#would happen again. he suggested a Speed Queen because they will last for decades. especially in a household of 2

[creations-by-chaosfay]

Final pictures of the Halloween Dream pair, a commission for @buttercupyarnart. Unfortunately, my husband decided that since we were out of color catcher sheets (used to catch bleeding dye) and instead just used salt to set the dye and prevent future bleeding, he's going to wash it anyway. The black fabric bled everywhere, and salt set it, as well as heat from the dryer. There is nothing I can do, and I am rightfully angered by his carelessness.

We use a laundromat, which is expensive even though it's the lowest cost one he could find. It's why I don't prewash fabric. When we have our own washing machine*, this won't be an issue.

Okay, now for pictures.

Closeups

The mini quilt

Closeups

He'll be getting color catcher sheets before doing laundry next week, no worries about that.

But 76 hours of work, ruined by his carelessness.

[frenemies-to-lovers]

I Can Wait | Cardan POV Missing QoN Scene

A short Cardan POV in which we find out where he slept while Jude was recovering during QoN. Also, a conversation between Cardan and the Bomb, who absolutely knows exactly what is going on.

---

Having delivered The Ghost into the Bomb’s custody, and having confirmed with my guard that the queen has retired to the royal rooms, I find myself settling at the head of the enormous strategy table with a pot of tea. . .  and a goblet of wine. I had hoped to bring Jude to see the strategy room, along with the rest of the new Court of Shadows, but there hadn’t been time. Of course Jude would immediately redirect every half-formed plan of mine from the moment she had been up and walking again. It’s what she does best, taking the reins and steering my life in whichever direction she deems fit. 

(Read on AO3)

I hadn’t thought I could have been more relieved to see her getting herself entangled in the middle of court politics than I had been when she snuck into my chambers and, without so much as a hello, launched into plans to thwart Balekin and Orlagh after having been returned from the Undersea. But seeing her up and in the middle of court business again today, after having seen her wounded and bleeding and so near to death, was its own kind of magic. I feel like I am able to let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding for quite so long. 

I take a sip of wine and press my hand to my face where she slapped me. There’s no visible wound anymore, but it is still a little tender to the touch. A physical reminder that it had actually happened, that she is awake and alive and feeling enough like herself to be angry at me. I hadn’t expected to be so overwhelmed by seeing her storming around the gardens, full of fire.  But after haunting the royal chambers for days and seeing nothing but her too-still unconscious body and her occasional restless dreams, being slapped felt like a relief. 

I know she doesn’t trust me, and that she may not trust me for a very, very long time. But she hadn’t pulled away when I reached for her hand. I try not to think too hard about the way it felt to have her walk through the halls by my side, as my queen. And as I take another long sip of wine, I try very hard not to think too much about her sleeping in my bed.

After some time, The Bomb comes in and takes a seat, her chair pulled far enough back that she can prop her feet on the table. She gives me a knowing look from the corner of her eye. 

“Are you sleeping in the spymaster’s quarters again tonight? There’s a whole palace that belongs to you, you know. And some royal rooms that, although they are very well guarded, I think you could manage to sneak into,” she suggests, not facing me but giving me a sly smile nonetheless. 

“Just because she is my wife doesn’t mean she wants me sneaking into her room. . .”

“Your room,” she cuts me off with a wink. Did I really just refer to the royal chambers as Jude’s room? 

“The room where she’s sleeping,” I amend. “And... bothering her. Especially while she’s still healing from a sword fight with her redcap father. And then a subsequent fall from the rafters during an ill-conceived plan that was meant to protect me.” 

“You two need to talk,” she sighs, exasperated. 

I like that she speaks to me this way. Having been first Dain’s spy, and then Jude’s, she does not speak to me as a courtier would. I usually like her lack of deference, but her current directness has reminded me of everything Jude and I did discuss today. And how suspicious Jude may always be of my intentions.  Deservedly so.

“We did talk,” I say sullenly, and realize that my wine is gone. Reminding myself that no good has ever come of allowing myself to indulge too much, I start on the tea. I wish I enjoyed it as much as the wine. “She is angry with me. And I can’t say I blame her. And did I mention the part where she nearly died. . . very recently?”

The Bomb is still looking at me expectantly. She is a good spy. Observant. I assume she had noticed my worry and my pining during the time Jude was prisoner in the Undersea. Even if she hadn’t, she had been the first person to find me after Jude, pretending to be Taryn, had been taken by Madoc.  She had seen all of my panic. My rage. My desperation. It would have been obvious to anyone at that point, but my feelings for Jude were especially obvious to The Bomb.  Especially after I had consulted with her over and over about the kinds of things she thought Jude might want to include in the new Court of Shadows. Especially after I had sent her off to assist Jude rather than remain with me while I was actively dying from Balekin’s poisoning. 

The silence stretches on. And on. 

“You can stop looking at me like that. I am not sneaking off to press my luck with Jude while she is both injured and angry. Perhaps she will decide that ruling Elfhame alone is preferable to having to rule by my side.  She is more than capable of killing me with her bare hands, and I have given her good reason to do so.  I’m not certain I’m ready to provide her with the opportunity.” I might not mind her hands around my throat, but I’m trying to prioritize making her place as Queen feel secure over any of my ill-conceived desires.  As potent as those desires may be.

The Bomb sighs as she drops her feet from the table. “Very well, Your Majesty.  I have done all I can to speed Her Majesty’s healing.  She did seem more recovered today than I expected  -- especially for a mortal.” 

I think I want everyone to refer to Jude as Her Majesty at all times in my presence. I like the way it sounds. 

“I am certain we will all be relieved when our true spymaster is back in charge,” I manage to say in response. 

She makes her way to leave, but pauses at the door. “I have heard that Grima Mog knows a bit about healing elixirs -- a handy thing to know when you spend much of your time in battle. Although no one can help with Jude being angry, perhaps she can be of assistance with her recovery.”

With that, she leaves me to my thoughts and my tea. 

I stay for a long time, finishing the pot of tea and trying to unravel my thoughts, wondering how I can prove to Jude that I never wish for her to fear cruelty from me again. No answers come other than that she will need time to heal from the blows I have dealt as surely as she needs time to heal from her physical injuries. If I am lucky, she will recover swiftly from both. If not, I will wait. I can wait for her to be ready to forgive me.

I eventually leave the Court of Shadows and retire to the adjoining rooms, which the Bomb refers to as the spymaster’s chambers. I had them prepared for Jude, should she choose not to reside in the royal rooms. I had tried but could not find a way to connect her existing rooms to the new Court of Shadows. 

I stretch out on one side of the bed, picturing Jude in the space next to me. I remember the way we had tangled together in our exhaustion after exchanging our vows, lying together in the bed where she now sleeps. I close my eyes and remember her head on my shoulder, her hand resting lightly on my chest. Did she trust me then, only for me to ruin it? 

To be fair, she had just murdered my brother and conveniently not deigned to mention it.

I try to shove the uncomfortable thoughts away and get back to the memory of waking with her in my arms. But in my mind all I can see is the look in her eyes when she had slapped me, all fury and indignation. The look on her face when she told me she feared what I would do to her next. The way I could practically see her mind flitting through every unkind thing I had ever done to her. I find that, although they are not particularly comforting images, I am glad they have replaced the visions that have plagued me for days: her body plummeting from the rafters, her body in a pool of her own blood, her body lying motionless in my bed as I uselessly try to clean the blood from her hands. 

I fall asleep still touching the sore spot on my cheek.

AN: I hope you enjoyed this little scene that I could not get out of my head.  This is legit the first time I’ve written fanfiction in over a decade, and I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.  Which is why this was half-assedly posted from mobile last night for about an hour.

[theculturedmarxist]

Below is the story of my day touring Tema with Prince Philip, in this chapter from my book “The Catholic Orangemen of Togo”. You may be surprised to read that I rather liked him.

The African Queen

One morning I was sitting in the lounge at Devonshire House, with its fitted wool carpets and chintz sofas. I was drinking the tea that our steward, Nasser, had brought me. I heard movement in a corner of the room, and thought it must be Nasser cleaning there. But looking round, I saw nobody. Puzzled, I got up and walked towards that corner. Rounding a settee, I nearly stood upon a thin, green snake. About four feet long and just the thickness of your thumb, it was a bright, almost lime green colour. There was not much wedge shape to its head, which rather tapered from its neck. Its tongue was flickering toward me, perhaps a foot away, its head raised only slightly off the floor. I took a step backwards. In response it too retreated, at surprising speed, and zipped up the inside of the curtains.

I stood stock still and yelled “Nasser! Nasser!” This brought Nasser hurrying into the living room with Gloria, the cook. “Nasser, there’s a snake in the curtains!” Nasser and Gloria screamed, threw their arms in the air, and ran together into the kitchen and out the back door of the house. This was not altogether helpful.

I remained where I was to keep an eye on the snake, not wanting it to be lurking inside the house unseen. After a while the front door opened and somebody, presumably Nasser, threw in Nasser’s scruffy little dog. The dog was normally banned from the house, and celebrated this unexpected turn of events by immediately urinating against the hall table. Then the dog too ran into the kitchen and out of the back door.

Abandoning my watch, I went out and recruited the reluctant gardeners and gate guards. They armed themselves with long sticks and came in and beat the curtains until the snake fell onto the floor. As it sped for cover under a sofa, Samuel the youngest gardener got in a solid blow, and soon everyone was joining in, raining down blows on the twitching snake. They carried its disjointed body out on the end of a stick, and burnt it on a bonfire.

