn’t particularly think Holivia would work as a beard, I thought it was to promote the movie and that was it. As things are progressing the way they are, IMO this is definitely going beyond a stunt for promo and it really could be used as something “safe” during My Policeman. As it was discussed before, having a girlfriend would give him the *freedom* to talk about sexuality and closeting during the promo of MP, and even to place himself as part of the community.

As for the work ethics, age difference and the homewrecker narrative, I think this is all part of the stunt. I don’t agree with the premise of PR people always doing a lazy job and not thinking things through. Maybe it doesn’t make sense to us because we’re watching it closely and we can tell it’s a PR stunt but if it wasn’t working people wouldn’t be talking about it. This is literally their job and stunts exist to make a fuss about something. I wonder if people would be so interested about Holivia if he was dating a girl around his age, not his boss, and no marriage background. I wonder if babygate would be such a huge scandal if it wasn’t about a oopsie baby with a random girl in the club. I wonder if Haylor would be such a drama if Harry hadn’t fuck her over so she could write bitchy songs about him afterwards.

The scandal and the drama is part of it, it’s what really makes people interested. And it may look like it’s being terrible for their image, but people forget about things easily. 'Cause nobody cares when you're boring. If keeping their images intact and truthful was a concern, they wouldn’t the using stunts in the first place, you can’t have both things.

[apples-r-rubbish]

Institute (13th Doctor x reader) Part 5

Summary: You’re on the run, no doctor, no time.  Word Count: 2.4k AN: I’m going to be taking a lil break after the next chapter, just as I’m moving and I need time to adjust sorry -L x Warnings: none i think  Tags: @startrekkingaroundasgard @penguinwithitsarseonfire​

(PART 1) (PART 2) (PART 3) (PART 4) (PART 6) (PART 7) (PART 8) MASTERLIST

Panic. Screaming. Wind. Noise. Fear. Tense breathing. More screaming. More panic.

“Hold on!” Graham shouted over the monstrous amount of noise. Ryan found a panel and somehow managed to fly the plane on his phone. You were too shaken to understand. O. The plane was finally level. The Master.  You were shaking. Nothing really sunk in. You blinked and you were helped off the plane by the worried trio. You snuck past the guards as Barton spoke to someone official looking. You were in Essex according to Ryan, and now that you were off the plane things had finally begun to fall into place within your mind. You were being stared at by everyone. 

“It’s hard not to stand out, when we look like this,” Ryan groaned frustrated at the suit

“We’ve just been on a night out and we’re going home, that’s all,” Yaz reassured a soothing voice trying to calm you all down. Your phone went off, as did the others. Cautiously you answered it. Barton. “Hello, friends. What, did you think I wouldn't be able to track you? We have your numbers, e-mails, GPS. I even know how many more stamps you need for a free coffee. So close, Ryan. Or should I say Logan? Look up.” You did as he said. On a screen above you all your faces were displayed, claiming you were dangerous. More cursing. “Your passports have been revoked, bank accounts frozen,” Barton continued “We have a record of everyone you know - friends, family, colleagues, everyone you ever followed on social media. Of course, we have cameras everywhere, and now you're wanted for hijacking. Go off the grid see how long you’ll last,” 

In a panic, Ryan smashed his phone, Yaz attempted to call her mum and Graham froze. “Oh and Yazmin is attempting to call her mum, how sweet,” He spat sarcastically. Yaz had rambled into the phone briefly for a second before Ryan grabbed the phone and stomped on it, he did the same with your phone and Graham’s. Then you ran. 

You had finally settled on a building estate, hours late. Bones aching, out of breath and tired.

“No CCTV we should be safe for now,” Graham said, clearly weary from the day. You filled into a half built house. You took a seat on a sort of wall as did the others

“How do we know we can trust you?” Ryan asked suddenly “We don’t know you. The Doctor trusted O, and he betrayed us, how do we know you won’t?”

“You don’t.” You replied shortly “I’m an outsider. You’ve seen me what? Twice before today? Three times because one of them hasn’t happened to me yet. You don’t know you can trust me. But you have to. If I wanted to turn on you, if I had malicious intent I would have ran off with the master, but I didn’t.”

“Who are you really? O said you were a missing person,” Yaz asked inner police woman jumping forward

“I am. Technically. I was recruited by people I know very little about to do a job, told me it was important so I took the role. Wiped me from my old life, gave me a new one,” “How come the Doctor didn’t recognise that person? Surely you would recognise someone like that?”

“Their species, they have a way of cheating death, burn up every cell in their body, change their face and who they are. The Doctor used to be a man, we have 12 other faces on file. The master also can do that, same species same thing,” 

“Who was he?”

“Well, do you remember Harold Saxon? That used to be him,”

“What- I voted for him!” Graham exclaimed

You examined the looks on their faces, “You want to know about my future don’t you, you want to put the pieces together, but she’s said you can’t tell me. One question won’t kill me,”

“You mentioned you were going to die on another planet? How would you know something like that?” Yaz wondered

“This, this interaction. Time isn’t linear. It’s more a big lump, as time travellers, we jump in and out at various points, things aren’t linear things can be changed and rewritten. Surely she told you that?”

“She doesn’t exactly tell us a lot. Who are you to her really?”

“I’m no one important, I think, I don’t know. I get pieces in passing. A bit like a conversation you aren’t a part of yet, just occasional whispers. Her late wife visited me once, and told me to keep track of everything. Keep journals and notes, telling me it would help make things easier, clearer. She was in a similar position, they met when she died and they kept meeting, bumping into each other, in the wrong order, fell in love, nearly destroyed the universe,”  You explained “The doctor trusts me and I trust the doctor. Good enough for me. Also we went on a date,”

“Since we’re admitting things, I stole some of the gadgets from MI6, I’m wearing the laser shoes. Before you ask, no I didn’t read the instructions,” Graham laughed

“I took the rocket cufflinks too,” Ryan smiled

“You utter doughnuts, all of you. But there’s no one I’d rather be on the run with,” Graham turned to you “Even you, you seem to know a lot and I trust you. You’re on the same wavelength as the Doctor and that’s good enough for me.”

“Did you hear that?” There was a noise, and light. Kasaavin. You stepped out the building one by one. 

“The shoe, use the shoe,” Ryan urged

“What?”

“Just stomp or something!” Graham did. A bolt hit a nearby streetlight.

“Your aim is terrible,”

“Graham, just dance.” He did and a few bolts hit the figures. You grabbed the others hands and ran.

The sun was coming up, you hadn’t slept for about 36 hours and whilst Yaz made a phone call, you and Ryan leant against each other in a desperate attempt to stay awake. She hung up suddenly as a car pulled up. Men stepped out, threatening you. Graham came up behind them and waved his laser shoe dramatically

“-and don’t make me do the soft-shoe shuffle!” He stated over dramatically, as you got into the car. You had decided to drive

“Are you sure you’re going to be safe? Driving, I mean, 36 hours is a lot-” Yaz began cautiously

“I’ll be fine. I once stayed a awake for a week on some planet so I could do my job, and the days were 25 hours, this is nothing,” You joked

“Can we go to the institute? Surely they’ll keep us safe?” 

“No, they won’t. Anything linked to present day criminal activity immediately gets you dropped. We deal with time, you so much as breathe wrong you’re dropped,” You explained, “We have to follow their GPS.” You sped off

The hanger was cold and empty. There was a single figure on a chair along with a stand and a screen, you rushed to it. 

“Is she still?” Ryan asked, not wanting to say the word. You checked for a pulse, she was cold. You shook your head, “No she isn’t. She hasn’t been for a while, a few hours, at most, I think.”  Barton appeared on the screen.

“Well done overpowering my people. But did you really think they wouldn't tell me? I have a significant announcement to make, and you, my friends, are two steps behind. As usual,” He mocked

“So what are you? Part alien or something?” Graham asked

“You really don't understand who I am. I build things. I test them. So I let them test a tiny part of me. And now it's time for the global roll-out. I'm proof of concept,”

“As the head of the Bad Wolf institute, I have to ask, what are you testing? Why don’t you stop with the theatrics and murder? Make my job the tiniest bit easier,” You asked, temper flaring

“Look after my mum.” The call ended. You went to hit the screen and decided against instead choosing to make a loud noise. 

“He killed his own mum,” Yaz breathed

“And abandoned her, in a hanger, to rot,” You stated, formal tone back. The screen came on once again, this time to an image of Barton giving a talk. 

“-We told you, of course your lives are private, of course your data's safe. And you believed us. You kept clicking Agree. And now, we can do anything. I can send a text to every device on this planet.”

“Something doesn’t make sense, I’m missing something, I’m being stupid. God why does lack of sleep does this,” You grumbled. A message flashed up on the screen. Humanity is over, you have three minutes to prepare. The statue started spinning. 

“Funny, right? Except, not a joke. We are way past peak human. We've created systems that are smarter and can run more efficiently than we do. So what's our purpose? We must be useful for something. Well, the data tells us we are. We can repurpose. Well, you all can. You know the most efficient type of hard drives on Planet Earth? Humans. Human DNA can store so much data. We're the perfect storage system, which means there are over seven billion potentially incredibly useful hard drives on this planet. All that's needed is to reformat the whole of humanity. Luckily, there's an app for that.” Barton chuckled, tone sinister.

The room was filled with light. The Kasaavin. The hangar door swung open. The master. 

“Move away. Now! I've just had the most infuriating seventy seven years of my life. Have you any idea how hard it is to live through the 20th century? The places I've escaped from. Still, just in time to watch you all pay.” He grumbled, he looked aggressive like a wolf ready to attack. 

“What is it? What the hell is that thing?” You asked, barely giving the others time to react

“Back with us I see? Aw shock was good look on you, shame the Doctor won’t get to see more of it,” He snarled “ If you must know, dear, it converts and transmits. We're transmitting Kasaavin energy around the world all at once into every device, hitting every human being and erasing all their DNA simultaneously. And it’s beautiful.” The energy grabbed Yaz, she couldn’t let go, you tried to pull her off, it wouldn’t move, she couldn’t budge.

“No use. It’ll take her, then you then you, and finally Miss Institute herself, a shame.” The machine stopped suddenly, the figures vanished.

“You were saying?” You replied smugly 

“Sorry. I’ll admit I was close,” The doctor. Relief washed over you. She entered the hangar followed by two other women.

“Two can play at embedding things in history. I knew the Silver Lady was important, and that you built it for a reason, but I couldn't work out why. So I traced its movements through history. And when I saw that Barton now owned it, we stopped by his office. Middle of last year, using your Tardis, I built a fail-safe into that machine. Planted a virus. If it ever detected the massing of a Kasaavin army within its systems - total shutdown,” She explained. The room glowed again, circling everyone. 

