Act III
Guys, GUYS! We're on our third post!
Congrats on being such a lovely bunch of intelligent people. Being a mod is not as tough as elsewhere because you are all awesome and sensible and enjoy this for what it is meant to be: A FUN PLACE!
A few things:
a) If you are unsure about anything, look at the guidelines or feel free to write a message to lolitics_meme at ( Read more... )
Congrats on being such a lovely bunch of intelligent people. Being a mod is not as tough as elsewhere because you are all awesome and sensible and enjoy this for what it is meant to be: A FUN PLACE!
A few things:
a) If you are unsure about anything, look at the guidelines or feel free to write a message to lolitics_meme at ( Read more... )
“Oh, I’m sorry, Keir Hardie,” George spat, “perhaps we ought to return it to Tiffany’s and exchange it for a pit pony and a - a flat cap - but don’t worry, one of your working class hero friends probably - stop laughing!”
“A flat cap,” Peter echoed, helplessly. “Honestly, my dear, I can’t understand how anyone ever gets the idea that the Tories are out of touch.”
“Oh shut up,” said George, and stacked the rattle on top of a box containing a Steiff teddy bear from Tony Blair.
“Do you think our child will turn out Conservative or Labour?” Peter asked.
George bit down on a kneejerk Tory, if I’ve got anything to do with it. “Maybe neither,” he said, in an attempt at diplomacy.
“Blue and red make purple,” Peter mused. “UKIP, perhaps?”
He and George shared a look and a shudder of horror.
-
A few weeks before George left for paternity leave, the Speaker took advantage of a slow period in parliament to throw an informal party that everyone involved in and invited to had been expressly forbidden from calling a baby shower. The only congratulatory balloon had been brought by a foolish junior Lib Dem, and quickly hidden under the buffet table.
“So, how are you coming along with names?” David asked, like a man blithely wandering into No Man’s land.
“It’s - under discussion,” said George, diplomatically.
Peter, less so, said, “It’s a process of elimination. We suppose that when we have vetoed every other name in existence we will have reached the right one.”
“And then you’ll probably veto that one, for the hell of it,” said George, sharply.
“Ah,” said David, rather strained, having finally looked around and found himself in the middle of a conversational field of trench warfare. “Well. Ha. I’m sure you’ll land on the right one eventually. It was always a long process with Sam and I. Nick would agree, wouldn’t you, Nick?” David reached out and snagged Nick by the elbow as he was passing on the way to the buffet, attempting to draw him into the conversation as a human shield.
Nick smiled. “What am I agreeing to?”
“That choosing a name is -“
“Oh no,” Nick said, extricating himself from David’s grasp, “no, no, you walked into that one, you dig yourself out of it. I’m getting cocktail sausages and cheese on a stick.”
“I’ll come with you,” George said, and made his escape.
-
When George had eaten about half the buffet and been roundly cooed over by every woman in the City of Westminster, he went in search of Peter, who was ensconced in a crowd of cabinet Conservatives.
“So George is only taking a few weeks’ leave afterwards, I’ve heard,” said William Hague.
Peter nodded. “Yes, he wants to get back to work as quickly as possible.”
“And what are you going to do - a nanny, perhaps?”
“No, no,” said Peter, laughing. “No, I shall make use of my retirement and become a stay-at-home father.”
“Really, Peter,” William drawled, the bastard, “doesn’t it worry you, taking care of a baby at your age?”
“Don’t you worry about me, I’m fit as a fiddle,” said Peter. He laughed smoothly enough, and probably nobody else would have noticed the slight, the ever so slight strain.
Reply
Leave a comment