Everyone identified it as a green mamba. I was sceptical. Green mambas are among the world’s deadliest snakes, and I imagined them to look beefy like cobras, not whip thin and small headed like this. But a search on the agonisingly slow internet showed that indeed it did look very like a green mamba.

The important question arose of how it had entered the house. With air conditioning, the doors and windows were usually shut. Nasser seemed to have solved the mystery when he remarked that a dead one had been found last year inside an air conditioner. The unit had stopped working, and when they came to fix it they found a snake jammed in the mechanism. That seemed the answer; it had appeared just under a conditioner, and it seemed likely the slim snake had entered via the vent pipe, avoiding the fan as it crawled through the unit.

This was very worrying. If anti-venom was available (and we held a variety in the High Commission) an adult would probably survive a green mamba bite. But it would almost certainly be fatal to Emily, and possibly to Jamie.

A week or so later, I was constructing Emily’s climbing frame, which had arrived from the UK. A rambling contraption of rungs, slides, platforms and trampolines, it required the bolting together of scores of chrome tubes. I was making good progress on it and, as I lifted one walkway side into position above my head, a mamba slid out of the end of the tube, down my arm, round my belly and down my leg. It did this in no great hurry; it probably took four seconds, but felt like four minutes.

There was one terrible moment when it tried an exploratory nuzzle of its head into the waistband of my trousers, but luckily it decided to proceed down the outside to the ground. It then zig zagged across the lawn to nestle in the exposed tops of the roots of a great avocado tree. Again the mob arrived and beat it to death with sticks. I persuaded them to keep the body this time, and decided that definite action was needed.

I called in a pest control expert. I was advised to try the “Snake Doctor”. I was a bit sceptical, equating “Snake Doctor” with “Witch Doctor”, but when he arrived I discovered that this charming chubby Ghanaian really did have a PhD in Pest Control from the University of Reading. As Fiona had an MSc in Crop Protection from the same Department, they got on like a house on fire and it was difficult to get them away from cups of tea to the business in hand.

He confirmed that the dead snake really was a green mamba. We obviously had a colony. They lived in trees, and he advised us to clear an area of wasteland beyond the boundaries of our house, and build a high boundary wall of rough brick at the back, rather than the existing iron palings. He also suggested we cut down an avenue of some 16 huge mature trees along the drive. I was very sad, but followed this sensible advice. That removed the mamba problem from Devonshire House. But I continued to attract mambas on my travels around Ghana.

The second half of that first year in Ghana was to be almost entirely taken up with preparations for the State Visit of the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh in November 1999. A huge amount of work goes into organising such a visit; every move is staged and choreographed, designed for media effect. You need to know in advance just where everybody is going to be, who will move where when, and what they will say. You need to place and organise the media to best advantage. You need to stick within very strict rules as to what the Queen will or will not do. Most difficult of all, you have to agree all this with the host government.

I had been through it all quite recently, having paid a major part in the organisation of the State Visit to Poland in 1996. That had gone very well. The Poles regarded it as an important symbol that communism had been definitively finished. It was visually stunning, and at a time when the Royal Family was dogged with hostile media coverage, it had been their first unmixed positive coverage in the UK for ages. I had handled the media angles, and my stock stood very high in the Palace.

I am a republican personally; I was just doing my job. The Palace staff knew I was a republican, not least because I had turned down the offer of being made a Lieutenant of the Royal Victorian Order (LVO) after the Warsaw visit. I had earlier turned down the offer to be an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) after the first Gulf war.

Rawlings was delighted that the Queen was coming. He craved respectability and acceptance in the international community, which had been hard to come by after his violent beginnings. But he had turned his Provisional National Defence Council (PNDC) into a political party, the National Democratic Congress (NDC), and had fought elections in 1992 and 1996 against the opposition New Patriotic Party, which had an unbroken tradition running back to Nkrumah’s opponent J B Danquah and his colleague Kofi Busia. There were widespread allegations of vote-rigging, violence and intimidation, and certainly in 1992 the nation was still too cowed to engage in much open debate.

Even by 1999, social life was still inhibited by the fact that nobody except those close to the Rawlings would do anything that might be construed as an ostentatious display of life, while Rawlings had sustained and inflated the personality cult of Nkrumah still further (he is known as Osagyefo, “the conqueror”.) Open discussion of the disasters Nkrumah brought upon Ghana was almost impossible. It is still difficult for many Ghanaians today, after decades of brainwashing. As Rawlings had gradually liberalised society, the increasing freedom of the media, particularly the FM radio station, was giving a great boost to democracy. But there was still much prudent self-censorship. The media was particularly reticent about investigating governmental corruption.

The NDC government was massively corrupt. There was one gratuitous example which especially annoyed me. A company called International Generics, registered in Southampton, had got loans totalling over £30 million from the Royal Bank of Scotland to construct two hotels, La Palm and Coco Palm. One was on the beach next to the Labadi Beach Hotel, the other on Fourth Circular Road in Cantonments, on the site of the former Star Hotel. The loan repayments were guaranteed by the Export Credit Guarantee Department, at the time a British government agency designed to insure UK exporters against loss. In effect the British taxpayer was underwriting the export, and if the loan defaulted the British taxpayer would pay.

In fact, this is what happened, and the file crossed my desk because the British people were now paying out on defaulted payments to the Royal Bank of Scotland. So I went to look at the two hotels. I found La Palm Hotel was some cleared land, some concrete foundations, and one eight room chalet without a roof. Coco Palm hotel didn’t exist at all. In a corner of the plot, four houses had been built by International Generics. As the housing market in Accra was very strong, these had been pre-sold, so none of the loan had gone into them.

I was astonished. The papers clearly showed that all £31.5 million had been fully disbursed by the Royal Bank of Scotland, against progress and completion certificates on the construction. But in truth there was virtually no construction. How could this have happened?

The Chief Executive of International Generics was an Israeli named Leon Tamman. He was a close friend to, and a front for, Mrs Rawlings. Tamman also had an architect’s firm, which had been signing off completion certificates for the non-existent work on the hotel. Almost all of the £30 million was simply stolen by Tamman and Mrs Rawlings.

The Royal Bank of Scotland had plainly failed in due diligence, having paid out on completion of two buildings, one not started and one only just started. But the Royal Bank of Scotland really couldn’t give a toss, because the repayments and interest were guaranteed by the British taxpayer. Indeed I seemed to be the only one who did care.

The Rawlings had put some of their share of this looted money towards payments on their beautiful home in Dublin. I wrote reports on all this back to London, and specifically urged the Serious Fraud Office to prosecute Tamman and Mrs Rawlings. I received the reply that there was no “appetite” in London for this.

Eventually La Palm did get built, but with over $60 million of new money taken this time from SSNIT, the Ghanaian taxpayers social security and pension fund. Coco Palm never did get built, but Tamman continued to develop it as a housing estate, using another company vehicle. Tamman has since died. The loans were definitively written off by the British government as part of Gordon Brown’s HIPC debt relief initiative.

That is but one example of a single scam, but it gives an insight into the way the country was looted. The unusual feature on this one was that the clever Mr Tamman found a way to cheat the British taxpayer, via Ghana. I still find it galling that the Royal Bank of Scotland also still got their profit, again from the British taxpayer.

So while the State Visit was intended as a reward to Jerry Rawlings for his conversion to democracy and capitalism, I had no illusions about Rawlings’ Ghana. I was determined that we should use the Queen’s visit to help ensure that Rawlings did indeed leave power in January 2001. According to the constitution, his second and final four year term as elected President expired then (if you politely ignored his previous decade as a military dictator). We should get the Queen to point him towards the exit.

Buckingham palace sent a team on an initial reconnaissance visit. It was led by an old friend of mine, Tim Hitchens, Assistant Private Secretary to the Queen, who had joined the FCO when I did. We identified the key features of the programme, which should centre around an address to Parliament. A walkabout might be difficult; Clinton had been almost crushed in Accra by an over-friendly crowd in a situation which got out of control. A school visit to highlight DFID’s work would provide the “meet the people” photo op, otherwise a drive past for the larger crowds. Key questions were identified as whether the Queen should visit Kumasi to meet Ghana’s most important traditional ruler, the Asantehene, and how she should meet the leader of the opposition, John Kufuor. Rawlings was likely to be opposed to both.

The recce visit went very well, and I held a reception for the team before they flew back to London. Several Ghanaian ministers came, and it ended in a very relaxed evening. Tim Hitchens commented that it was the first time he had ever heard Queen and Supertramp at an official function before. It turned out that we had very similar musical tastes.

Planning then took place at quite high intensity for several months. There were regular meetings with the Ghanaian government team tasked to organise the visit, headed by head of their diplomatic service Anand Cato, now Ghanaian High Commissioner to the United Kingdom. We then had to visit together all the proposed venues, and walk through the proposed routes, order of events, seating plans etc.

From the very first meeting between the two sides, held in a committee room at the International Conference Centre, it soon became obvious that we had a real problem with Ian Mackley. The High Commissioner had been very high-handed and abrupt with the visiting team from Buckingham Palace, so much so that Tim Hitchens had asked me what was wrong. I said it was just his manner. But there was more to it than that.