“Well Doctor, looks like you’re going to have to explain everything to them,”

��Look, I’ve rigged the Silver lady to send you back your own dimension. And that deal he made with you?” She pulled out her sonic and played a audio clip

‘Barton and these creatures do the dirty work, and once they're done, I get rid of them, having destroyed your precious human race in the process. Win-win-win.’

“Oh,” Was all the Master could manage to say

“Yes that’s your name, don’t wear it out,” She replied before the light increased. And with that the room was empty again, “Everyone alright? Everyone safe?” A chorus of yes sounded of from the group

“Miss me?” She asked a small but beautiful smile on her face, wrapping her arm around you

“Always,” You replied pressing a small kiss to her lip

“I hate to break up a sweet moment but I have questions. Who are they? And are we being replaced?” Graham asked

“Oh these are Noor and Ada, I’m dropping them off back in their timeline, like I could ever replace any of you.”

They were dropped off back in their respective times.

“So where to now?” The doctor asked, flipping a few switches

“The institute for me, I’m afraid,” You cringed, desperately wanting to stay

“What?” She suddenly looked up staring deep into your eyes, clearly hurt.

“I have to warm them, the Master is out there, and we have to prepare. We’ve barely managed to fix everything after the issues in 2015. I do want to stay, I truly do, but it’s hard and I have to look after them,” You avoided her eyes

“It’s ok I get it. Since we’re synced I can say this, whenever we meet up synced or not we have to go on a date, because we don’t know when it’s going to happen so we might as well enjoy it,” She wandered over to where you were stood

“Like time girlfriends?” “Time girlfriends,” She nodded. You kissed her cheek, and she smiled into it, hugging you tightly. 

“Miss you already,” You joked taking steps out of the TARDIS and back into your office the day that you left.

“Are you ok? You’ve been a bit distant recently,” Yaz asked, breaking the Doctor from her thoughts. It had been a few months, since they’d seen you as a group.

“I’m fine,” She replied shortly

“You miss her don’t you?” The doctor ignored the question continuing to focus on the random buttons she was fiddling with. “Look, why don’t you take us to visit your home?”

“Can’t. Shouldn’t. You’ll ask too many questions. It’s boring. Why do you think I ran?” She explained, her usual answers combining into one, “but yes I miss her,”

[fangirlxwritesx67]

Looking For A Black Cat

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3, 1550 words. Sam x Rowena, side of Dean. Memory loss, cute animals, food, and fluff.

Your name is Sam Winchester. You are a soldier who lost your memory in a battlefield injury. It is Wednesday, so you volunteer at the animal shelter today. 

Sam found himself mouthing the words along with the electronic voice coming from his phone. Good, he remembered that much. It was going to be a good brain day, maybe even better than normal. 

He showered and shaved, dressed in his usual uniform of jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. Why he owned so many was a mystery to him, but they were comfortable, especially on cool fall days like this.

He was ahead of the voice on the phone, headed to the kitchen for a smoothie, where he discovered Dean eating a plate full of pie and ice cream. Dean, his brother, was the one person he never forgot. He had been injured at the same time and the same way as Sam. The two of them did their best to support and help one another. 

Memories of the day before came flooding back. It had been a bad brain day, one of the worst, the kind that only happened a couple of times a year. Helpless and frightened, he had knocked his head on the shared wall of their duplex. At the time, he hadn’t realized what he was doing, but the sound had been enough to summon his brother. 

Had Dean slept over? Maybe that was why he was in his kitchen eating dessert at 730 in the morning. 

“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam asked as he poured himself a cup of the coffee his brother had made.

“I was out of food so I came over to see what you had.” His words were light but his face reflected his concern. That was typical Dean, always downplaying his role in caring for others. 

Sam rolled his eyes, wordlessly reassuring his brother that he was fine. “Or you could, you know, go grocery shopping.”

“But you’re better at grocery shopping than I am! Besides, why did you buy apple pie and ice cream if it wasn’t for me? You know that’s my favorite thing.”

Sam did, in fact, not know that, but it sounded right. As he headed to the fridge, he looked more closely at the shopping list hanging there. At the bottom of his neatly organized shopping list, cross referenced with a weekly meal plan, it said: PIE That was definitely not his handwriting. 

“Dean.” He turned and smiled fondly at his brother, who grinned happily. 

“Thanks for remembering, big guy. Hey, don’t you have to go to work? Go snuggle some puppies or something?” 

It is time to leave the house. It is time for your shift at the animal shelter.

The electronic voice cut in before they could argue further. Sam shook his head and grabbed his keys. His GPS gave him directions but he seemed to know where he was going so he tuned out as he drove. 

If it was going to be a good brain day, then maybe, just maybe- Sam tried his hardest to push his mind back, to discover anything from his past. But everything before his injury was a blank. 

Whoever he had been before, whatever he had done, was buried. The only thing he ever got was flashes in his nightmares, faces and flames that crumbled into ash the minute he woke up. No matter how hard he tried, his past was lost to him. He had his brother, and he got out alive. Maybe that was enough.

“Hey, Winchester,” his boss Billie greeted him. He wondered, sometimes, how much she knew. She was always patient, always generous and gave him all the help he needed. A warm smile lit her beautiful brown face.

“I have a grant-writing seminar to attend, Sam, so it’s up to you today. You good with that?” Before she left, she pointed him to the drawer in the filing cabinet that had his name. 

The neatly organized rows of folders looked familiar, each one with the name of a cat or dog that was waiting to find a home. He looked through them, recognizing his own handwriting. He had made meticulous notes that would help an animal get adopted and help their new humans care for them. 

There was also a bell, and a sign that at one point he must’ve made. With the Animals Ring Bell for Service

Like most weekdays, it was a slow day. Walking back into the rooms full of animal cages felt like coming home. The sounds of the animals, barks and yelps and even a few eager mews, were welcoming. Even the smells of fur and cleaner and animals were earthy and grounding.

The dog room was the largest, cages lining both sides. He took his time with each one, petting them and giving them attention. Once he was done with the dogs, he moved on to the cats. Cats were more of a mystery, less outwardly affectionate. He spoke to them softly, even the ones who seemed to ignore him.

At lunchtime, a man came in with his little girl. He and his wife had adopted a dog over the weekend, but something wasn’t quite right. The man told Sam how his new dog could barely sleep, could hardly eat, always seemed to be looking for something. 

Sam nodded. Even without consulting his notebook, he knew which dog that was - one of a bonded pair. The two dogs had been kept in adjoining cages and let out in the yard for playtime together. When one was fed, they waited for the other to eat. When they slept, they curled up so their backs were touching through the wire mesh of the cages. 

The family was already vetted, so it was easy for Sam to approve the second adoption. He smiled as he watched father and daughter leave with the dog and imagined the reunion that would happen when they got home. He wondered, sometimes, if he and Dean were like that, a bonded pair, unable to really exist without the other. 

After that, he was alone again until it was almost closing time. 

The red-headed woman who stepped through the door instantly drew his attention. Not only was she strikingly attractive, but she had a presence that seemed to fill the room. Her bright smile was the most beautiful thing he could remember seeing.

“I’m Rowena and I’m looking for-

“-a black cat. I know.” Sam didn't know exactly how he knew that, but it seemed right, and she nodded approvingly. 

He gestured towards the cat room and she led the way. He couldn’t help watching her as she walked, the precise rhythm of her steps, the easy sway of her hips. No, that seemed rude. When they got to the row of cages, she turned to face him and he felt his breath catch in his throat. She was stunning, with big green eyes and a profile like a cameo piece. 

“No!” Rowena stomped one heel, startling him with her sudden flash of temper. “These are the same cats you had last week. I don’t want kittens, or ginger cats, or any other common moggie. I need a black cat.”

Sam was taken aback, but he had to try. “Ma’am, have you ever met Mamacita?” 

She crossed her arms and pouted. “Is she some secret black cat you’ve been keeping from me?”

“Well, no, she’s not a black cat. But maybe, just, look at her?” He couldn’t say why this cat and this woman needed to meet. Maybe it was something he had known and forgotten. Maybe not. But he gestured to the cage that held the reclusive calico.

Rowena hardly had to bend down to see the cat in her cage. The cat hissed, as expected. Then to Sam’s surprise,  she called and Mamacita came closer. She kept her distance, still, but seemed interested.

“Ohhh,” the woman cooed softly. “I see. You’re a mama cat, aren’t you, but you’ve lost your kittens and your home. You’re scared because you don't know who you are anymore.”

Rowena slipped her delicate fingers through the bars of the cage and Sam watched in shock as Mamacita approached. At first, the cat was suspicious, sniffing the painted nails, but then gave in and leaned into the woman’s hand. 

The two of them spent several moments in quiet communication before Rowena stood up. Shaking her skirts and tossing her curls, she set her chin. 

“A lovely tortoiseshell, no doubt. But I need a black cat. I’ll be back next week, as always. I hope you’ll have one for me then.”

It was closing time, so Sam locked the door behind her as she left. The room seemed suddenly empty, darker without her. He stood there for a moment, trying to sort out the swirl of thoughts and feelings in his mind. Who was she? Why did it seem like he should know her?

As always.

He must’ve seen her here before. That explained why she looked familiar. It didn’t explain why he was so drawn to her, why he felt almost bewitched in her presence. It certainly didn’t explain the sense of loss that came over him when she was gone. He shook his head slowly. It was something he would never know. 

Stay tuned for 3 more chapters of this story!

Thanks to @mskathywriteswords for the preread and encouraging me to see where this story goes!

SPN First Last and Always: @boondoctorwho @dawnie1988 @deanwanddamons @defenderrosetyler @defenderrosetyler @emoryhemsworth @fookinghelljensensthighs @idreamofplaid @kalesrebellion @kickingitwithkirk @maddiepants @magssteenkamp @onethirstyunicorn   @there-must-be-a-lock @tloveswriting

Sam Girl For Life: @awesomesusiebstuff @lilsylvia @winchesterxfamilybusiness

Dean Curious:@adoptdontshoppets @awesomesusiebstuff @deangirl7695 @deans-baby-momma  @mrsjenniferwinchester @stoneyggirl @wayward-gypsy @winchesterxfamilybusiness

Rowena My Queen: @delightfullykrispypeach @lilsylvia @marril96 @pansexualdarling @songofthecagedmoose

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Little Gem

Summary: Modern AU Alfie nervously meets his boyfriend’s son for the very first time. 

