In the course of this virtuous pursuit (for a given value of virtuous, but really anything that can engage my fleeting work ethic deserves note), I came across this little sequel to this fic, on the subject of the Disastrous Christmas Present, and since it isn't going to turn into anything larger, thought I'd post it.
Return to Sender
The shop, of course, would have wrapped and sent it, but he wanted to put in a note, and he could not deny the slight qualm at the thought of giving Harriet’s address to the girl. Happily, Bunter was a whizz at parcels and could make brown paper, string, and sealing wax around a little glass vase look fit for Egypt’s queen.
He had not, of course, waited in all day for the telephone. It was simply that the weather was appalling, and he felt a slight chill coming on so that it would be foolish to go out.
Perhaps the telephone was a little much to expect. It hadn’t been much, after all. A mere token of regard. It hardly deserved even a note.
For a moment his heart had lifted at the sight of his address in her handwriting, until he took in the size of the box. The smash had been the fault of the post, of course, but that was no consolation.
A tease from something else entirely
She was in the garden, shredding a sunflower head between her fingers, when she heard the kitchen door open.
He looked old. Grey streaks in the dark hair, hollowness about the eyes. And heartbroken.
‘His lordship has accepted my resignation.’
The Yuletide Challenge is here! Time to start thinking whether to make the Serious Requests I always have in the past, or perhaps be a little bit more imaginative. The challenge is being imaginative without being evil. I mean, I know how I felt for a moment when I was faced by Miss Climpson. It's all very well to think something would be entertaining to read, but one must have some sympathy for the writer faced with e.g. Bunter/Saint-George.