In the planning meetings, the set-up did not help the atmosphere. There were two lines of desks, facing each other. The British sat on one side and the Ghanaians on the other, facing each other across a wide divide. The whole dynamic was one of confrontation.

I have sat through some toe-curling meetings before, but that first joint State visit planning meeting in Accra was the worst. It started in friendly enough fashion, with greetings on each side. Then Anand Cato suggested we start with a quick run-through of the programme, from start to finish. “OK, now will the Queen be arriving by British Airways or by private jet?” asked Anand. “She will be on one of the VC10s of the Royal Flight” said Ian. “Right, that’s better. The plane can pull up to the stand closest to the VIP lounge. We will have the convoy of vehicles ready on the tarmac. The stairs will be put to the door, and then the chief of protocol will go up the stairs to escort the Queen and her party down the stairs, where there will be a small reception party…” “No, hang on there” interjected Ian Mackley, “I will go up the stairs before the chief of protocol.” “Well, it is customary for the Ambassador or High Commissioner to be in the receiving line at the bottom of the aircraft steps.” “Well, I can tell you for sure that the first person the Queen will want to see when she arrives in the country will be her High Commissioner.” “Well, I suppose you can accompany the chief up the steps if you wish…” “And my wife.” “Pardon?” “My wife Sarah. She must accompany me up the steps to meet the Queen.” “Look, it really isn’t practical to have that many people going on to an already crowded plane where people are preparing to get off…” “I am sorry, but I must insist that Sarah accompanies me up the stairs and on to the plane.” “But couldn’t she wait at the bottom of the steps?” “Absolutely not. How could she stand there without me?” “OK, well can we then mark down the question of greeting on the plane as an unresolved issue for the next meeting?” “Alright, but our side insists that my wife…” “Yes, quite. Now at the bottom of the steps Her Majesty will be greeted by the delegated minister, and presented with flowers by children.” “Please make sure we are consulted on the choice of children.” “If you wish. There will be national anthems, but I suggest no formal inspection of the Guard of Honour? Then traditional priests will briefly make ritual oblations, pouring spirits on the ground. The Queen will briefly enter the VIP lounge to take a drink.” “That’s a waste of time. Let’s get them straight into the convoy and off.” “But High Commissioner, we have to welcome a visitor with a drink. It is an essential part of our tradition. It will only be very brief.” “You can do what you like, but she’s not entering the VIP lounge. Waste of time.” “Let’s mark that down as another issue to be resolved. Now then, first journey…”

The meeting went on for hours and hours, becoming increasingly ill tempered. When we eventually got to the plans for the State Banquet, it all went spectacularly pear-shaped as it had been threatening to do. “Now we propose a top table of eight. There will be the President and Mrs Rawlings, Her Majesty and the Duke of Edinburgh, The Vice President and Mrs Mills, and Mr and Mrs Robin Cook.” Ian positively went purple. You could see a vein throbbing at the top left of his forehead. He spoke as though short of breath. “That is not acceptable. Sarah and I must be at the top table”. “With respect High Commissioner, there are a great many Ghanaians who will feel they should be at the top table. As we are in Ghana, we feel we are being hospitable in offering equal numbers of British and Ghanaians at the top table. But we also think the best plan is to keep the top table small and exclusive.” “By all means keep it small,” said Ian, “but as High Commissioner I must be on it.” “So what do you suggest?” asked Anand. “Robin Cook” said Ian “He doesn’t need to be on the top table.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Neither could Anand. “I don’t think you are being serious, High Commissioner” he said. “I am entirely serious” said Ian. “I outrank Robin Cook. I am the personal representative of a Head of State. Robin Cook only represents the government.”

I decided the man had taken leave of his senses. I wondered at what stage can you declare your commanding officer mad and take over, like on The Cain Mutiny? Anand was obviously thinking much the same. “Perhaps I might suggest you seek instruction from headquarters on that one?” he asked. “Anyway, can we note that down as another outstanding item, and move on to…” I don’t know whether Ian secretly realised he had overstepped the mark, but he didn’t come to another planning meeting after that, leaving them to me and the very competent Second Secretary Mike Nithavrianakis.

The most difficult question of all was that of meeting the opposition. Eventually we got the agreement of Buckingham Palace and the FCO to say that, if the Queen were prevented from meeting the opposition, she wouldn’t come. But still the most we could get from Rawlings was that the leader of the opposition could be included in a reception for several hundred people at the International Conference Centre.

I had by now made good personal friends with several Ghanaian politicians. Among those who I could have a social drink with any time were, on the government side John Mahama, Minister of Information and Moses Asaga, Deputy Finance Minister, and on the opposition side John Kufuor, leader of the opposition, his colleagues Hackman Owusu-Agyemang, Shadow Foreign Minister, and Nana Akuffo-Addo, Shadow Attorney General.

In the International Conference Centre the precise route the Queen would take around the crowd was very carefully planned, so I was able to brief John Kufuor exactly where to stand to meet her, and brief the Queen to be sure to stop and chat with him. As he was the tallest man in the crowd, this was all not too difficult.

Once the Queen arrived and the visit started, everything happened in a three day blur of intense activity. Vast crowds turned out, and the Palace staff soon calmed down as they realised that the Queen could expect an uncomplicated and old fashioned reverence from the teeming crowds who were turning out to see “Our Mama”.

The durbar of chiefs in front of Parliament House was a riot of colour and noise. One by one the great chiefs came past, carried on their palanquins, preceded by their entourage, drummers banging away ferociously and the chiefs, laden down with gold necklaces and bangles, struggled to perform their energetic seated dances. Many of the hefty dancing women wore the cloth that had been created for the occasion, with a picture of the Queen jiggling about on one large breast in partnership with Jerry Rawlings jiving on the other, the same pairing being also displayed on the buttocks.

After the last of the chiefs went through, the tens of thousands of spectators started to mill everywhere and we had to race for the Royal convoy to get out through the crowds. Robin Cook had stopped to give an ad hoc interview to an extremely pretty South African television reporter. Mike Nithavrianakis tried to hurry him along but got a fierce glare for his pains. Eventually everyone was in their cars but Cook; the Ghanaian outriders were itching to start as the crowds ahead and around got ever denser.

But where was Cook? We delayed, with the Queen sitting in her car for two or three minutes, but still there was no sign of the Secretary of State or his staff getting into their vehicle. Eventually the outriders swept off; the crowds closed in behind and we had abandoned our dilettante Foreign Secretary. Having lost the protection of the convoy and being caught up in the crowds and traffic, it took him an hour to catch up.

Cook was an enigma. I had already experienced his famous lack of both punctuality and consideration when kept waiting to see him over the Sandline Affair. His behaviour now seemed to combine an attractive contempt for protocol with a goat-like tendency – would he have fallen behind to give a very bland interview to a male South African reporter? He was also breaking the tradition that the Foreign Secretary does not make media comments when accompanying the Queen.

When we returned to the Labadi Beach Hotel, there was to be further evidence of Cook’s view that the World revolved around him. He was interviewing FCO staff for the position of his new Private Secretary. Astonishingly, he had decided that it would best suit his itinerary to hold these interviews in Accra rather than London. One candidate, Ros Marsden, had an extremely busy job as Head of United Nations Department. Yet she had to give up three days work to fly to be interviewed in Accra, when her office was just round the corner from his in London. Other candidates from posts around the World had difficult journeys to complete to get to Accra at all. I thought this rather outrageous of Cook, and was surprised nobody else seemed much concerned.

The port town of Tema, linked to Accra by fifteen miles of motorway and fast becoming part of a single extensive metropolis, sits firmly on the Greenwich Meridian. As far as land goes, Tema is the centre of the Earth, being the closest dry spot to the junction of the Equator and the Greenwich Meridian. You can travel South from Tema over 6,000 miles across sea until you hit the Antarctic.

There was in 1999 a particular vogue for linking the Greenwich Meridian with the Millennium. This was because of the role of the meridian in determining not just longitude but time. Of course, the two are inextricably linked with time initially used to calculate longitude. That is why Greenwich hosted both the Naval Academy and the Royal Observatory.

The fascination with all this had several manifestations. There was a BBC documentary travelogue down the Greenwich meridian. There was a best-selling book about the invention of naval chronometers, Longitude by Dava Sobel, which I read and was as interesting as a book about making clocks can be. There were a number of aid projects down the meridian, including by War Child and Comic Relief. Tema and Greenwich became twin towns. And there was the visit of the Duke of Edinburgh to Tema.

I think this was the idea of my very good friend John Carmichael, who was involved in charity work on several of the meridian projects. It was thought particularly appropriate as one of the Duke of Edinburgh’s titles is Earl of Greenwich – though the man has so many titles you could come up with some connection to pretty well anywhere. We could make it a new game, like six degrees of separation. Connect your home town to the Duke of Edinburgh.

Anyway, Tim Hitchens had warned me that the Duke was very much averse to just looking at things without any useful purpose. As we stood looking at the strip of brass laid in a churchyard which marks the line of the meridian, he turned to me and said: “A line in the ground, eh? Very nice.”

But we moved on to see a computer centre that had been set up by a charity to give local people experience of IT and the internet (providing both electricity and phone lines were working, which thank goodness they were today) and the Duke visibly cheered up. He was much happier talking to the instructors and students, and then when we went on to a primary school that had received books from DFID he was positively beaming. The genuinely warm reception everywhere, with happy gaggles of people of all ages cheerfully waving their little plastic union jacks, would have charmed anybody.