          Tommy wasn’t much of a sleeper. He didn’t need too many hours of shut-eye to be productive. But he soon knew that the scarce sleep he managed to get would be cut in half very soon.

           It began one May morning when his husband asked, completely out of the blue, about babies. Charlie was turning six that summer and according to Alfie, the house was far too big for just the three of them plus Cyril.

           Tommy requested he get to the point. So Alfie explained that he wanted a baby. He’d raised Charlie since he was about three. Grace had passed away and Tommy began to confide in his business partner about his hurt. Alfie was surprisingly a good person to talk about emotions to. Unlike the rest of his family, the Jewish man was a little franker with his feelings. If he was upset or happy the world was damn well going to know.

           So prolonged business meetings turned into chats which turned into going out to dinner which turned into dinner at each other’s’ homes, which turned into sex. The relationship developed and soon, not soon enough according to Alfie, the two were married. Alfie adopted Charlie and they became a happy family. Charlie adored his papa and often times would gravitate towards him even over Tommy.

           Now, Alfie wanted to raise a baby, from the very beginning this time around. It took some convincing and finding a surrogate. A friend they met from Charlie’s school was more than happy to take on the role and before they knew it, she was pregnant.

           Alfie was thrilled to find out they were having a girl. “A boy and girl, Tommy that’s fucking perfect ain’t it?” He beamed as they put the ultrasound picture up on the refrigerator.

           Now, their daughter was due any day and Tommy was getting in as much sleep as possible in preparation. He wasn’t sure Alfie was quite ready for the sleepless nights, the man slept like a hibernating bear.

           But Tommy wouldn’t be getting any extra sleep that night. At two in the morning, Alfie shook his husband awake.

           “Tom, Tommy, Deb texted me.” He jostled him until the man batted his hands away.

           “What? What?”

           “Deb texted me saying her water broke!” Alfie exclaimed with a hint of joy and absolute terror. “We’ve gotta get the things in the car. Wake up, Charlie!”

           Tommy sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Alfie, if her waters just broke it’ll be hours before the baby actually starts to crown. You’ve put it in the GPS a million times, it only takes us ten minutes to drive to the hospital.” He mumbled. “Get a few more hours of sleep.”

           “I can’t go back to sleep, the fucking baby is coming!” He retorted sharply. “Now get your arse outta bed. I’ll call Polly to come watch Charlie.” He rushed out of the room texting away.

           Tommy yawned and sighed. Sure, he was excited that his daughter was coming, but he’d been around the block before. Grace was in labor with Charlie for over six hours. It was a waiting game and he wasn’t about to show up at the hospital at two in the morning with a frazzled Alfie. It wouldn’t do Deb any good. So, he would try his best to stall.

~~~~~~~~~~

           Two forty-five in the morning and Tommy had managed to keep Alfie from bursting at the seams. He slowly packed the car with all the bits for their newborn while his husband was shouting updates from Deb. Not that any of the updates were different, just timing between contractions.

           Charlie was well awake and still in his pajamas. He wandered back and forth asking Alfie and Tommy when the baby would come.

~~~~~~~~~~

           Three in the morning and Alfie couldn’t stand not being at the hospital for another minute. Polly wasn’t answering as it was the dead of night, so Alfie put some shoes on Charlie, dressed him in a coat and packed him into the car as well.

           “Alfie, we agreed that he would stay here…” Tommy protested when he saw their son half asleep in the car seat.

           “It’ll be sweet, aye?” Alfie frantically double checked that they had everything. “He’ll get to see his baby sister. Don’t you want to see your baby sister, treacle?”

           Charlie yawned and mumbled an incoherent response, his head lolling to the side.

           Tommy sighed. “Can you just wait another half…”

           “No!” Alfie exclaimed and got in the passenger side seat.

           “Alright…” Tommy went to get the car keys. “Here we go then.”

`~~~~~~~~~~~

           It was a wait, although not as long as it had taken Charlie to arrive. Alfie was a nervous wreck in the waiting room and could hardly stay still. Tommy slept in the corner with Charlie in his lap. Eventually, Alfie woke him up and said the baby was crowning and Deb said they could be in the delivery room.

           Tommy left Charlie with a nurse and headed in with his husband. As they agreed, Alfie cut the umbilical cord when Ruby came out.

           Alfie was breathing unevenly as the nurse came out with their cleaned and swaddled daughter. She smiled and gently placed the little bundle in his arms.

           “Fucking hell…” The hardened man was reduced to nothing but tears of joy when he first saw his daughter’s pink face. “Look at you, yeah? Tommy, love, look.”

           Tommy came to stand next to his husband, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Little’un, aye?” He chuckled and reached up to graze his thumb over Ruby’s soft cheek.

           “Dark hair like her daddy.” Alfie choked out a laugh. “Our little gemstone. Our little Ruby.”

~~~~~~~~~~

           Despite the chaotic early morning, the dust settled and things were unimaginably calm at that moment. Alfie and Tommy were fixed on how absolutely perfect she was.

           A few hours after she was born, Charlie was brought into the room. Tommy took his hand and led him over to the bassinette where Ruby was half asleep. “See?”

           Charlie stood on his tiptoes, pressing his face to the plastic side of the bassinette. The little thing wriggled and waved a hand in her swaddle. “Hi.” He said very quietly.

           Alfie smiled and smoothed Charlie’s hair back. “What’d you think, then?” He asked.

           “She’s small.” The little boy shrugged. There wasn’t much else to say.

           Ruby squirmed and started to scrunch up her face in discomfort. Without much prompt, she began to wail. Charlie jumped and pressed his hands over his ears in shock. He wasn’t sure how such a little bit could be so loud.

           Alfie scooped Ruby up and patted her back. “Sh, sh, love, s’alright.”

           Charlie frowned and decided to leave, hands still blocking his ears. Tommy was a little amused but went to follow his son. “Where’ya going?” He asked.

           “She’s so loud,” Charlie whined in protest. “How’d you turn her down?”

           Tommy laughed softly and knelt down. “Not like the TV, Charles, you can’t lower the volume. You can get that loud too, you know.”

           His son looked disinterested. “I’m bored.”

           “Alright, well, your aunt and cousin’ll be here soon,” Tommy promised. “Papa wanted to get pictures of you and Ruby together though. Maybe you could hold her?”

           “No, I don’t wanna.” Charlie shook his head and went to the waiting room to find some toy to tinker with. Tommy sighed. So the sibling uniting wouldn’t be as easy as they assumed.

~~~~~~~~~~

           “Easy, easy.” Alfie cringed at how Tommy lifted the car seat carrier into the car.

           “Oh boy.” Tommy chuckled and buckled the carrier in. “She’s alright, Alfie, I promise.”

           Charlie hopped into the car and got himself buckled into his own seat. He leaned over to peer into the blankets that Ruby was nestled into.

           “Now, Charles.” Tommy leaned over into the backseat. “You’ve got a very important job to do on the way home. Do you want a job?” He asked.

           Charlie perked up. He always loved helping out his dad and papa. “Yeah!”

           “Good lad. I need you to watch after your sister on the drive back. Make sure she’s okay. This is her first car ride. Can I trust you?”

           He nodded eagerly and reached over to place a hand on the car seat.

           Tommy smiled and tousled his son’s hair. “I believe in you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

           On the drive back, Charlie kept his eyes intently fixed on his sister. Every time she moved, he made note of it. When she opened her eyes, her brother smiled and shook one of the toys attached to the carrier in front of her.  

           Halfway home, Tommy slammed on his brakes to avoid a car cutting in front of them.

           “Jesus Christ, Tom!” Alfie snapped and braced himself against the dashboard.

           “Daddy, not good!” Charlie barked at his father.

           Tommy’s eyes widened at the criticism immediately thrown at him. “Sorry, I didn’t want to hit that person, it were their fault!” He protested.

           “Is she alright?” Alfie twisted around in the front seat.

           Charlie nodded. Ruby hadn’t even stirred. “Yeah, papa, she’s alright.”

           Alfie smiled. “Good, thank you, treacle.”

           Tommy checked in the rearview mirror and couldn’t help but smile too as he watched Charlie adjust Ruby’s blankets to cover her little sock-covered feet. Maybe he was too quick to judge. Maybe the two would get along after all.

Masterlist

[spooniemumoftwo]

This is me!

Have you ever heard of ME CFS? Do you know anyone with ME CFS? Have you ever heard the phrase ‘counting spoons’? 

Having read a huge number of blog posts on ME CFS over the past few years, this is my own answer to some of these questions. Please bear with me – this has been a work in progress for a while now.

Me – Could I have M.E?

As a teenager, and even recently, I never imagined that I would find myself writing about my experiences of life with a chronic illness, and yet, here I am. I am 33 years of age, a wife and mother to two beautiful children, and I have a diagnosis of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME CFS). 

Over the past few years, I have come to realise that ME CFS is something you can’t fully understand or describe to someone unless you have the experience of this debilitating illness yourself.

Where do I start?

Over the last three years, there have been ups and downs; life has been interesting, and the learning curve I have found myself travelling on has been almost vertical at times. I am not there yet.

Back in Summer 2017, I woke one morning to find I had no voice at all. This was unusual for me but not the first time it had happened. Things had been busy and a little fraught with two small children, whilst I was also working almost full time, so I thought nothing of it. I now suspect, as do the consultants I have spoken to since, that this was my body’s way of fighting the Chicken Pox virus, as my youngest came down with Chicken Pox two weeks after I first lost my voice. A week without my voice went by, writing notes for my husband to ignore as he felt appropriate, and giving my children 'the look' instead of telling them what I was thinking, and I spoke to my GP who diagnosed me with Acute Viral Laryngitis, and prescribed me three weeks off work and TOTAL voice rest, much to my husband’s delight and amusement. Three weeks later I returned to work, having slept all day for at least two of the three weeks I’d had off work. I was shattered. I never imagined returning to work after only three weeks off would be that tiring, but I did it. I underwent a further six months of speech and language therapy sessions (ironic considering my own role as a speech and language therapist) to help me work on my returning voice and my worryingly limited breath support, something I had only noticed since losing my voice.

Nearly twelve months on, in April 2018, I found myself signed off work again, this time with suspected Labyrinthitis. I experienced dizziness on and off, and again, I slept for most of the time I was off work. I was finding it hard to put sentences together, and felt like my whole body was being held down by a weighted blanket. Three weeks off work again and then I returned to work and my usual routine, with a promise to myself to take things easier this time. The dizziness continued but not enough for me to be off work, so a referral to a cardiologist followed to check it was nothing cardiology related. A 24 hour ECG followed by a 32 day ECG test demonstrated nothing significant, and therefore this was put down as yet another symptom I had no answers or reasons for.

