19 - More potassium than DMil's banana
*waves to everyone who is still around*
It's great to still see people prompting and writing :) We may have lost a few people on the way but we also had some new intake. Thanks for keeping this place alive!
Let's hope that conference season and the next election will help to pick up the pace a bit.
The ususal stuff:
1) All fills for prompts of ( Read more... )
It's great to still see people prompting and writing :) We may have lost a few people on the way but we also had some new intake. Thanks for keeping this place alive!
Let's hope that conference season and the next election will help to pick up the pace a bit.
The ususal stuff:
1) All fills for prompts of ( Read more... )
It’s a warm day for once, what seems like the first in this damp, dreary August, but it’s muggy and overcast. The air is very still. Even up here on the hills there is no wind, and the sounds of the town below which usually carry clearly across the valley seem muffled as though the heavy air is smothering them. Well, Chris shouldn’t complain; he went jogging for a bit of peace and quiet, after all. He’s doorknocking in Cardiff this afternoon, and he wanted a little time to himself before the inevitable encounters with vicious dogs and people who answer the door in their pants and little old ladies who are going to vote Labour, of course they are, but they’re not sure about Ed Miliband, why can’t he be more like that nice Nigel Farage who talks a lot of sense?
But if it was peace he was seeking he hasn’t found it up here on the hillside in the wet, thick air. It’s not a soothing quiet. There’s a dull impatience to it, like a storm is coming but not soon enough. It feels rather like the whole summer has: a long mounting tension as the Government’s welfare reforms collapse and the international situation deteriorates and the clock to the general election ticks steadily downward and Chris waits for someone to do something, anything, just to make a change.
It’s almost a relief when his phone rings- not his work phone, which he left at home, but the personal moblie he’s kept in secret ever since Murdoch hacked his last phone. Jared makes him carry it with him whenever he runs in case he trips over something and breaks his other leg.
It is Jared, calling from London; Chris can hear the chatter of his office in the background. The hubbub is louder than usual. They seem stirred up about something.
“Drop whatever you’re doing and check your Twitter feed. You’re going to want to see this,” Jared says, and even before he says Carswell’s name Chris can feel the storm breaking.
Reply
This little fic is great (Chris should always be a rebel if it means more fic!). I really love that even when he's up on a hill hundreds of miles from work he still can't get politics out of his head.
He’s doorknocking in Cardiff this afternoon, and he wanted a little time to himself before the inevitable encounters with vicious dogs and people who answer the door in their pants and little old ladies who are going to vote Labour, of course they are, but they’re not sure about Ed Miliband, why can’t he be more like that nice Nigel Farage who talks a lot of sense?
So sad, and probably so true. I really love a bit of spiked humour in fic and this was perfectly placed!
And the idea of him having a secret personal phone since the whole "being hacked" thing is a lovely piece of characterization and your Chris-voice is so IC and awesome.
Such a great fic, anon! Thanks!
Reply
Leave a comment