We returned to Accra via the coast road and I was able to point out the work of the Ghanaian coffin makers, with coffins shaped and painted as tractors, beer bottles, guitars, desks, cars and even a packet of condoms. The Prince laughed heartily, and we arrived at the Parliament building in high good spirits. There he was first shown to a committee room where he was introduced to senior MPs of all parties. “How many Members of Parliament do you have?” he asked. “Two hundred” came the answer. “That’s about the right number,” opined the Prince, “We have six hundred and fifty MPs, and most of them are a complete bloody waste of time.”

The irony was that there was no British journalist present to hear this, as they had all thought a meeting between Prince Philip and Ghanaian parliamentarians would be too boring. There were Ghanaian reporters present, but the exchange didn’t particularly interest them. So a front page tabloid remark, with which the accompanying photo could have made a paparazzi a lot of money, went completely unreported.

On a State Visit, the media cannot each be at every occasion, as security controls mean they have to be pre-positioned rather than milling about while the event goes ahead. So by agreement, those reporters and photographers accredited to the visit share or pool their photos and copy. At each event there is a stand, or pool. Some events may have more than one pool to give different angles. Each journalist can probably make five or six pools in the course of the visit, leapfrogging ahead of the royal progress. But everyone gets access to material from all the pools. The FCO lays on the transport to keep things under control. Organising the pool positions ahead of the event with the host country, and then herding and policing the often pushy media in them, is a major organisational task. Mike Nithavrianakis had carried it off with style and only the occasional failure of humour. But he had found no takers for Prince Philip in parliament, which proved to be fortunate for us.

I should say that I found Prince Philip entirely pleasant while spending most of this day with him. I am against the monarchy, but it was not created by the Queen or Prince Philip. Just as Colonel Isaac of the RUF was a victim of the circumstances into which he was born, so are they. Had I been born into a life of great privilege, I would probably have turned out a much more horrible person than they are.

Prince Philip then joined the Queen in the parliamentary chamber. Her address to parliament was to be the focal point of the visit. I had contributed to the drafting of her speech, and put a lot of work into it. The speech was only six minutes long (she never speaks longer than that, except at the State Opening of Parliament. Her staff made plain that six minutes was an absolute maximum.) It contained much of the usual guff about the history of our nations and the importance of a new future based upon partnership. But then she addressed Rawlings directly, praising his achievements in bringing Ghana on to the path of democracy and economic stability. The government benches in parliament provided an undercurrent of parliamentary “hear hears”.

But there was to be a sting in the tale: “Next, year, Mr President,” the Queen intoned, “You will step down after two terms in office in accordance with your constitution.” The opposition benches went wild. The Queen went on to wish for peaceful elections and further progress, but it was drowned out by the cries of “hear hear” and swishing of order papers from the benches, and loud cheers from the public gallery. There were mooted cries of “No” from the government side of the chamber.

I had drafted that phrase, and it had a much greater effect than I possibly hoped for, although I did mean it to drive home the message exactly as it was taken.

For a moment the Queen stopped. She looked in bewilderment and concern at the hullabaloo all around her. The Queen has no experience of speaking to anything other than a hushed, respectful silence. But, apart from some grim faces on the government benches, it was a joyful hullabaloo and she ploughed on the short distance to the end of her speech.

Once we got back to the Labadi Beach Hotel, Robin Cook was completely furious. He stormed into the makeshift Private Office, set up in two hotel rooms. “It’s a disaster. Who the Hell drafted that?” “Err, I did, Secretary of State” I said. “Is that you, Mr Murray! I might have guessed! Who the Hell approved it.” “You did.” “I most certainly did not!” “Yes you did, Secretary of State. You agreed the final draft last night.”

His Private Secretary had to dig out the copy of the draft he had signed off. He calmed down a little, and was placated further when the Queen’s robust press secretary, Geoff Crawford, said that he took the view that it was a good thing for the Queen to be seen to be standing up for democracy. It could only look good in the UK press. He proved to be right.

The State Banquet was a rather dull affair. Ian Mackley’s great battle to be on the top table proved rather nugatory as, in very Ghanaian fashion, nobody stayed in their seat very long and people were wandering all over the shop. There were a large number of empty seats as, faced with an invitation to dinner at 7.30pm, many Ghanaians followed their customary practice and wandered along an hour or so late, only to find they would not be admitted. This caused a huge amount of angst and aggravation, from which those of us inside were fortunately sheltered.

Mrs Rawlings had chosen a well known Accra nightclub owner named Chester to be the compère for the occasion. His bar is a relaxed spot in a small courtyard that features good jazz and highlife music, and prostitutes dressed as Tina Turner. It was a second home for the officers of the British Military Advisory and Training Team (BMATT).

Chester himself was friendly and amusing, but amusing in a Julian Clary meets Kenneth Williams meets Liberace sort of way. Chester says he is not gay, (regrettably homosexuality is illegal in Ghana) but his presentation is undeniably ultra camp. It is hard to think of a weirder choice to chair a state banquet, but Chester was a particular pet of Mrs Rawlings.

Chester was stood on the platform next to the Queen, gushing about how honoured he was. His speech was actually very witty, but the delivery was – well, Chester. I turned to Prince Philip and remarked: “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two Queens together before.” To give credit to Chester, I gather he has been telling the story ever since.

High camp was to be a theme of that evening.

Fiona and I accompanied the Royal party back to the Labadi Beach Hotel to say goodnight, after which Fiona returned home to Devonshire House while I remained for a debriefing on the day and review of the plans for tomorrow. By the time we had finished all that it was still only 11pm and I retired to the bar of the Labadi Beach with the Royal Household. The senior staff – Tim and Geoff – withdrew as is the custom, to allow the butlers, footmen, hairdressers and others to let off steam.

The party appeared, to a man, to be gay. Not just gay but outrageously camp. The Labadi Beach, with its fans whirring under polished dark wood ceilings, its panelled bar, displays of orchids, attentive uniformed staff and glossy grand piano – has the aura of a bygone colonial age, like something from Kenya’s Happy Valley in the 1930s. You expect to see Noel Coward emerge in his smoking jacket and sit down at the piano, smoking through a mother of pearl cigarette holder. It is exactly the right setting for a gay romp, and that is exactly what developed after a few of the Labadi Beach’s wonderful tropical cocktails.

We had taken the entire hotel for the Royal party, except that we had allowed the British Airways crew to stay there as always. Now three of their cabin stewards, with two Royal footmen and the Queen’s hairdresser, were grouped around the grand singing Cabaret with even more gusto than Liza. Other staff were smooching at the bar. All this had developed within half an hour in a really magical and celebratory atmosphere that seemed to spring from nothing. I was seated on a comfortable sofa, and across from me in an armchair was the one member of the Household who seemed out of place. The Duke of Edinburgh’s valet looked to be in his sixties, a grizzled old NCO with tufts of hair either side of a bald pate, a boxer’s nose and tattoos on his arms. He was smoking roll-ups.

He was a nice old boy and we had been struggling to hold a conversation about Ghana over the din, when two blokes chasing each other ran up to the settee on which I was sitting. One, pretending to be caught, draped himself over the end and said: “You’ve caught me, you beast!” I turned back to the old warrior and asked: “Don’t you find all this a bit strange sometimes?” He lent forward and put his hand on my bare knee below my kilt: “Listen, ducks. I was in the Navy for thirty years.”

So I made my excuses and left, as the News of the World journalists used to put it. I think he was probably joking, but there are some things that are too weird even for me, and the lower reaches of the Royal household are one of them. I have heard it suggested that such posts have been filled by gays for centuries, just as harems were staffed by eunuchs, to avoid the danger of a Queen being impregnated. Recently I have been most amused by news items regarding the death of the Queen Mother’s long-standing footman, who the newsreaders have been informing us was fondly known as “Backstairs Billy”. They manage to say this without giving the slightest hint that they know it is a double entendre.

The incident in parliament had made the Rawlings government even more annoyed about the proposed handshake in the International Conference Centre reception between the Queen and John Kufuor. My own relationship with Ian Mackley had also deteriorated still further as a result of the Royal Visit. I had the advantage that I already knew from previous jobs the palace officials and Robin Cook’s officials, and of course Robin Cook himself, not to mention the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh. All in all, I suspect that Ian felt that I was getting well above myself.

As the party formed up to walk around the reception in the International Conference Centre, Ian came up to me and grabbed my arm rather fiercely. “You, just stay with the Queen’s bodyguards” he said. I did not mind at all, and attached myself to another Ian, the head of the Queen’s close protection team. I already knew Ian also. Ian set off towards the hall and started ensuring a path was clear for the Queen, I alongside him as ordered. Suddenly I heard Sarah Mackley positively squeal from somewhere behind me: “My God, he’s ahead of the Queen! Now Craig’s ahead of the Queen.” If I could hear it, at least forty other people could. I managed to make myself as invisible as possible, and still to accomplish the introduction to John Kufuor. The government newspaper the Daily Graphic was to claim indignantly that I had introduced John Kufuor as “The next President of Ghana.” Had I done so, I would have been in the event correct in my prediction, but in fact I introduced him as “The opposition Presidential candidate”.

