Youngest Sister: I taped a lot of really good Japanese anime films in the summer.
Rest of family: *considers suggestion thoughtfully and in silence*
Mother: Honestly, I’d rather top myself.
Father and Nineveh: Thank you for saying that before I had to.
I have never managed to find NYE exciting, but the last couple of years, I have made resolutions. Remarkably, I have even kept them. It wasn’t that hard…
Resolution 2005: Spend more money and have more fun.
Resolution 2006: Spend more money and have more fun. And it isn’t a resolution, but really, really must be done: get a new job.
For 2007 I shall continue the spending and fun, and add to it “not sewing when I am supposed to be writing”.
Keep my fanfiction clean? For most of it, any cleaner, and it’d be aseptic. I intend to have a go at the yuletide Unfilled Requests, but I don’t think I’ll be the one providing the explicit Bunter/Peter slash. Which is not to say I’ve never pondered related subjects in a mildly ficcish way.
(Somewhere in Busman’s Honeymoon)
His lordship reviewed the architect’s drawings.
“Any final thoughts, Bunter?” A pale eyebrow cocked in enquiry. It was now or never.
“Yes, my lord. It had occurred to me, in view of the construction of the building, that the upstairs rooms would be warmer if the floorboards were fitted with insulation material.” That first night in a couple of armchairs with a pillow clamped over his head really had been most uncomfortable, and one could not avoid kitchen duties entirely in the early mornings – especially in view of his lordship’s definition of ‘early’. Not to mention that rather untimely visit from Inspector Kirk.
“Ah. Yes. All right, Bunter. I’ll, er, I’ll mention it to Thipps.” His lordship fled.
It was late. There was no traffic now to be heard through the window, and the fire in the grate was dying, the fall of an occasional cinder the only sound to punctuate the sounds from the bed on the other side of the room. The dispassionate observer would have considered them generally encouraging sounds, and so been quite surprised at the response of one of the participants to a particularly ardent cry, and an almost discernable drop in temperature.
"What was that you called me?" hissed the woman.
"Oh, darling – I’m sorry. I wasn't thinking. It doesn't mean anything."
"What did you call me?"
Hope Bunter flung back the blankets and threw her husband's dressing gown at his head.
"That does it. Tomorrow you can start making arrangements with a tart in Brighton – and you’d better be a bloody bit more convincing to the judge.”