By August 2018, I realised I had spent the majority of the summer term in schools telling myself ‘if I can make it to the summer holidays, I will be okay’ and yet, there I was, at the start of the summer holidays, and I hadn’t allowed myself to slow down at all. I have always, even as a pre-teen and a teenager, worked towards the school holidays, and continue to do so as an adult. I recall, as a teenager, regularly sleeping for the first one or two days of a school holiday, or suffering with a cold and feeling generally unwell for the first few days after allowing myself to slow down or to relax, and yet, here I was, putting the same pressure on myself as I always had. This time, however, I did not allow myself to rest. I knew what would happen if I did.

August 2018 saw me celebrating my own mini achievements regarding my engagement in a Couch to 5K running programme. I have never been sporty, and running was my least favourite exercise. However, for some reason, in 2018, I decided I was going to make myself enjoy running! I soon found running gave me time to myself with my thoughts, (unless accompanied by one of my chatty little people who often wanted to go with Mummy on a run) and running was my 'me time'. I managed to complete my first ever continuous 20 minute run in the middle of August, a very small achievement for many, however for me this was huge! I was becoming a runner, or so I thought. I only ran once more that month, and haven't managed a run since…

The summer holidays passed by and at the end of August, we celebrated my eldest child’s 5th birthday. I will never forget the call we received first thing that morning, to tell us that my grandfather had sadly passed away in the early hours of the morning.  On my daughter’s birthday. I held myself together and threw all of my energy into celebrating my daughter’s special day. I was heart broken, and yet, as always, my children came first, and always will. The day after, we hosted a party for our daughter as we had planned. I could think of any number of places I would rather be, than hosting a children’s party, but for my children, ensuring they were happy, and maintaining the usual normality, especially things they had looked forward to, was essential. After we had cleared up, and the children had been put to bed, revelling in the excitement of the day, I took myself off to the gym, and pushed myself to run as far as I could.  I managed a 35 minute continuous run, telling myself “it was just for you, Grandad!'’ I was exhausted, mentally and physically. Running had allowed me time to myself to clear my head and my thoughts on many occasions prior to this, however that night, I was broken. I could do no more. My head hurt, my legs hurt, even my breathing was draining me.  I was done.

Two days later, I lost my voice again, and this time, I listened. I listened to what my body was saying, and started to put a few of the pieces together in my story. I have always pushed myself as far as I could push, but I was spent. Emotionally, and physically, I had nothing left. I spoke to my GP in view of my previous significant voice loss, and was instantly told to take some time off work to recharge and rest my voice. I reluctantly agreed to take a week off to recharge before going back to work.

A week later, at the start of September, I saw my GP, accompanied by a very good friend, to make sure I gave the facts and was honest about what was going on. We talked about everything. With the support of my friend, I listed all of the symptoms I had been experiencing, and yet not acknowledged, things I was finding difficult - sensitivities to light and noise, complete physical exhaustion, difficulties concentrating, poor spatial awareness - there can only be so many times a person can walk into the same photocopier in the same position on the same day. (My record was five times one day.) I described the difficulty I had in expressing myself and communicating with others at times, and my concerns about the slightly narcoleptic speed at which I could fall asleep and still feel totally unrested when I woke up, no matter how long I slept for. I raised my concerns and questioned whether I could possibly have some signs of ME CFS, however my GP said that at this stage, she did not feel I had ME, and that there were a huge number of reasons I was feeling as I was at that time. She was right about that, there had been a lot going on. I reluctantly left the doctor’s surgery with a certificate signing me off work for four weeks, and I was under strict instruction to rest completely, and not to return to work within the next four week period. I have never taken time off work willingly, other than for the usual expected absences due to the usual common illnesses, and therefore this went entirely against my work ethic. But this time, I had to - I was spent. I had no idea what was wrong with me, and how long it would last.  I was worried and totally exhausted.

A month later, I returned to my GP to try and persuade her I was ready to return to work. We talked about how the last month had gone, how I was feeling, and what my thoughts about work were. I tried to list the positives to show I was feeling better but what were they? I was sleeping all of the time other than when I had to be awake to do a school run, or to look after my children, which I had been doing mainly from the sofa whilst they amused themselves in my sight. I was finding it difficult to carry out simple and regular tasks such as showering, which left me incapacitated and lay on my bed for some time before I could continue with the day. Cooking and preparing meals were a challenge, as this involved me being upright for longer than was comfortable. Having a conversation on the telephone was exhausting, and yet talking to someone in person was strangely slightly easier. I was often disorientated and a slight change in plans left me confused. On really bad days, I frequently could not have a conversation without losing what I was saying, and found it difficult to think of the words I wanted to say. My mind went blank. None of this made sense. I was 31 years old and generally healthy. What was wrong with me? I sounded like I was making this up and began to doubt myself. My GP informed me that she had been thinking about me, and had spoken to a colleague of hers for some advice. She advised that after some thought, she felt a referral to a specialist in Chronic Fatigue may be worthwhile, as it was possible that some of my symptoms could be signs of ME CFS. That made me anxious. I had suspected that this may be the case for me for a while, but to hear a clinical professional confirm my suspicions and want to investigate further sent chills right through me. How and why was this happening? We agreed that I would be referred to the consultant specialist, and I left the appointment with another four weeks off work, and a hope that I would return to work after another month, IF my energy levels had increased sufficiently.

Another month later, I returned to my GP, and despite me still experiencing significant fatigue, I was desperate to return to work and some normality. My GP reluctantly agreed to a phased return to work which would be monitored closely by her. I returned to work, initially for two half days a week, with a view to being back to my normal thirty hours a week by the end of December. I was still exhausted. Each day was a huge challenge, but it felt so good to be back at work! I tried to take things as easy as possible, as I was mindful that I needed to read the signs and listen to what my body was saying. I didn't feel like the person I was before, and yet just being 'me' again, in my usual workplace was a tonic.

In February 2019, I saw a consultant specialist in chronic fatigue, accompanied by another amazing friend. We talked through everything, literally everything! For a whole two hours, we discussed things I was able to do and things I couldn't do. Things I enjoyed and things I didn't. We talked in detail about my childhood, family history and medical history. I was referred for a sleep study to rule out sleep apnoea, and was advised that if the results of this study were unremarkable, then yes, I would be diagnosed with ME CFS. Otherwise, the diagnosis would be sleep apnoea. I felt sick, but with support from my friend, my husband and my family, we talked things through. But there were still no answers.

I am so lucky to have an amazing family and so many loyal and caring friends around me who know me better than I know myself at times. I can't express my thanks to each and every single person who supports us. Those who are there for me, to listen, advise and give the best hugs, and those fabulous friends who just know what to say and do when its needed. Those who try to understand what's going on, and those who know me best! My amazing family and friends regulate me and aren't afraid to tell me what I need to hear, despite this often being the harsh reality that I can't see (or don't want to!). I am often told to rest and that I need to put myself first, but that's not how I work, or it’s not how I've worked in the past anyway. I know I unintentionally frustrate the people I am closest to with my stubbornness and drive, and my reluctance to 'give in or give up', and I am so grateful for the support of so many people.  

I finally received my appointment for my sleep study at home at the end of May 2019. I was shown how to fit the oxygen tubes, oxygen monitor and all the gubbins that go with it and was sent on my way. Honestly, the sleep study was not the best night of sleep I've ever had...it turns out I'm a little more claustrophobic than I thought I was. But, by the following morning, the test was done and the equipment was safely returned to the hospital. My pending diagnosis was in their hands now. I received a letter at the start of July 2019, to say that I didn't have sleep apnoea, so there it was. A diagnosis of ME CFS.  Mixed emotions flooded me...relief that I wasn't going to have to wear a mask to sleep, and yet dread at reading the words I knew would be in my next letter from the consultant! On 25th July 2019, my letter arrived in the post. It simply said 'I can confirm that this patient has ME CFS. I will refer her to the local ME service for support'.  I was numb. 

So many questions!

How will this affect my children? What will happen next? Where do I stand with work? Will I need help? What does the future hold? All these questions filled my head. Many questions remain unanswered even twelve months on from receiving this letter. With no cure or successful treatment for this, I felt a mixture of panic, sadness and dread and telling my husband the results we didn't want to hear was hard. How would I be able to be the wife and mother I so wanted to be with this chronic illness? My children are still so young. My husband didn't sign up for this! This all felt so unfair!

Since my diagnosis, I've been supported by the local ME CFS service and their advice has been invaluable. The learning we have done as a family about the illness, the symptoms themselves and life as we know it, has been intense. I am able to recognise some of my triggers and my responses, though these constantly change and have increased in severity lately, but my husband, family and close friends will agree that I'm still pretty rubbish at really listening. I cannot seem to take it all in.  I am on overload.  I am a giver naturally...I don't come first in my head. I think of everyone else before myself - my children, my family and my friends. That is just me.  But it wears me out.  

My children

When I was diagnosed with ME CFS, my first thought was not for me, but for my children. This is not how I imagined parenting my own children. I felt a huge sadness that this would mean they had to grow up more quickly, to understand things a young child shouldn't have to, and that we may not be able to do all the lovely things we did when I was a child. I made a promise there and then...ME CFS wasn’t going to stop me doing things with our children. Our promise to our children even then, was that they would come first and that my husband and I would get through this together. This is not my children’s problem, it is mine.

My husband and I agreed very early on, not to give our children the details but just to explain, when needed, that Mummy just needed to rest. This worked for a while and kept questions at bay. I recall one lunchtime when I had prepared a 'picky lunch' at the request of our three-year-old son. I had laid on the sofa while they ate and watched a film. My daughter, aged around five at the time, touched my arm gently and gave me a crisp she had found, saying “Mummy, please have this heart-shaped crisp. It will give you more energy”. Wow!! I'm not sure how I held the tears in...I was completely taken aback! Without telling her anything other than that Mummy was sometimes a bit tired, this little sensitive soul had put two and two together and made her own conclusions. I knew we had to tell her a bit more now, if anything, to make sure she wasn't making her own ‘wrong’ deductions. 

We have recently been introduced to a fabulous book which has been integral in our challenge of giving our children the facts they need whilst not giving them too much. This book, 'Supercharged Superhero' by Gemma Everson has been written to help children understand why a parent with ME may not be able to play all the time, and that they can have fun in different ways with their family. We love this book, and my children often ask if we can look at it again. We've spent many hours reading through the story, chatting about the pictures and thinking of our own ways to have fun which I can join in with too. Find out more about ‘Supercharged Superhero’ and get your own copy of this gorgeous book.