As always, the Queen’s last engagement on the State Visit was to say farewell to all the staff who had helped. She gives out gifts, and confers membership of the Royal Victorian Order on those deemed to merit it. Only once in the Queen’s long reign had she ever been on a state visit and not created our Ambassador or High Commissioner a Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order – that is to say, knighted him. Ian and Sarah were to become Sir Ian and Lady Sarah. This seemed to me to mean the world to them.

The day before, Tim Hitchens had turned to me as we were travelling in the car: “Craig, I take it your views on honours have not changed.” “No, Tim, I still don’t want any.” “Good, you see that makes it a bit easier, actually. You see, the thing is, we’re trying to cut down a bit on giving out routine honours. The government wants a more meritocratic honours system. We need to start somewhere. So, in short, Ian Mackley is not going to get his K.” I was stunned. Tim continued: “And as well, you see, it hasn’t exactly escaped our attention that he has … issues with the Ghanaians, and some of his attitudes didn’t exactly help the visit. Anyway, if you were to want your CVO, then that would be more difficult. Ian Mackley is going to have one of those. So that will be alright.”

No, it won’t be alright, I thought. You’ll kill the poor old bastard. For God’s sake, everyone will know.

I wondered when the decision had been taken. The kneeling stool and the ceremonial sword had definitely been unloaded from the plane and taken to the hotel: that was one of the things I had checked off. When had that decision been reached?

We were lined up in reverse order of seniority to go in and see the Queen and Prince Philip. I queued behind the Defence Attaché, with Ian and Sarah just behind me. She was entering as well – nobody else’s wife was – because she was expecting to become Lady Mackley. Tim was going to tell them quickly after I had entered, while they would be alone still waiting to go in.

You may not believe me, but I felt completely gutted for them. It was the very fact they were so status obsessed that made it so cruel. I was thinking about what Tim was saying to them and how they would react. It seemed terribly cruel that they had not been warned until the very moment before they were due to meet the Queen. I was so worried for them that I really had less than half my mind on exchanging pleasantries with the Queen, who was very pleasant, as always.

If you refused honours, as I always did, you got compensated by getting a slightly better present. In Warsaw I was given a silver Armada dish, which is useful for keeping your Armada in. In Accra I was given a small piece of furniture made with exquisite craftsmanship by Viscount Linley. Shelving my doubts about the patronage aspect of that (should the Queen be purchasing with public money official gifts made by her cousin?) I staggered out holding rather a large red box, leaving through the opposite side of the room to that I had entered. Outside the door I joined the happy throng of people clutching their presents and minor medals. Mike Nithavrianakis and Brian Cope were Ian Mackley’s friends, and they were waiting eagerly for him. “Here’s Craig” said Mike, “Now it’s only Sir Ian and Lady Sarah!” “No, it’s not, Mike”, I said, “He’s not getting a K” “What! You’re kidding!” It had suddenly fallen very silent. “Ian’s not getting a K, he’s only getting a CVO.” “Oh, that’s terrible.” We waited now in silence. Very quickly the door opened again, and the Mackleys came out, Ian with a frozen grin, Sarah a hysterical one beneath the white large-brimmed hat that suddenly looked so ridiculous. There was a smattering of applause, and Sarah fell to hugging everyone, even me. We all congratulated Ian on his CVO, and nobody ever mentioned that there had been any possibility of a knighthood, then or ever.

Personally I don’t understand why anyone accepts honours when there is so much more cachet in refusing them.

[iris-writes-things]

Two Guys and a Baby: Day 10

Read on AO3, FF.net or under the cut, or read up to 2 chapters ahead as a $1 Patreon patron!

This was why Crowley enthusiastically strode towards his front door and opened it, completely forgoing the peephole or any other means of identification of his visitor… s… “Crawly,” croaked an unfortunately familiar voice.

Or, anger, relief and other feelings.

Chapter 13 of 20 Ongoing 2375 words Romance/Humor

It was ten o'clock on Monday morning and Crowley was standing in his bathroom in his boxers and a well-worn A Day At The Races World Tour t-shirt*, his toothbrush dangling lazily from his mouth. He gently dried Adam’s hair with a soft towel as the boy sat on the edge of the sink. Adam had seemed especially reluctant about bath time this morning. However, once his rubber duckie got involved, the boy was on top of the world and there had been no further complications. After all, getting dressed before putting a baby in the bath would be terribly inefficient, and Crowley was nothing if not efficient.

(*Note for observant readers who may be noticing a pattern by now: while t-shirts don’t belong in the wardrobe of the epitome of fashion Crowley tries to be, he collects Queen tour t-shirts in his free time. His niece and sister frequently call him out on how weird it is that he wears his most prized collection to bed every night.)

“See? Sat wasn’t so bad, was it?” Crowley slurred around his toothbrush as he finished drying Adam and putting him in a diaper. There was knocking at the door and Crowley’s heart leapt. “That’ll be Ezra,” he mumbled, wrapping the towel around Adam, picking him up and spitting his toothbrush and adjacent toothpaste into the sink. “Wanna go see Ezra?” he asked Adam.

The boy’s face lit up at the sound of the shopkeeper’s name. Of course he wanted to go see Ezra. These last few days he must’ve come to associate that name with good food, stories, adventures and softness. What kind of child could object to that?

This was why Crowley enthusiastically strode towards his front door and opened it, completely forgoing the peephole or any other means of identification of his visitor… s… 

“Crawly,” croaked an unfortunately familiar voice.

Where Crowley previously felt his heart soar, he now felt it do a deep dive through five storeys worth of apartment building, the foundations below it, and several layers of the Earth’s crust, and his blood ran awfully cold. The smell of, among other things, tobacco filled his nostrils. And where a week ago that exact smell would have been very enticing to him, it had now lost its charm altogether. “Hastings, Liggett. I didn’t know creative made house calls nowadays. And… I have a phone, you know that.”

“Enough with the pleasantries. Where were you last week?” Hastings demanded.

“You were supposed to pitch to the board of directors in Ferguson’s absence,” Liggett added, in case Crowley had forgotten. He hadn’t.

The pitch had been on Wednesday and it was about an expansive direct marketing campaign that Hastings and Liggett had, to their credit, worked very hard on despite not really being ‘of the time’ anymore. And since the two combined had the charisma of approximately a single toad, Crowley had been selected by Lucy to pitch while she was away, as he was more on the level of a snake, to stick with the cold-blooded fauna motif. Once they caught him up to speed, he knew the presentation forwards and backwards and would be five steps ahead of each member of the board of directors and their hang ups at all times. The plan was foolproof. 

This was before the babysitter had flown to Cambodia.

After the whole my-babysitter-ran-off-to-south-east-Asia-to-rediscover-herself-after-a-particularly-bad-breakup-so-I’m-giving-you-time-off-to-look-after-my-baby debacle, they needed a solution, which presented itself as the intern known as Newton Pulsifer. His presentation skills understandably lagged behind Crowley’s and couldn’t begin to catch up with Lucy’s, but the main difference between interns, who are doing all this for the first time, and creatives who had been doing the same thing for thirty years and somehow still held their positions, was that you could still teach them a thing or two, and they would be eager to learn, too. So that fateful Friday afternoon, Lucy and Crowley had gone over the presentation with Newt for what felt like upwards of a hundred times. They gave him every note they had and hadn’t stopped until both of them were confident that the boy could successfully run the pitch by the board.

So… Hastings and Liggett standing here, in the hallway of his apartment building, didn’t bode well. And Crowley quickly figured it wouldn’t be wise to tell them he spent that entire day reading Miffy books to Adam in his crush’s bookshop. Instead, he told them, “Yeah, we told you I wouldn’t be there because I’d be taking care of Adam. We told you Newton would cover for me, too. Hell, we even asked you if you’d rather present your pitch yourselves instead of having the intern do it. Whatever happened, it’s out of my hands.”

A frustrated grumble escaped Hasting’s throat. “We thought you might say something like that,” he said.

“Then why are you here?” Crowley asked.

“To take you back to the office with us, where you’ll explain to the board exactly what went wrong. Now, put on some pants,” Liggett commanded.

Crowley stepped back when a hand grabbed his arm. He shook himself free and Adam whined at the jostling. “I can’t,” Crowley insisted. “I won’t. I have to look after Adam.”

It was then, that Hastings stepped forward, glowering at Crowley and towering over him. Compared to Crowley who, himself, erred towards the taller side, Hastings was enormous. “I think you misunderstand, Crawly. We are your seniors. You are only an assistant and you will not disrespect us in this way.”  

The words oozed with venom and Crowley instinctively faced Adam away from them. It was bad enough that Lucy and Crowley had to deal with the pair of them on a regular basis. The less young Adam saw from them, the better, and the same went for Crowley, he reasoned. He took a deep breath and asked them with a boldness he had long forgotten he had, “And what have you lot ever done to earn my respect?”

“I suggest you choose your words wisely, Crawly,” Hastings said as he bowed down over Crowley, only inches away from his face.

“It’s Crowley,” he asserted. “And why should I respect a pair of out-of-touch, middle-aged creatives who always pull rank because they clearly have nothing else going for them? Who terrorize interns and intimidate assistants by showing up at their fff— bloody houses to call them names and make them take responsibility for something that wasn’t on them? Surely, I should be reporting you two to some kind of authority, but we all know that won’t do anything, so how about I make this easier on all of us and just announce that I quit.” He huffed, and without another thought he pushed the letter on the dresser by the door into their hands and promptly slammed his front door shut. That was about enough of them. “And newsflash, A-holes, unsolicited direct marketing** has barely worked on people under the age of thirty-five in, like, a decade, so your campaign was doomed to fail from the start. There’s some free fucking advice for you.”

