2. Have been watching beaucoup de Supernatural. I am with the loving, not least because of the total and utter prettiness of Jensen Ackles, even if he does have a slightly silly name. Still with the Dean/Faith OTP love...
3. Was most kindly given Waiting For God series 2 & 3 from The Katie (merci muchly), and for some reason I decided that a WFG/Harry Potter crossover was the way forward. Question not the way of the Squeen, for it is fraught with weirdiness...
“So the old coot’s dead, then,” observed the old woman, as she folded up the letter she had just read. “That’s another one gone to the great knees-up in the sky. Still, he was about three hundred and four, so I don’t suppose he had any right to complain.”
She did not expect any reply to her comments. It was Thursday, and her companion was most likely attempting as ascent of the Himalayas with Sir Edmund Hillary. Nevertheless, a reply came.
“Ooh, I am sorry, Diana! Has one of your friends passed on?” The end was whispered, and Diana rolled her eyes even as she gestured her visitor into the room.
“If you mean, is he dead and cold in his grave, Jane, yes he is. Save your soppy euphemisms for those poor buggers who have gone daft in the head. What do you want?” Jane’s chin rose, and she looked disapprovingly at Diana.
“Harvey’s very upset,” she said grandly. Diana smiled cattily.
“Oh dear, poor Harvey! Has someone been mean and nasty to the little darling? Sneezed in his morning porridge? Scratched his pretty car? Expected him to run a halfway house to the morgue?”
“He’s very upset that someone has started a petition asking the board of governors to arrange for his execution by guillotine!”
“Oh, who would do something like that to our lovely Harvey, whom we all love so much?” Jane tossed her head, looking rather like a moth-eaten pony.
“Harvey says, will you please go and see him in his office.”
“See him in his office? Jane, I am not a school girl to be summoned for a dressing down and ten strokes of the magisterial cane! If Harvey wants to see me, one of his employers, he can come and find me, and not send his pet dish cloth to come and get me. Anyway, I haven’t got time. We’re going away.”
“Going away? Going away where? And who’s we?”
“Basil the sex pest and I are going on a filthy weekend to Amsterdam, home of drugs and prostitution.”
“Really, Diana, I don’t think that’s a very good idea!”
“Neither do I, you imbecilic wench! Tom and I are going up to Scotland for a while. Let the Idiot Baines know, will you? Tell him not to sell our rooms out from under us unless he wants to be out on his ear. Now do go away, Jane!” Diana flapped her hand, and Jane disappeared, no doubt in high dudgeon. Diana levered herself out of her chair, and walked over to where Tom was sitting, eyes staring unseeingly across the Bayview gardens.
“Tom!” There was no reply. “Base camp to climbers! There’s a blizzard blowing in; you are advised to return to base camp for hot chocolate and digestives.” As there was still no response, Diana turned to cruder methods, and walloped Tom on the head with a newspaper. With a sort of squelching gasp he returned to earth, and gave her an indignant look.
“You could have killed me! I was engaged in a very tricky duel with Basil Rathbone over…”
“Never mind that,” cut in Diana impatiently. “I’ve had a letter from Scotland about an old codger I used to know about a hundred years ago. He’s dead. We’ve got to go up.”
“Up? Up where?”
“Scotland, you daft buffoon! Come on, get packing!”
“But why do I have to come? Bette Davis is expecting me for tea tomorrow.” Diana sighed.
“There’s something you don’t know about me, Tom.” He looked at her interestedly.
“Really? Did you use to be an assassin? I’ve been wondering, you see.”
“I’m not an assassin. I’m a witch.” Tom laughed.
“Well, we all know that, old girl! The Idiot Baines has it as some sort of mantra.”
Diana poked him with her walking stick. “I’m not speaking metaphorically, Tom! I’m an actual magic-using, wand-waving witch. Well, not much nowadays. Ah, the things I could do…” Her smile was beatific as she contemplated the many uses magic could have in the humiliation of Harvey Baines. Tom looked at her suspiciously.
“Are you having me on, Diana? You might be able to take in some poor idiot like Marion with that sort of thing, but…”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Tom! Why would I bother making something like this up? Now, Albus is dead, and it’s very important that we go to Scotland.”
“But who is he? An old flame of yours?”
“You could say that, I suppose. Back during the war – not yours, of course, we had one too, mad old buzzard called Grindelwald – we worked together a bit. The Order of the Phoenix, we were called. I was a photographer for the Daily Prophet, and Albus and I ran into each other every so often. At it like bunnies whenever we had the opportunity. Haven’t seen him for years.”