The Journey so far – September 2020

My journey through diagnosis and learning to adapt so far has been uphill. There have been some huge changes I've had to make to my lifestyle, specifically our pace of life and my priorities. Having never been able to say 'no' to anyone or anything in my adult life, my major challenge is to start saying ‘No, no, no!’ Such a simple word, and yet I just can't do it! Others always come before me; my family and my friends, and yet I know I need to work on this. I know I unintentionally drive my husband and close friends to distraction...they know me better than I know myself often, and I am always being told to slow down, or to put me first, but I can't. Only when I have no option otherwise.

I spend my life falling asleep without planning to. I rarely see the end of a television programme or film. As a family, we often plan to go out on adventures in the mornings or early afternoon, as my more unpredictable time of day is usually mid afternoon to early evening. With careful planning, we do go out and make memories as a family of four, and we have lots of fun together. 

Everyday, I spend huge amounts of energy putting a brave face on to hide what I'm really feeling inside. I can’t do this anymore! I feel like most people only see me in a disguise, only my close friends and family know enough to understand what's really going on, and many of them can read me like a book. Conversely, I am constantly told I look really well, when in reality, I can barely stand up some days!  When things are really bad I can't easily hold a conversation, and I often focus all my energy on getting to the end of a day, an hour, a meeting or some other mini target I've set myself. I am wishing time away just to ‘get through’.  My illness is an invisible illness, and it is called that for a reason...it IS invisible!

On paper, my symptoms are fairly mild in contrast with others who have the same diagnosed condition. I am able go to work four days a week still, I am able to take my children to the park or on carefully planned day trips, I can still do some of the things I do for me, to allow me to be 'me', although these ‘things’ for me, are usually the ‘things’ I cut out if I need to slow down - leaving no time for Me!  

The Present and the Immediate Future   

In recent months I have seen a huge flare of my symptoms and have been much more debilitated than previously, but I am hoping this is just a blip in my journey. Working from home and home schooling two young children during the Covid 19 pandemic has not helped.  Life has been a bit mad for us all lately, hasn't it?! I can only imagine how people feel, who have much more significant symptoms, and I try to empathise with those whose symptoms are much more severe than mine. ME CFS is so varied and different for each and every person diagnosed with it!  

ME CFS is not well understood.  As it is ‘invisible’, others do not know I am suffering symptoms that often debilitate me. I cover it well by pretending I am ‘ok’ until I finally crash and burn at home. This is my reason for sharing my story, living with this condition, to promote awareness so that others may benefit from learning about how it affects a person and how people can make allowances. It is not going away!! Maybe I was ‘given’ this condition because I am naturally a strong person who is ‘driven’ to come through everything, no matter what. I do not know. I know that sometimes, I just can’t and I am worn out ‘pretending’. So I have chosen to share this and maybe I can make a difference to someone else. Acknowledging symptoms is just the start. Getting a diagnosis is paramount, and getting the right help is vital for any kind of future.

You've got this far, well done! Look out for how my story unfolds. Until then, we must stay positive!

XxXx

#chronicfatiguesyndrome #chronicfatigue #mecfs #me #myalgicenceohalomyelitis #cfsme

[adapembroke]

Pluto Times, Plutonian Lives: We Are the Ghost Hunters and We Are the Ghosts

There are people who fill the role of Keeper of the Lore for their families. They inherit the family heirlooms, collect the old stories, and wander through cemeteries and old dusty records offices looking for ghosts.

The role of Keeper of the Lore is an odd one. You would think that a Keeper of the Lore would be especially close to their living family members, but I find, often, the opposite is true. The poet Ilya Kaminsky says in his poem “Author’s Prayer” that to speak for the dead means that a person must “leave the animal of [their] body.” I suspect that there is something about a connection with the dead that forces a person to face the family’s shadow, loosening the bonds of connection with living family members.

I am a Keeper of the Lore. When I was young, I sat at the kitchen table while my father cooked pasta sauce from scratch, listening with rapt attention as he told the old family story about railroad missionaries and renegade priests that lead to my family helping to found a Baptist church in their Italian neighborhood. I have carried heavy, antique furniture with me as I’ve moved over thousands of miles, cramming it the tiniest apartments. (I once slept in a bedroom that had once been a coat closet.) And I have flown across the country in search of a 17th century burial ground with no information but GPS coordinates.

Years ago, I found myself living in New Hampshire near where one side of my mother’s family had lived for over three hundred years. I was in my early-20s. Aside from driving down to Boston or going to the mall, there wasn’t much to do on the weekend, so I made it a game to see how many of my ancestors’ graves I could visit.

I discovered early on that finding my mothers more than a few generations back was an impossible chore, but I found most of the men in that line. Only the adventurers eluded me: the original immigrant, who came to New England in the 1630s and his many times great-grandson who caught gold fever and went west with the 49ers and never came home from California.

When life took me to California a few years later, I picked up the quest and went looking for my 49er ancestor’s grave in Gold Country. I never found him. Most of the 49ers died alone, apparently, and were buried in unmarked graves.

I did, however, find a ghost. In the oldest cemetery in town, there was a story about a woman in a red dress who had been buried with the wrong name on her tombstone. According to the lore, she appears to visitors and says her name, pleading with them to set the record straight.

Ghost Stories are Practice for Pluto Times

Over the last few years, Pluto has been square my Mercury/midheaven, and IC. I have always been a plutonian person with Pluto in Scorpio in the 4th house square the moon and AC, but I am becoming conscious of my plutonian nature in a way that never I have before.

Pluto is the lord of the dead and buried treasure. I have been musing on ghost stories and the reasons we go looking for the dead.

The trope of the ghost with unfinished business is so common, it’s practically a cliche: the fragment of the deceased who clings to a haunted house or burial ground, repeating the same words and gestures, waiting for someone to uncover their traumatic story and bring them closure, allowing them to move on.

Why do we tell cliche stories like this? Surely, if we have heard one ghost story, we’ve heard them all, haven’t we? And yet, we tell them over and over again.

Lately, I have come to realize that we tell ghost stories for the same reasons that ghosts tell their stories, and being a Keeper of the Lore is not (just?) an act of service to my ancestors. My soul is a burial ground. The work that I have been doing for the dead has been a practice round for the real work of finding and releasing the ghosts of myself.

Pluto's Work is Healing Our Inner Hauntings

We are all ghosts, in a way. We all have stories we repeat to anyone who will listen. We tell them a little differently every time, refining our stories until even the most clumsy talker can rattle off those stories with as much charm as a traveling salesman. We tell our stories with the desperation of ghosts looking for someone to save us, as if we think that if we can only tell the story in the right way, to the right person, we will convince them to free us from the haunted place where we are trapped in our minds.

And yet, there are no ghost hunters looking for us. Not yet. Maybe, someday a Keeper of the Lore will uncover the truth and tell our stories, but it might be too late for us, then. We don’t really know what happens to the dead. Are ghosts departed souls trapped in Bardo, or are they free-floating trauma disconnected from a source? We don’t know if the Keepers of the Lore bring peace to the dead or just themselves.

As long as we are alive, we are the only ones who can save ourselves, and ghost stories are fictions trying to teach us how. We are the ghosts, and we are the ghost hunters. We are the Keeper of the Lore that binds us, and we are the saviors who can uncover the truth, end the loop of repetitive stories, and free ourselves to move on… If only we keep digging and look for the dead.

[thirstyfortom]

How would RFA + Saeran react to MC coming home late and she wasn't able to text them (maybe he phone died idk) and she accidentally scared them because she had a face full of stage make up because she's a professional ballet dancer? Maybe she was understudying a role and the dancer she was understudying got injured last minute?

Hope you like it! ^^

MC coming home very late and with odd make up

Zen

He was pretty late himself for the little dinner you two were planning

He spent all the way from rehearsal to his house working on a proper apology “Maybe if I just smile and call her ‘babe’, she’ll forgive me…”

“Hey, babe! You look lovely ton…” he came in saying this out loud, but stopped when he noticed you weren’t there.

Of course he got desperate when you weren’t picking up your phone, all the thoughts about that guy in Rika’s apartment taking over his head. No… this wasn’t happening! He knew he should never leave you alone again…

He made a big fuss in the messenger, Seven was looking for you while Jumin was already giving instructions to his bodyguards and preparing the chopper.

You came home exhausted, it’s been a while since you actually replace someone in a performance… you never even wanted to wipe off the make up in the theatre.

Well, dinner was ruined, you just hoped Zen didn’t wait for you woke up… well, of course he did, your phone died and you couldn’t even text him, he must be worried as shit.

“MC? WHERE WERE YOU? ARE YOU HURT? DID YOU GET A CHANCE TO KNOW HIS NAME? WHAT HAVE HE DONE TO YOU? DID HE DO THIS TO YOUR FACE? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, BY THE WAY?” okay, you knew he was worried, but not on this level.

You explained everything to him and you could see him trying to hide in embarrassment from all his thoughts, it got even worse when he had to call Seven and Jumin.

When everything was clear, you two laughed and he helped you wiping off the makeup. “Make sure to have your phone charged and give a me heads up when you perform, I’ll take the day off to watch you.”

Yoosung

He may have lost track of time a little when he buried his mind in the studies.

But he was pretty sure you were kinda late by now…oh! Look at the time, you’re really late!

He looked for his phone (he got that little habit from you of putting his phone as far as he could so he wouldn’t get distracted) to check on you, no texts or calls for you and no answer when he texted and called.

Well… shit!

“Heeeyyy, did anybody heard from MC?” he tried to don’t come off as terrified as he was in the messenger. “You tell me. Aren’t you her boyfriend, dude?” Zen asked, well, his bitterness was useless as always…

Okay, this poor thing was getting ready to go after you that late in the night. He could have called Seven, but he wanted to do this alone (Zen’s words got him more that he would matter to admit…)

He opened the door, only to find you trying to get the right key in the lock, you both yelped, scared.

“Yoosung, what are you doing woke this late?” “MC, what happened to you?” you were both staring at each other as you two were criminals getting caught.

You explained everything about being called last minute when you just put your phone to recharge and that make up being part of the number.