(**read, the ones that get stuck in your spam filter and/or the ones that immediately go into the paper recycling.)

*

It wasn’t even an hour later by the time Ezra came knocking on the door. Crowley had only just finished getting dressed and he wasn’t proud of it; wearing the same t-shirt he slept in along with yesterday’s jeans and jacket as he opened the door. Meanwhile, Ezra’s outfit, worn as it was, was soft and pristine.

“Hey angel,” Crowley said.

“Good morning,” Ezra said softly, eyes flitting down to Crowley’s outfit.

Meanwhile, Crowley felt like he might as well have been naked. He coughed, bringing Ezra back from whatever fantasy he’d found himself in. 

“Run into any unsavory types on your way up?”

Ezra glanced around the hallway. “No. Was I supposed to?”

“No. Just… we don’t have to deliver the letter. They came to pick it up.”

“Came to pick it up?” Ezra frowned, almost protested as Crowley ushered him inside. “My dear, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Poltergeist, more like. Two of them,” Crowley said flippantly, but the hand he carded through his messy hair shook.

*

Now, Ezra wouldn’t say he enjoyed seeing Anthony as shaken as he obviously was. In fact, he didn’t enjoy that at all. The idea that two men from the office would come over to his home to intimidate him was appalling to him. It wasn’t right.

But.

But there was something about seeing Anthony like this. Seeing him less put-together. It was endearing. It made him, for lack of a better word, relatable. After all, it was reassuring to know that even the most perfectly beautiful man who always dressed sharp and snazzy, could look like a mess. Specifically, a mess he wouldn’t mind too much waking up to in the morning. 

Ezra made a point of it not to stare at him too much.

“I’m sorry this happened, Anthony. I wish I’d come by sooner, I might have been able to— to—” Truthfully, he didn’t know what he would have done. But he knew he would have done something. It wasn’t right, coming to someone’s house to tell them off for something they didn’t do, and Ezra was nothing if not righteous.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Ezra, but I’m fine,” Anthony sighed. “And so is Adam, I think.”

“Did they…?” Ezra trailed off.

“Who? Adam? Didn’t lay a finger on him. I’ll give them that, at least.”

“Then, did they…?”

Anthony shrugged. “Grabbed my arm, that’s it.”

That’s it?

*

There was a fire in Ezra’s eyes that Crowley hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t sure if he should be terrified or flattered.

“But even that is unacceptable!” Ezra said when he spoke again. “They still trespassed on your home, on the one place you’re meant to feel safe, on you, and that should never have happened.” He took Crowley’s hand and looked at him with angry, watery eyes.

“I’m fine angel, I swear. Moreso now that my knight in shining armor is here.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair in a way he hoped Ezra would experience as tenderly. Like in an out of body experience, he felt himself bend down to kiss him, but caught himself just as he realized what was happening.

That was, until he felt the lapels of of his jacket pull him downward and a pair of soft lips pressed against his own.

Oh.

*

"You care about me…" Anthony said a few hours later at brunch, as if the idea still felt alien inside his head.

Adam watched them from his high chair like a tennis match.

Ezra laid down his menu and tried not to sigh as he looked up at his friend. "Of course," he said. "One might go so far as to say that I quite fancy you."

This seemed to make Anthony choke on the breath he was taking. "Well yes, but since when?" he asked with an urgency there was really no need for. The wait staff had already picked up on the cues at their table and were avoiding it like the plague until the air around it cleared.

Now, if Ezra were about to admit his own superficiality, he would have said 'From the moment you set foot in the bookshop,' but he wasn't, so he didn't. Instead, he said "Ten years, give or take?" which meant pretty much the same thing and shrugged his shoulders.

"And it never occurred to you to tell me?"

"Did it to you?"

"Every day," Anthony squeaked. "For the last ten years and a few months."

Ezra blinked hard. The choice of words did not escape him. He wanted very much not to be so surprised, after all, Anathema had told him so outright, but to hear it from the man himself, the implication was all that was needed to send him reeling.

"Anathema told you, didn't she?" Anthony asked, finally breaking the silence.

Ezra nodded.

"She told me at dinner last Friday." Anthony let out a breathy laugh. "I swear, that girl is going to be the death of me."

"And me," Ezra said. Anthony smiled at him brilliantly and Ezra averted his gaze as a feeling of shame washed over him. "I'm sorry, by the way. About running out on you that night at that cafe."

"Angel, that was two years ago."

"I know! I just… we were both drunk, I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. I didn't want you to regret it."

Anthony choked on his orange juice and slammed the glass down on the table. "Regret it?! Are you joking? We could have been going out for years and you thought I would regret it?"

"Well, it was more like I didn't want you to think I was taking advantage of you."

"But… Ezra, I started it…" Anthony said, gesturing wildly.

“Well, you could have said something, too!”

A groan escaped Anthony, his face buried in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair. “In conclusion, we’re both cowards and we’ve been miserable for much longer than strictly necessary?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say miserable…”

“Okay, so maybe that was just me, but at least we both haven’t been as happy as we could have been.”

“I would agree with that…” Ezra mumbled. He glanced at the menu but he wasn’t sure he was all that hungry anymore.

Anthony followed his gaze and smiled that snake-like smile of his, that only looked charming on him. “Go on,” he said. “My treat.”

That second, Ezra decided he was famished.

*

A weight had fallen from Crowley’s shoulders. It had been replaced with the slightly less hefty weight of having to figure out their relationship anew, but it had to count for something. For these first few hours, Crowley found very little had changed between them at all. He still stole glances at Ezra as they ate. They still talked unreservedly and laughed at each other’s jokes. They fed Adam who, at this point, was ravenous for everything his little fingers could grasp on to.

What Crowley also found, was the pleasant heft of a warm hand in his.

[make-it-mavis]

A Million Dreams (1998)

A NEW YEARS’ FLUFF FIC -- MAV/TURBO IN SUGAR RUSH ERA. 2718 words, rated E for Everyone thanks to @nerdygalaxy-p for suggesting “sentimental, sweet and fluffy new years” shitgoblins content (although i chose to write it)!

Summary: Turbo and Mavis (King Candy and Pyrite) ring in the new year for the first time since they “took up residence” in Sugar Rush. Read in Google Docs here!

The first hours of 1998 crashed onto Sugar Rush with all their might. It was the first New Years’ Eve that the game had seen since it was plugged in, and it was certainly not going to be forgotten any time soon. All the stops had been pulled out for the merriment that hit when the clock struck midnight. Food, games, music, dancing, fireworks -- oh, so many fireworks. They simply could not have had any less, not for the magnificent new beginnings waking in the year to come. Most beginnings of which the Sugar Rush racers and citizens were completely blind to, but all the same, they celebrated with almost enough jubilee to cover them all.

Almost.

But how could they ever be expected to fill such a quota? Could one night alone truly hold a celebration worthy of the things to come?

After all, 1998 would be Sugar Rush’s first year under its new, far more qualified management. It would be the first of what was sure to be the best years any racing game had seen for over a decade, and it was all thanks to him. He had finally taken his hard-earned place on the sugary throne, and he would lead the kingdom into greatness. This time, it really was his to hold, defend, and command. This time, it would not go down the tubes. It was more than just a trophy, and certainly more than mere refuge.

It was his home. At long last, he had a home again.

Most would argue it was a step up, disregarding any sentimental value that his original game held in his heart. A kingdom stretching for miles in each direction was better than the tiny, boxy map he started life with. And a castle with a labyrinth of chambers, corridors, and dungeons was undeniably a step up from his tiny trailer. It was big enough, even, to drive around inside it, which was all for the better, because the trek from the castle doors to the royal chambers would become tedious to walk again and again, especially after a night of vigorous partying.

So, nearly four hours past midnight, his muscles aching from all his silly jumping and bouncing, and his throat raw from all his laughing and shouting, “King Candy” drove through the castle halls with reckless speed and uncanny precision. Even in his growing exhaustion, the speed stirred a tickled thrill in his stomach, and he could not keep from cackling out loud at the distressed gasps and grunts of his right-hand-man (or ball in this case) desperately holding onto the crown of his seat behind him.

When the royal chamber doors came up on their left, King Candy slammed on the breaks. There was a hard thump against the back of his seat, and a miserable groan. He shamelessly chuckled.

“Sour Bill,” he commanded firmly, exaggerating his natural lisp as far as it would go, “get off my car and open the doors, if you please.”

The little green ball, with his strange jelly bean limbs, grunted in agreement and dropped to the floor. It took a whole-body effort for him to push the doors open individually, because they were entirely too tall to be necessary for any creature in the entire game. Once the way was cleared, King Candy cruised inside, parked at the foot of his massive canopy bed and hopped out.

“Now, I believe, by now, you ought to know the drill, Sour Bill,” he chuckled at his own rhyme as he strode back to the doors. “A king needs his beauty rest -- not that I need much help with that, hoo hoo -- and a well-rested king is a happy king. So I am going to lock these doors, and you are to ensure everyone knows that I am not to be disturbed. Yes?”

Sour Bill looked as if the words turned to mush the second they reached him. Eyes downcast, he grunted, “Mmm-hmm.”