He sighed in relief: “I was about to go look for you, MC!” “Really? How brave of you! You deserve a prize after I take this off.” He got so excited he wouldn’t really mind the makeup…

Jaehee

You were at the café working when you got the call

Of course she didn’t oppose to you leaving sooner and going to the theatre, though she really wanted to go with you and watch you, but she needed to stay at the café

So she closed the café and decided to proceed on a little paperwork, usually you work on this so she doesn’t have bad memories of her days at C & R.

And she wanted to help you with this so you wouldn’t get worried after the long day you were probably having, but she remembered how boring this was, and ended up sleeping.

She woke up with the sound of the café door being open… A burglar? Not on her watch!

It was dark, she just saw this weird figure and used her judo skills to give this person a ippon.

“Ouch, Jaehee! Are you that mad with me for being late?” oh no… this voice… she promptly run to find the light switch and find you on the floor.

“MC, I’m so sorry! I… I… what happened to your face?” you didn’t fall with your face on the floor, she was pretty sure…

She was still worried, she completely forgot that she couldn’t really have hurt you bad with just a simple ippon…not that you tried to calm her down, you were just happy she was hugging you this much…

Jumin

He got home after a business trip longing to find you and Elizabeth the 3rd

Only the cat was there. He was happy to see her, but he would be happier if you were here… where could you be?

He tried to get a hold of you, nothing. He asked the bodyguards and when they told where you were, he managed to calm down a little, but still… it was very late…

How would you come back home? He already dismissed Driver Kim’s services for the night.

Should he drive himself? He was willing to, if that meant you would be safe… but you wouldn’t be safe with him driving, that’s a paradox!

He listened to the door being open and saw Elizabeth tensing up, what was she seeing?

He activated the security system, a loud alarm went off, but there was another sound… he knew this voice…

He went to the living room, finding very confused bodyguard staring at you painted face. What were they supposed to do? Was this a fashion emergency?

“Jumin, what’s going on?” “You tell me, MC. I was worried wondering how you would come home…” “And what setting the alarm has to do with this?” the bodyguards were thinking the same, though none of them would ever dare to say something.

When everything was solved, you two were cuddling when you noticed his back and shoulders all tense, yours were pretty sore too. “Scratch my back if I scratch yours?” you asked playfully rubbing his shoulders in an attempt of massage, he smirked at you and you knew what that meant, he had another way to relax in mind…

Saeyoung

He spent the whole afternoon locked in his office and completely lost track of time.

He was hungry for food and for your company, he found a little bento box in the fridge, but couldn’t find you.

That was weird. And when he realized it was very late, he got worried.

He tracked your phone, it was a little harder since it was turn off, but nothing that complicated.

Apparently, you were on your way home. Thank God! He needed to take a shower and look presentable to you…

He was taking his clothes off when he heard the front door being open. You? No, according to GPS, you were still a little far, you couldn’t be here this fast… an intruder!?

He turned the lights off to face you with this weird make up on. He couldn’t help yelping in scare, pointing the taser gun at you.

“Saeyoung! Calm down! It’s me!” you said raising your arms like you were surrendering.

“M-MC? How did you get here that fast?” “One of my friends gave me a ride. Did you really think I was going to come here by foot?” well, he didn’t think much, he just missed you and wanted o look and smell good to you, and… oh shit! Now you both notice he has just his boxer briefs on…

“My eyes are up here, MC.” He teases you, and you smirk. “Were you about to take a shower? Maybe we can take one together and you can help me wipe this off and…” he didn’t even let you finish, he threw his underwear at you and ran to the bathroom, telling you to hurry~

Saeran

He was starting to get annoyed, where the hell were you?

How long do these things last? Did you really have to work this late? Ugh… he hated being worried like this, but he couldn’t help it.

And when he tracked you and realized your phone was dead… ugh! Would he really have to scold you for being that irresponsible? He didn’t want to pick up a fight, but you were impossible sometimes!

He slept in the couch waiting for you, being this annoyed was very tiring sometimes…

You came in and noticed him, your heart fluttered… he looked so adorable and peaceful. Would he wake up if you gave him a little smooch?

He woke up with this hideous face very close to his and pulled you away, scared.

“Saeran? It’s me! What’s wrong?” oh… this voice… shit! He was ready to punch this weird figure, could he imagine if he ever hurt you like this?

“I have to ask you the same! What were you doing? And… what happened to your face? Have you lost a bet or some shit like this?” he tried to hold back a laugh, but it was impossible. You rolled your eyes and chuckled a little.

“I didn’t want to wake you up, but you looked so cute, I wanted to kiss you. I’m sorry…” now his heart was fluttering, you were the cute one here, for fuck’s sake.

“Well, take that thing off and you can do much more than kiss me. Hurry, I’m waiting.” He said, heading to the bedroom

[libertariantaoist]

As a storm breaks over Washington, and the details of foreign “collusion” and  intrigue over the 2016 presidential election break out into the  open, I just happened to be re-reading Gore Vidal’s The Golden  Age, a novel set in the run up to World War II in which pretty much  the same plot line plays out on the same terrain.

The novel is a reminder that nothing has really changed since 1940, except  in terms of scale. Washington is still teeming with agents of various foreign  powers, and, as in Vidal’s novel, the British intelligence organization plays  a key  role, but then again the book is set before our much touted “seventeen  intelligence agencies” were founded. Vidal takes us through the drawing  rooms and editorial offices of Washington, listening in on conversations between  characters both real and imagined. It’s as if the National Security Agency was  operating at a time when computers existed only in the realm of science fiction,  scooping up all our data and giving us a bird’s eye view of how the world works.

The reader meets Wendell Wilkie, the “barefoot boy” from Wall Street, his antipode,  the isolationist Senator Bob Taft, mastermind British agent Ernest Cuneo,  Walter Winchell, Drew Pearson, H. L. Mencken, and of course Franklin and Eleanor  Roosevelt. The First Couple are at the center of it all, pulling strings invisible  to the American people but all too obvious to the Washington insiders, who scheme,  gossip, and fornicate as they march the rest of the country into the inferno  of World War II.

The city is a battlefield largely occupied by the British, who are determined  to get us into the war and spare no details in their elaborate campaign. The  interventionist Wilkie is their man, a marionette made to order by the British  Security Coordination, which deploys a series of ingeniously dirty tricks  to get their man the nomination, and thus block the antiwar Taft from giving  the American people a choice at the ballot box. Juicy nuggets of historical  detail are thrown into the novelistic mix, e.g., the story of the powerful isolationist  Senator Arthur Vandenberg, whose turnabout was due to his seduction by a British  Mata Hari. The result is a panoramic view of how America was invaded and conquered  by a foreign power and pushed into a world war while the isolationist hinterland  slept.

“We shall have it all!” exclaims Harry Hopkins, Roosevelt’s Svengali, and when  he’s asked what is “it,” he replies: “The world.” The Golden Age is the  story of America on the road to empire, and how the American people were dragged,  kicking and screaming, down that bloody highway. Today, having reached our destination,  we’re smack in the middle of what seems very much like a work by Vidal, the  posthumous capstone of his series of historical novels  chronicling the progression of our old republic into a bloated imperium.

The drama now playing out in the headlines has all the same elements: foreign  agents plotting to sway the nation’s destiny, the looming threat of war, and  dirty tricks aplenty. Speaking of which: just how, exactly, did the three anonymous  sources cited by the New York Times come to possess Donald Trump, Jr.’s  emails? It is a measure of the Deep State’s desperation that, by this device,  they have blown their cover and openly, brazenly, come out as the coup plotters  they are. Yes, rumors abound that the sources are in the White House, and this  may be superficially true: but of course, unlike Don Junior, the actual sources  are smart enough to use go-betweens.

As the machinations and murky allegiances of various swamp creatures come to  light, the main players are so much like the characters out of a novel that  one wonders if Vidal isn’t up there – or, perhaps, down there – pounding away  at some supernatural word-processor, his creation demonically translated into  real events.

There is Don Junior, the fresh-faced and rather obtuse presidential progeny,  who walks straight into the arms of the clownish Bob Goldstone,  a former British tabloid journalist and events promoter, who set up the fateful  meeting. There is Natalia  Veselnitskaya, a Russian lawyer who previously worked with Fusion GPS, the  dirty tricks firm employed by the Never Trump crowd that came up with the salacious  “dirty  dossier,” claiming that Trump had been compromised by Russian intelligence.

As Ernest Cuneo put it in The Golden Age, he had to play “both sides  of the fence” in order to pull off the hijacking his British paymasters required,  and this old ploy may well have played out in this instance.

There’s the matter of  how Veselnitskaya got into the country, having been initially denied a visa  by the State Department and then given special dispensation allowing entry.  In her affidavit stating why she should be allowed to enter, she said that she  was representing a Russian company, Prevezon, in a money-laundering case brought  by the US Department of Justice. In this task she was working alongside Fusion GPs, which had been  hired by Prevezon to assist in the case. No doubt Veselnitskaya’s history with  the folks at Fusion GPs will eventually come out, but they are resisting  demands for documents by Sen. Chuck Grassley, citing their First Amendment rights  as “journalists.” Given what “journalists” have become these days, one can see  their point regardless of the legal technicalities.

As for the incriminating email itself, which – in a burst of novelistic drama  worthy of Vidal – was posted along with a statement  by Don Junior, its explicitness  renders it laughably suspicious. Goldstone informs Junior that he has some juicy  information on Hillary’s canoodling with the Russians and that the Russian Crown  Prosecutor – their Attorney General – is prepared to release “some official  documents” attesting to this. “This is obviously very high level and sensitive  information,”says Goldstone, “but it’s part of Russia’s and its government’s  support for Mr. Trump.”

Do I detect a note mockery in Goldstone’s missive? You’d have to be deaf, dumb,  and blind to miss it. Yes, he says, this material is “sensitive,” but I’m going  to reveal the identity and motivations of the source in writing, for the record,  so that it can exist in cyberspace forever, a message to posterity saying: There’s  one born every minute!

The ghost of Gore Vidal isn’t the only one who’s laughing.

The outcome of all this is so predictable that it reads like the kind of script  war propagandists have been churning out since the days chronicled in The  Golden Age, where Hollywood’s role as the War Party’s instrument is deftly  dramatized. The narrative goes like this: evil Trump populists plot with our  “adversary,” Russia, to steal the election from the rightful winner, as a White  House inhabited by traitors hands the country over to Putin the All-Powerful.  Whatever comes out later – the Fusion-Veselnitskaya connection, the real motives  of the deliberately stupid Goldstone, the original source of the Goldstone-Junior  correspondence – will get lost in the general impression that Trump is some  kind of Manchurian candidate, or at least a “useful idiot,” as the old cold  warriors used to say.