“Hey,” the king snapped his fingers. “Listen with your eyes, mister. Turn those emerald greens up here n’ try that again.”

With a short sigh, Sour Bill lifted his droopy gaze.

“Without the attitude,” King Candy said sharply.

“Apologies, your majesty,” Sour Bill droned.

“That’s quite alright, just don’t let it happen again. Now, let’s review -- I am not…?”

“To be disturbed,” Sour Bill finished promptly.

“Under any…”

“Circumstances.”

“Except…”

“A glitch emergency.”

“And even then…”

“Knock first.”

King Candy chuckled in approval and pat Sour Bill’s rock-solid head. “Now, that’s a good ball. Goodnight, Sour Bill. And a happy new year!”

“Happy new year,” he replied morosely, “your highness.”

Once the doors were closed, and after he listened to make sure Sour Bill’s footsteps really disappeared down the hall, the king locked the doors and leaned his back against them with a sigh. At last, it was time to unwind, and his bedroom scarcely looked more inviting. The game’s inhabitants had been lucky enough that the rare phenomenon of a Sugar Rush nighttime fell on New Year’s Eve, so the room was lit only by cool, sleepy moonlight pouring in from the stained balcony windows. It was all too tempting to just cross right to his needlessly large bed and curl up in a nest of silky blankets, but in truth, his night was not entirely done. He had to wait up just a while longer.

That little while dragged on longer than he would have liked. He wandered around the room, straightened trinkets on the dressers and paintings on the walls, opened up the hood of his car and marveled at the candy machinery for the hundredth time. He was lying on his bed staring at the canopy and trying not to slip out of consciousness when he finally heard her voice begin to sing from the balcony.

“Ev’ry night I lie in bed,

The brightest colors fill my head

A million dreams are keepin’ me awake…”

He knew that song. It was one of the oldest ones she ever wrote, and hearing it again sent such warm nostalgia washing over him that he could not even be annoyed at the long wait. The fact that she was finally there was suddenly all that mattered.

Swiftly, he strode to the door and cracked it open. There she was, lying on her back across the balcony rail, fully disguised, yet unmistakable. On the outside, she was Pyrite, the whimsical and admired ring master, with her rainbow ringlets, swirly eyes, top hat, and swallow-tailed coat that was most certainly just a rip off of his own. Even her brush had been modified, looking more like a staff or a slick, silky broom, lying on the floor next to her. But that twang in her voice that she was no longer hiding, the way she held her guitar like a loved one, and the arrogant way she let one leg dangle over the edge as if telling gravity itself to shove it, were all a dead giveaway. That was the girl he spent nearly his entire life alongside.

Without a glance his way, but a growing smile, she continued her song.

“I think of what the world could be

A vision of the one I see

A million dreams is all it’s gonna take

A million dreams for the world we’re gonna make…”

Fondness swelled in his chest. She had to have chosen that song specifically, and the thought of it brought to him a sort of contentment that he had never quite experienced until he entered Sugar Rush. The feeling that they had really, truly, made it.

He breathed a short chuckle, and spoke the last line to her. “The world we’re gonna make.”

Finally, she turned those mismatched eyes his way and lit a spark of that signature naughty grin. “Hey, Sugar,” she said lowly.

“Hey, Cherry Bomb,” he replied, falling into his natural, deeper voice that undoubtedly looked weird coming out of King Candy’s mouth.

Pyrite swung her legs around to solid ground, and King Candy crossed to the ledge to stand with her. They leaned against the rail, surveying the kingdom below, all the frosted peaks of truffle mountains and lollipop forests glinting in the moonlight. It was beautiful in the most unexpected way. Partially because of the way it looked, but mostly because it was his.

Well, it was theirs.

He glanced over at her. She gazed down at the world below with admiration in her eyes, a depth of which he rarely saw her give anything. She was absolutely in love with this new world, that much was certain. But something about her silence felt a bit uneasy.

“...’98, huh?” he prompted her casually.

“Ninety-freakin’-eight,” she chuckled in that accent he had not heard in so long. “What a night. What’s your verdict? Did I ring it in right?”

He scoffed. “You?”

“Yeah, me,” she grinned. “I planned the party, the fireworks, the decor, the food--” “But I planned the games, and the prizes, and led the entire event,” he interjected.

“Come on, T, you might be king a’ the world, but I’m still the queen a’ fun.”

“Only ‘cause I let you have fun in my world,” he nudged her.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she slapped the rail in light protest. “Let’s cut the playful circling short, huh? What’s your verdict on our team effort?”

He looked back out at the forests and roads, off to the soft glow of distant merriments still dying down. As exhausted as he was, there was only one answer. “It wasn’t nearly enough.”

Pyrite was not offended. She merely hummed in agreement next to him. “Yeah. But I don’t think we could have done enough.”

He watched her again. Her face was still happy, even lit with a glow of awe. But when she spoke again, her voice, while soft and sincere, was weighed down with anxiety.

“I’ve loved this place since the day I set foot in it,” she confessed. “But tonight… Ringing in the new year together, I just… I’ve never felt this way about any place I’ve been in my life. Tonight, for the first time in my life, I… think I’m ready to call this place home.”

He was glad to hear it. He had beat her to that one, but he knew it was a much bigger deal for her. Once upon a time, he had a game he considered home. She never really did.

“It is your home, now,” he agreed. “This is where you ought to be.”

Pyrite tried to smile at him, but her face fell troubled again a second after.

King Candy waited, but when she did not continue, he prompted, “What’s the deal?”

“I just…” she shook her head. “I expected it to feel better than it does. It’s a lot to handle. I love this place enough now that I couldn’t stand to lose it. Even more so than before. I don’t like feeling that way. It freaks me out.”

He tapped his finger thoughtfully. “We were never going to lose it in the first place. We swore to that already.”

“I know, but…” she looked at him, her eyes painfully vulnerable. “Swear to me again. Say we won’t lose this one. Please.”

His smile pulled into his cheek and he placed a steady hand on her wrist. “I swear we won’t lose this one. By the Devs, by Litwak, by the very Eight Bits, I can promise you that. Nothing’s gonna take this game from me, now. And I know nothing’s gonna take it from you.”

The anxiety in her eyes dissolved into affection, and she gave a single chuckle. “And let’s swear right now… 1998’s gonna be the start of the best years of our lives.”

“The start of the rest of our lives,” he corrected with a grin.

In silent, but whole agreement, she held out her pinky finger. “Swear on it?”

Scoffing at their age-old dorky tradition, he hooked his pinky over hers. “Swear.”

He had to resist the impulse to kiss her. Kissing Pyrite was strange, and she was never shy about how gross it was kissing King Candy.

There was real warmth in her smile for a moment, but that look of mischief made a sudden reappearance. She glanced out at the kingdom, then to her brush lying at her feet. Releasing his finger, she said, “Okay, okay, now watch this--” and took up her brush in her hands.

With a single slash across the air, she sent a crackling red firework hurtling into the sky, where it exploded into glimmering crimson embers. It was pretty, but it was nothing he had not seen from her before.

He looked at her quizzically. “I don’t get it.”

“Wait,” she held her hand out.

After a moment passed, he began to hear distant, muffled whistles, and with a great chorus of cracks and booms, the night lit up with fireworks scattered across the world below. The rainbow of lights shimmered off the shapes of hills and trees otherwise hidden in the dark. Just when he expected them to stop, the brilliant explosions kept on coming. It took him a shameful amount of time to realize the significance of the sight. He had seen her fireworks hundreds of times. But this time, she was not the one lighting them off.

When he looked at her again, she was grinning with a wicked sort of pride. She did something.

“What…?” he squinted.

“I taught the kids to use fireworks,” she shrugged with a smile.

“You taught the kids,” he echoed slowly, “to use fireworks.”

She just nodded.

At that, he could not help but break into laughter. That was so quintessentially her, it just filled him with so much affection that he could barely stand it. “And you had them on standby?”

“Yeah,” she grinned, “I told ‘em we had to give the king a proper goodnight to thank him for the awesome party.”

That just tore it.

Disguises be damned, he pulled her into a hug hard enough to squeeze a squeak out of her and gave a swift spin. Apparently, hugs were still okay, because she squeezed back just as hard, laughing all the while. He wheezed against her shoulder, “You’re just somethin’ else.”

Before too long, he pulled back enough to look at her. He was just about ready to go inside and finally slip out of their disguises, but the song she sang was stuck in his head, and it stirred up a pressing question.

“Hey,” he raised a brow.

She scoffed. “What?”

“How many a’ those million dreams does this place check off, huh?”

Pyrite looked caught off-guard, but to his surprise, she looked out at the night still sparkling with her lights, and pondered. Then she looked at him again, with a peculiar shine in her eye. Before he could respond, she pulled him away from the ledge. Her body crackled with red binary as she willingly glitched away her disguise, revealing that beautiful blue-eyed devil he fell in love with. Make-it Mavis.

Her hands raised to his face, and she sent a jolt of glitching through him to tear his royal disguise away. Finally, it was time to be Turbo again for a while.

“One,” she answered, smiling coyly.

He scoffed. “One?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, brushing her gloved thumbs over his cheekbones. “Just the one.”

With a firm tug, she pulled him into a real kiss, the sort that they had gone far too long without. The whole night’s joy swelled up in Turbo’s chest and he crushed her to him, lifting her toes from the floor just the slightest bit.