Indeed, Michael Hayden, the former chief of both the CIA and the National Security  Agency – which is the probable source of the Goldstone-Junior emails – called  Trump exactly  that. The script was written months ago, when it became apparent that Trump  would be the nominee – and that he had a real chance of becoming President.  Now it is being played out, in all its melodramatic vulgarity.

And while this may be strictly a grade-B production, the producers and financiers  behind the show are likely to get some good box office, with multitudinous investigations,  commissions of inquiry, and a full-court press. Thus they’ll accomplish their  primary objective – blocking any rapprochement with Russia, and heightening  tensions to the breaking point – while laying the groundwork for Trump’s political  demise. The question we’ll be hearing continuously from the media, which will  be doing the oppo research for Rep. Adam Schiff and his fellow grand inquisitors,  is: What did Trump know, and when did he know it?

Republicans will fall back on the probable truth that there’s nothing  illegal about “collusion” with a foreign power: our lawmakers regularly  collude with foreign lobbyists, some of whom are undoubtedly foreign agents  (registered and not-so-registered), with Rep. Schiff being a prominent example.  His  relationship with a Ukrainian arms dealer is less well-known than it ought  to be.

The “it’s not illegal” argument, however, won’t pass scrutiny where it counts:  in the court of public opinion, and among the chattering classes. The latter  are already our most vocal Never Trumpers, but their increased vehemence, broadcast  far and wide, will echo throughout the country, with consequences that bode  ill for the cause of peace, détente, and a rational foreign policy.

“What should American policy be toward Putin’s Russia?,” asks Cathy Young in  her Reason magazine polemic  arguing for a new cold war with Russia. In what is the only true statement in  her 7,000-word screed, she writes: “The answer to that question depends, above  all, on your view of America’s role in the world and of how broadly America’s  national interest should be defined.”

Well, at least it’s a half-truth. For the answer to that question as it relates  to Russia is to be found at the end of an inquiry into the real nature and intentions  of the Russian leadership We must ask: What does Russia want?

According to the embittered Russian immigrants who play an inordinate role  in the policy debate, Putin’s Russia is an authoritarian nightmare, where the  regime slaughters journalists with clocklike regularity and Putin the All-Powerful  exercises even more control over the brain-deadened Russian populace than he  does over the Trump administration. The Russian media is totally controlled,  elections are rigged, and the secret police take care of anyone who raises his  or her head with ruthless dispatch.

The fact that more Russian journalists died under mysterious circumstances  under  Boris Yeltsin, Putin’s “pro-Western” predecessor, than during the sixteen  years of the All-powerful One’s reign, is ignored, as are the contradictions  in the neoconservative narrative. On the one hand, we are told that there are  no fair elections in Russia, and in any case the Russian media has so indoctrinated  the people that dissent is hopelessly marginalized, and on the other hand they  say Putin is mortally afraid of being ousted by Western-backed “dissidents,”  whose numbers are growing daily.

Yet this is just the build-up, the demonization process that is the prelude  to Putin’s full Hitler-ization. Taking off from the nonsensical premise that  all dictators are expansionist aggressors, ready to launch a war of conquest  at the first opportunity, while liberal democracy is inherently pacific, the  Russian leader’s character development morphs into a Genghis Khan-like figure.  Putin’s Golden Hordes are portrayed as massing at Russia’s borders, ready to  pounce in any direction – Ukraine, the Baltics, Georgia, or perhaps even Poland.  And just to make sure the Russians stay in character, a few provocations should  rouse the Russian bear.

Perhaps it will happen in Ukraine, where President Poroshenko is busily bombing  the citizens of the eastern provinces into submission. Unlike the Syrian scenario,  this movie is only playing in small art theaters: the official fiction is that  the sole resistance to Poroshenko’s dictates are Russian soldiers out of uniform.  The people of the Donbass have been erased, a green light for their  execution by the thousands. Or maybe one of those close calls will get much  closer, and the collision of a Russian fighter with one of our jets – over Syria?  The Baltics? Kalingrad? – will be the spark that sets the world aflame.

As the winds of Cold War II sweep the political landscape, support for peaceful  relations with Russia – never mind the de facto alliance envisioned by President  Trump – will freeze over. And the witch-hunt now focused on Trump and his immediate  circle will broaden, targeting anyone who challenges the central myth at the  heart of the Russophobic narrative: that Russia, a declining power that spends  one-tenth of our military budget, is aggressive by its very nature, and specifically  aims to topple the US from its pedestal. Of course, this view of Russia is highly  colored by the assumption that the US is and must continue to be the global  hegemonic power, a premise disputed by us anti-interventionists.

This premise is both unwise and untrue: not only is the United States effectively  bankrupt, but it has  failed to control world events, a capability to be expected of any proper global  hegemon. The “world order” we are constantly being told must be maintained simply  does not exist, as the wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria demonstrated to  anyone with eyes to see. The primacy of American military power is a fiction:  we haven’t won a war since the Japanese surrendered in World War II.

The reality is that we live in a multipolar world, not the unipolar fantasy  concocted by Francis  Fukuyama and his fellow neooconservative grandees. We have gone from a world  divided between two superpowers to a multipolar order, and Putin, the unsentimental  realist, is acting accordingly, while US policymakers have yet to make the necessary  transition.

Defeated by the United States and its allies – although one could argue, as  I have, that the Soviet Union was undone primarily by the impossibility of socialism  and its own inner contradictions – the post-Soviet Russian leadership is faced  with an Islamic insurgency that threatens to subvert the foundations of the  state. Not only the Chechen problem, but the wider conundrum bedeviling Putin  is how to deal with a Muslim population in the multi-millions in the age of  Islamist terrorism. Probably the majority of the core fighting terrorist force  in Syria has come from the Muslim areas of the Russian Federation – which is  why the Russians are now in Syria, seeking to eradicate them lest they come  home.

And so they turn to the alleged Keeper of the World Order, the target of the  9/11 hijackers’ wrath: we too, they say, are in the terrorists’ crosshairs,  as Beslan and the apartment bombings throughout Russia make the San Bernardino  and Orlando incidents in the US look like pinpricks. They turn to their old  enemies, those who brought down the Soviet empire and have now encircled it  despite solemn  promises from the Americans that this would not happen.

I don’t know what Putin, whom I’ve characterized as a realist, expected: surely  not the warm embrace of our deluded political class, and a national security  bureaucracy that has a vested interest in maintaining the illusion of American  hegemony. The Russians were rebuffed, for all sorts of reasons that had nothing  to do with real American interests, the main one being the overweening arrogance  of US policymakers, who chose not to be generous in victory.

The appearance of Donald Trump on the scene upset the plans of the policymakers,  who thought they were going to have a smooth road on their way to fatally overextending  and bankrupting their invincible empire. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could get  along with Russia?” This sentiment, repeatedly expressed by the GOP presidential  candidate, sent shivers down the spines of the bipartisan foreign policy establishment.

Upon hearing this, the Deep State pricked up its ears – and went into high  gear. Not just here in the US, but internationally: so far we know that the  intelligence services of Ukraine,  Estonia, and Britain were involved in a coordinated effort to destroy  Trump. No doubt there’s some contemporary version of Ernest Cuneo somewhere,  or a gaggle of Cuneos, managing the leaks, the false flags, the dirty tricks  according to a script that undergoes daily revisions.

We’re at the beginning of Act II, and it’s going to be a lengthy movie. In  any case, it’s a long way from the Goldstone-Junior emails to the DNC/Podesta  document dump, but given the guidance of Louise  Mensch and Adam Schiff, I’m sure the coup plotters will find their way.

In the face of all this, the real test for the President’s defenders will be  over the question of whether or not Russia is an “adversary,” or a potential  ally with interests congruent with our own. If the former, “collusion” – such  as it is – equals treason: if the latter, then it’s business-as-usual cooperation.

The GOP is divided over this, with the grassroots increasingly  amenable to the idea of détente, but the leadership – particularly in Congress  – is kneejerk hostile to all things Russian. Just as Trump’s presidential campaign,  which was actively opposed and sabotaged by the Republican mandarins on Capitol  Hill, owes its success to the Trumpian base, so success in fighting off this  assault on his legitimacy will depend on the administration standing up for  the ideas that got Trump elected. To fight effectively, Trump and his allies  must make the case that Russia is not necessarily an adversary, and that the  War Party is simply cashing in on a self-fulfilling prophecy.

This is unlikely to happen. An entire wing of the administration, in addition  to Obama era holdovers, is bitterly opposed to a Russian rapprochement, at the  center of which is H. R. McMaster, whose office over at the National Security  Council is a veritable  fifth column.  His ally, UN Ambassador Nikki Haley, runs her own foreign  policy, seemingly entirely detached from what comes out of the White House and  the State Department. McMaster represents the Army faction, which sees the “Russian  threat” as a way to funnel more tax dollars into an already bloated-beyond-all-measure  budget. Haley is a stand-in for the old internationalist eastern seaboard “moderate”  Republicans, who are anything but moderate when it comes to foreign policy:  think Wendell Wilkie in a dress.

With the McCain-Graham chorus yapping in the background, the GOP majority in  Congress will be hard-pressed not to override Trump’s veto of the incoming Russian  sanctions bill, an issue that will be to this era what the vote on Lend  Lease, or the repeal of the Neutrality Act was during the great debate of the  1940s. Whether Trump has the courage to veto, and withstand an energetic – nay,  hysterical – campaign to override remains to be seen. In any case, his decision  will be the measure of the man and his true character, and an indication of  whether his presidency will survive beyond a single term.

While the details of the “collusion” story will shift day-by-day, it’s best  not to get caught up in minutiae: surely the public will soon tire of this plot  line. The real battle is over policy, and the question of America’s role in  the world. Do we want to run an empire that brooks no rivals and take up the  burden of enforcing the “world order”? Vidal imagined Harry Hopkins exclaiming  “We shall have it all!” Do we want or need it all? Is that even possible?

Trump and his supporters cannot avoid asking – and answering – these questions  if they want to avoid defeat and political extinction. It’s as simple as that.  This administration has been at war from the beginning, and there is no avoiding  it. One may not be interested in war, as Leon Trotsky is reputed to have said,  but war is most definitely interested in you. They can’t win the war without  making the case for détente.