“Happy new year, loser,” she said once her lips were free.

“Hey,” he flashed a grin, tugging her along back into the royal chambers, locking the doors and pushing her back against them. “Night ain’t over yet.”

The fireworks outside still pounded jubilantly as they held onto each other. They were both exhausted, but could not bear to sleep and waste the time they had to be themselves, to be alone. If ‘98 was truly going to be the start of the rest of their lives, they had to keep doing everything they could to begin somewhere good.

‘Together’ was the best place they knew.

[30somethingrookrookie-blog]

Days minus-4 through 0: Introductions

Thursday (day “minus four”): My best friend found himself in a hospital burn unit after a cooking accident.  With temporarily immobilized hands and feet from skin grafts, and his immediate family out of state with other commitments, he wasn’t going to be able to do much on his own.  I came by to stay at least through Sunday morning, in order to help him with food, drink, lip balm, and just generally keep him company.

While the burns had been healing somewhat well, he had just had his skin graft performed when I came in.  He was in immense pain, reporting that his thighs (the skin donor area) hurt worse than the actual burn sites.  They kept him under heavy painkillers and he faded in and out of both sleep and lucidity.  While he appreciated the company when he was able to talk, he spent more time out of it than in.  I realized quickly that I would definitely want to find something to focus on during the times when I wasn’t needed, because I planned to be there for a while.

Now I had played chess on-and-off before.  I had the chess.com app on my phone to mess with casually, and even was briefly on my middle school chess team a couple decades ago.  But, I had never taken it even slightly “seriously” and still considered myself an absolute beginner.  I had checked “Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess” out from libraries a couple times in my twenties and was loosely familiar with things like forks, pins, and checkmating a king when he was all by himself on the back row, but never learned to apply any of it, so really, my level of play was always “probably beat someone who just learned the rules, and literally nobody else.”

What had brought me back around to chess was an ad I saw in an idle game I was playing for an app called “Magnus Trainer”, which seemed to be a chess training app released with the blessing of a notable player (who I would soon find out is the current World #1 and World Champion, Magnus Carlsen from Norway).  I went looking for it in the app store, found two programs with this guy on it: the “Trainer” I was looking for, and also a cute program called “Play with Magnus” that offered simulations of the Champion at various stages of his life.  I installed both, because it sounded a lot of fun to play against the 5-year-old version of a future world champ.

I poked around both of the Magnus apps and the chess.com app for a little bit, and then watched some TV with my friend.  The cable selection was extremely basic (no FX, no Cartoon Network, only ESPN for sports channels), so we found ourselves watching lighthearted programming that was easy to watch back-to-back, like TruTV’s prank show “Impractical Jokers” and the CW’s stage magic showcases “Masters of Illusion” and “Penn And Teller: Fool Us”.  The nurses were reticent to give him heavier painkiller doses, because of the risk of respiration difficulties, but he was eventually able to get off to an uneasy sleep, and I found myself drifting off in the recliner.

Yowza, I’m starting to notice I’m using a ton of brand names on this.  I promise I’m not being endorsed by anyone to make a stupid blog about being a 30something chess newbie, or to trick anyone into watching dumb TV shows or downloading free-to-play apps.

Day -3 (Friday): Friend was in a lot of pain still, but his respiration rates had stabilized, and they were able to give him some of those unspellable medications they have.  I found myself with a lot of free time between the moments he was able to get up, and decided to really crack into the lessons on the Magnus Trainer app.  It started off with super-basic lessons that amounted to drills practicing the pieces’ moves and captures, and gradually increased in difficulty so slowly I hadn’t yet noticed it was happening.  Some of the “games” in the lessons seemed especially bizarre - there was one where you were moving around trying to escape from a “monster” piece which slowly floated around in real time.  The challenge would increase when it would as you to pick up “keys” on certain squares as you fled, and then to play as pieces that are increasingly difficult to get to those particular squares, such as knights.

I was having a good time and felt more confident, so I tried playing the Play With Magnus game.  Happily I discovered that the biographies for the first few difficulty levels (Ages 5, 5 1/2, 6, and 6 1/2) indicated that they all took place before he developed a particular interest in playing chess, and mostly talked about his hobbies at the time (soccer, geography trivia, and books about pirates).  I tried a few games against ages 5 and 5 1/2 and found that he would often make completely erratic moves, failing to capture in obvious exchanges or just leaving pieces completely en prise (fancypants chess talk for “just sitting there so you can straight up snatch em up).  A few wins boosted my confidence further, and I went back into the Trainer app, completing all of the sessions marked Basic and Easy, and making some headway into Medium.

Day -2 (Saturday): At this point I had started to grow a little obsessed with this Trainer app.  I was sometimes failing tasks, especially on the ones where speed was an issue, and I got determined to keep on plugging through, and at the very least finish all of the Medium sessions before I left the hospital burn ward on Monday.  

Couldn’t sleep at all, except brief nods-off in the recliner that peaked at maybe one hour.  When my friend was asleep, I’d put my headphones in, pop on a podcast (listened to a lot of McElroy family shows in this time, especially Sawbones, My Brother My Brother And Me, Wonderful!, and the backlog of the discontinued Coolgames Inc.), and blast straight into the chess tactics and games.  I found myself beating the ages 6 and 6.5 versions of Play With Magnus (plays somewhat similarly to ages 5 and 5.5, but doesn’t as often decide to just randomly give up the queen or miss an obvious capture).  I was intimidated by the description of age 7, where young Carlsen was motivated by sibling rivalry to defeat his older sister at the game, so I started playing games against the CPU of the chess.com app, which even offered an estimate of the CPU’s Elo level (the score used most commonly to rate a chess player’s overall performance.  a number in the 3-digits is a true beginner; an Elo rating of 2000 in the USCF is considered an Expert, and a professional International Master player holds a FIDE score of no less than 2400).  As that parenthetical aside probably tells you, I ended up doing some research as to what the ranks and rating numbers mean, and what I could expect to know at each stage.  As I played the chess.com app, I noticed that Level 1 (Elo 200) seemed to play full nonsense moves most of the time, and Level 3 (Elo 500) seemed to be the level where it first started really punishing any super obvious blunders I made.  Unfortunately I found myself moving too quickly and leaving valuable pieces en prise, so I ended up going back to tactics in the Trainer.

My goal was to finish all of the Medium lessons by Monday.  I finished them by the end of Saturday and was starting to crack into the last set, the “Hard” ones.  Sleeplessness is a Thing, y’all.

Day -1 (Sunday): Doesn’t matter how many tactics lessons you do, you lose against easy mode CPUs if you leave your queen en prise.  Stop leaving your queen en prise.  Stop leaving your queen en prise.  Stop leaving your queen en prise.  Stop leaving your queen en prise.  Stop leaving your queen en prise.  Stop leaving your queen en prise.  Stop leaving your queen en prise.  Stop leaving your queen en prise.  Stop leaving your queen en prise.  All losses and no mates make Jack a dull boy

Day 0 (Monday / yesterday): Left hospital at 6 PM, confident my friend was once again in good hands.  The next day he was to have his graft sites looked at, and should have regained some of his ability to do things (I will update this tomorrow with his condition).  He was acting like his normal self, and even suggested that the experience might have given him the experiences he needed to go back into standup comedy, which made me happy to hear.  It was what he had wanted to do a decade ago, but politics at some of the local comedy clubs ended up leaving him with a distaste for the scene, and he had quit.  I hope he follows up on that, he’s legitimately a funny and talented guy.

Still starting to make some headway into the Hard section of the Trainer app.  Moved exclusively to playing Play With Magnus on the 7- and 7.5-year-old levels, as level 8 is officially where it jumps to “intermediate” and suggests that the boy had started to put in some serious study, which seems well beyond my point.  Still found myself making reflexive moves without thinking, and moving pieces that were critical to defending other ones.  Currently, my record against this app is 28 wins, 7 ties, and 16 losses, and it rather generously estimates my level of play at 892.

During a game against the Level 3 (Elo 500) chess.com app CPU, I managed to get the game down to a mate-in-1 situation 3 times in the endgame without even noticing.  I will make a separate post about that one, it’s wicked silly.

Day 1: done made me a blog, yeehoo!

I’m trying to figure out what a realistic goal is, if I keep on practicing fairly consistently, where I can try to reach in a month and in a year.  I’m in my early 30s, which is probably way too old to start taking a game seriously and expect to become the best ever, but I do wonder if I can ever make it out of “beginner” and into, I suppose, “chess player” status.

[creations-by-chaosfay]

Yay!!!! They like the effect of the dye!!!

Final pictures of the Halloween Dream pair, a commission for @buttercupyarnart. Unfortunately, my husband decided that since we were out of color catcher sheets (used to catch bleeding dye) and instead just used salt to set the dye and prevent future bleeding, he's going to wash it anyway. The black fabric bled everywhere, and salt set it, as well as heat from the dryer. There is nothing I can do, and I am rightfully angered by his carelessness.

We use a laundromat, which is expensive even though it's the lowest cost one he could find. It's why I don't prewash fabric. When we have our own washing machine*, this won't be an issue.

Okay, now for pictures.

Closeups

The mini quilt

Closeups

He'll be getting color catcher sheets before doing laundry next week, no worries about that.

But 76 hours of work, ruined by his carelessness.