The Deep State and its attendant swamp creatures play for keeps. The only way  to defeat them is on the battlefield of ideas, not by hemming and hawing about  matters of law. It must be made clear that the War Party wants to criminalize  policy differences: they want to shut down debate, because they know that’s  a battle they can’t win. Despite years of strenuous propaganda aimed at painting  Putin’s Russia as a modern Mordor, the American people aren’t interested in  launching a new cold war. They’ve had enough of war, which is the key reason  why  Trump won in the first place. If Trump & Co. can keep on this message,  they will win. Otherwise they are headed for the dustbin of history.

[theleftoverurl]

Whew what a day! I got up and had some breakfast with Kate. Veronica has a habit of buying fancy yummy food and then not quite managing to eat it before the due by date, and she had a tub of mango and passionfruit yoghurt in the fridge (the proper type, which has seeds and orangey-yellowy goodness strewn through it) that had gone off a week before that had barely just been opened (by Kate incidentally). I have been jealously eyeing it every time I open the fridge (as I take out and consume my bland vanilla Greek yoghurt) so it was actually pretty exciting to have the opportunity to get to eat it (you know you’ve hit a high point of your life when you are keen to eat week-old yoghurt) with some grapes, an overripe banana and the rest of my raspberries.

Filled with goodness, I started to type up my assignment case. It was actually surprisingly hard – I have been putting off choosing a List A and List B subject for my assignment and so was just planning to quickly type up my patient’s case, but for some reason it was quite difficult to sort out all the information I had on her into their appropriate sections of her history, to eliminate the unnecessary information and to put it all into more professional, formal medical writing. It frustrates me that I find it so easy to explain things in plain English and with verbal communication but when it comes to written communication, especially in formal language using appropriate terminology, it all falls apart a bit. Anyway, I was therefore glad when Daniel messaged me half an hour before I was due to leave for hospital to ask me to come in early to eat lunch with him.

I hopped onto the bus and made my way to the hospital common room. As I crossed the zebra crossing to the common room, I had an awkward encounter where a car stopped for me to cross as it should, but a bus going in the opposite direction didn’t, so I had to wait to cross the road and the car which stopped for me also had to wait for the bus. The impatient driver then started to motion at me to cross without looking at the bus which was obstructing my way, and so I pointed at the bus and he didn’t look so must’ve just thought I was stupid or something so rolled his window down to abuse me. Irritating. Luckily, I had my headphones in loud, so I didn’t have to hear the abuse.

Daniel had cooked me a dark rice noodle which was quite salty but very nice (he said it was under-cooked, but I really did not notice at all) and it had egg and kai-lan which was delicious. It was hilariously ironic that once again the portion-size was too big so we were both unable to finish our meals and I Ching, Will and Leonard (but mainly Leonard) had to chip in to help us finish the noodles before class, given that the reason that Daniel is even cooking for me in the first place is that he has unrealistic expectations of portion size.

We were 5 minutes late for class and had no excuse, so I think Professor O’Sullivan was distinctly unimpressed. I was sort of looking forward to case discussion because even though I didn’t have a case, I had studied ahead to the CMT tomorrow, so I felt like I was a little bit ahead knowledge-wise but as usual I was wrong, and I couldn’t really contribute a lot to the discussion. I just don’t have the wide knowledge necessary for differentials and I really need to practice thinking in that way and problem solving what patients could potentially have. I think it may be just lack of effort on my part and inability to connect the pathology to the anatomy because my anatomy is so bad, but I don’t feel as lost content-wise still as I did in Phase 1 and I feel as if I can easily fix this by improving my study technique.

After case discussion, Kuheli had an ortho clinic so she pretty much fled the room at 1:30 sharp and Will wanted to go see a GP because there’s something wrong with his ears, so I thought I would be alone on the train home. Luckily, I had to go visit my assignment patient first and Zet was going to the same ward, so he would catch the train home (for once) and so we could go to the ward together and then home. My patient was sleeping when I arrived, but she was woken up for handover, so I still got the opportunity to say hello to her. Her daughter was with her again and I am glad that she has such good social support. I checked her notes on eMR and her brain CT was clear (information I disclosed to the patient on the downlow when I probably shouldn’t have given I’m not actually the doctor oops) and she seemed in good spirits but her daughter reported that she had been confused lately and hadn’t slept well because the patient in the bed next to her was a snorer. She is going for a pleuridoses later where they drain the fluid in her lungs and then irritate the tissue until it inflames and sticks the lungs to the chest wall (sounds painful) and is going to get a biopsy to see if it’s cancer. Her daughter and her are hopeful that she will be going home especially in time for Easter, but I feel like that’s unlikely because she must get the pleuridoses and that will keep her in hospital for at least the next 48 hours so if she is discharged it will be in the nick of time. I’ve really enjoyed seeing the same patient regularly, even though I haven’t I feel like we have bonded and her seeing a friendly face regularly was good for her – I feel like patients don’t get checked up on and asked how they are nearly often enough, but also fair enough because the nurses must be way too busy. I shouldn’t see her again because I’m headed to Tamworth and am not returning to hospital until the end of Easter break, so I hope that she’s not still in hospital when I return but I will think of her and remember her just because I followed her case closely and saw her more than once.

One of the nurses needed one of her files for handover so I only had one to check and there wasn’t a lot to add to my personal notes, so I just hung around and waited for Zet to finish copying down information about his patient. Then we headed to the station together. It was fun to chat to him on the train, he is friendly and very complimentary about my role in bringing the hospital group together by organizing events, which was a nice boost to the ego. I learned a bit about his girlfriend in Malaysia and we just generally chatted which was nice because I really like him and haven’t really bonded much with him because he was sick before with Influenza B.

Once he had left me to take his bus home, I was waiting at the bus stop when my sporadic recovering cough started up again. The lady sitting at the stop next to me purposely angled herself away from me and edged further away with each cough which was a bit offensive really because I wasn’t even coughing in her direction and I wasn’t doing it on purpose. But then turns out she was digging in her handbag for a eucalyptus drop which she gave to me and watched me eat. She said she had been sick with the flu recently, so she had them on hand and wanted me to have it. I thanked her and ate it even though I hate eucalyptus-flavoured things and really did not want to put it in my mouth. Then we boarded the bus and I had to sit the entire bus ride back with it burning a hole in my cheek and filling my mouth with its terrible taste every time I switched it between cheeks. Very unpleasant.

I spat it in the bin as soon as I got off the bus and headed to Coles to buy the groceries for cooking tonight. I was shocked at the price of ribs (so expensive!) and disappointed that Coles doesn’t appear to sell Chia pods, but I bought plenty of snacks and ingredients for dinner and that was uneventful. Then at the bus stop, this elderly lady struck up a conversation by asking me if I had been riding (confusing, because where would I have been riding? Centennial Park? The Racecourse? Do I look like a jockey?) and I replied that I was a med student hence my outfit. She was excited by this because her 2 children were healthcare professionals – her daughter is a neurologist in London and her son is a psychiatrist. I asked her if they enjoyed their jobs and she told me that her daughter loved her job, but it was a bit draining for her son being surrounded by sad people all the time. At this point the bus came and turns out we were on the same bus, so we were able to continue our conversation on the bus. I learned she lives on Beach St. by the Pav and that she used to work in finance and worked as a financial manager in Thailand for 5 years. Because there was nowhere on the bus to put my groceries down, I was holding them at an awkward angle, and by then my constant shifting meant that they were taking on more and more awkward angles as they jostled against each other. By the time we reached the Spot, my block of butter had gone rogue and fallen out of its plastic bag, along with a receipt and the elderly man sitting on my other side tried to help me pick it up. The elderly lady was keen to help me by offering me another plastic bag (I didn’t need one because the butter had just fallen out of the bag, the bag hadn’t broken or anything) and busied herself digging in her backpack for her spare one – meanwhile the elderly man offered me one of his spare plastic bags (do all elderly people just have spare plastic bags lying around or something?) and took this as his opportunity to start talking to me about how useless the plastic bags at Coles are and how often they break and that I should purchase one of those green linen ones from the counter as they were only a dollar etc. etc. Thankfully by the end of this conversation it was time to get off the bus because I had done more than enough socializing with elderly people for the day. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed it and it did help me pass the time, but I was a bit drained by the long day by this point. The lady said I might see her by the beach one time and I think that would be funny, but I doubt I’d recognize her again by this point.

Then it was time to cook my barbecue-flavour ribs and the fennel rocket salad and the rice. Cooking has gotten progressively faster and sort of easier, but I rang my mum as I did it which added a bit to the challenge. Mum was in good spirits but was really concerned by the fact that I was oven-roasting the ribs instead of braising them because she said they’d just dry out, so she pressured me into cooking them the way we cook roast lamb and adding wine, chicken stock and onions to the bottom to add moisture. I was a bit worried about it being too wet and the conflicting tastes when added to the marinade, but I went along with it. Apart from that the cooking went quite well and mum hung up by the time Kate came home so it was like I was never alone :’). Lucky Kate came back when she did because my ribs weren’t cooking so well but Kate helped me line them along the side of the tin so that they would cook better. They tasted fantastic which was great, and the moisture didn’t really all absorb but it could then be poured on the rice for more flavour as well as some extra red onion to eat so it was all very good.

Dinner with the fam was nice and Veronica did the dishes (I noticed) because Josh had an assignment due. Afterwards the three of us headed down to Coog for a quick walk which was nice. Kate wanted to go to the Pav but I had gone barefoot and without my wallet so that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Instead we wandered back up past Little Jack Horner’s where they had a live performer playing. Kate wanted his contact for her birthday, so I got his card. We stopped at an ATM for Veronica to withdraw money and we offered/were asked to speak at Kate’s 21st which will be exciting but also scary. I have to write a funny speech, so I better get thinking of funny things that Kate has done – it’s just hard to think of them but even though she’s a very straight person I’m sure we’ve done funny things. Surely. The pressure’s on anyway. Then we wandered into Woolworths because Veronica wanted ice creams. Kate and her both bought boxes and I mooched a Maxibon off Veronica even though I really did not need it given I was about to bake a cake when we got back. I had a coughing fit towards the top of the hill near our house and I was so worried I’d vomit the Maxibon out but I managed to hold it all in.

Then I baked my raspberry coconut cake (which will be very flat because it’s in a rectangular cake tin) while Kate does watercolour painting in her room – potentially for class? I am unsure. The cake smells good and the batter tasted lit, so I am pumped. We have some random pop music that seems to future primarily women in it playing and I am sitting on her bed typing this out. Now I’m going to go check up on the cake and post this before heading to bed.

Tomorrow’s another busy day, I have 2 classes and I may be hanging out with Will, plus I’m catching up with Cate at Max Brenner and the Malaysians are throwing a Hotpot Night for the hospital group! I am excited. ‘Till next time!