GO/HP/Bridget Jones crossover
This is possibly the oddest crossover I've ever embarked upon.
Monday 22nd June
9st 5 (must do better), alcohol units 2 (vg), cigarettes 4 (g), calories 1869 (vg).
9:30 a.m. Cinnamon Productions called this morning to tell me am now assistant producer for Rural England Uncovered; ultra tacky expose of the seedier side of village life. Have been instructed to go to meet film crew in village called Lower Tadfield and get residents to talk about problem of juvenile delinquency in the area. Plan to be super efficient and get all interviews done in two days, so will be able to spend rest of week enjoying lovely carefree mini-break in the countryside.
10:00 a.m. Oh bugger, the car won’t start.
11:30 a.m. Bloody car still won’t start. Cannot call Mark as he’s in Bolivia doing important human rights work. Shaz not answering mobile. Jude was in v. important meeting, and was therefore not ecstatic to hear from me. Never mind, am independent self-sufficient woman who is more than capable of navigating the British railway network.
3:00 p.m. Ugh. Bloody railway network. Must have got on the train at the wrong platform. Am standing in tiny station located somewhere called Little Whinging. Have no idea which part of the country am in - if am still in the same country that is - or where the hell it is relative to desired location. Also, phone’s battery has run out, and am unable to call television crew. Help!
5:00 p.m. Hurrah, am finally back on way to Lower Tadfield. It took over an hour for the bloody train to arrive, but didn’t mind so much as managed to have lovely conversation with a very polite young man called Harry. Poor thing told me that he use to go to awful public school where he was stalked by unhinged upper class prefect called Drake or Drakie or something like that. There was also a weird nutcase headmaster (now deceased) who told him that he had to save the world.
“Nobody can ever succeed all of the time. The important thing is that we find our true path in life,” I told him, attempting to sound like wise guru type figure.
“If I don’t succeed then me and everyone I love will die,” he said, looking thoroughly miserable.
Talk about pushy, draconian, outmoded education practices.
As if that wasn’t bad enough he also said that it was a regular occurrence for the boys to get their wands out in public!!! Will possibly report this Hogwarts place to social services and/or the Local Education Authority. Still, I did manage to give him one of my self-help books, which might help with his chronic insecurity and debilitating fear of failure.
7:00 p.m. Made it to the Tadfield terminus. Now all I have to do is find The Oak Tree Hotel, where film crew are staying.
7:45 p.m. Am currently in a lane in the middle of nowhere dragging enormous suitcase behind me. Cannot find hotel. Cannot even find village. Am probably being stalked by crazed axe murderer. Help!
11:00 p.m. Thank God (or other world deities). I’m finally safe; and sleeping on sofa of Jasmine Cottage. Was stumbling down an empty country road, scared and completely lost, when I heard a voice ask me if I was okay. I thought at first that I’d started to have auditory hallucination; but when I turned round there was actually a woman standing there.
“I’m looking for the Oak Tree Hotel,” I said, trying to project outward appearance of inner poise.
“But that’s in Upper Tadfield, which is over six miles away in that direction,” said the woman, pointing to somewhere in the distance.
Was unable to stop self from promptly bursting into tears.
“I think that we should probably get you inside. You look freezing. My name’s Anathema by the way.”
Anathema! Parents must have been complete sadists.
“Bridget,” I sniffled.
Was then led to charming tumbledown cottage where Anathema lives with fiancé Newt Pulsifer. Suspect that his parents must have been sadists also. Newt offered to give me lift to hotel, but Anathema vetoed suggestion on the grounds that ‘nobody was getting into that car until it’s been fully serviced at the garage’. Newt said that he had spent all weekend making the necessary repairs. Anathema countered by saying that he’d claimed the exact same thing about the downstairs wiring.
“The men from the National Grid said that it was probably just a coincidence,” protested Newt.
“And the satellite dish?” said Anathema, raising an eyebrow.
“Anybody could have made that mistake. Even the people from NASA didn’t know how that happened.”
“Newt, the probe got redirected to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.”
After much debating it was decided that I should stay at Jasmine cottage for the night and then get the bus to Upper Tadfield tomorrow morning. Newt’s also offered to upgrade my laptop to the latest version of Windows. Think I love Anathema and Newt (in totally platonic way of course).
Tuesday 23rd June
9st4 (approx. as Anathema’s bathroom scales don’t work), alcohol units 0 (saintly), cigarettes 24 (perfectly understandable given circumstances), calories 1250 (vg. But probably more due to Anathema’s organic cooking than actual self-control).
9:35 a.m. Day’s started very well; even if Anathema’s organic muesli was impossible to chew. Asked if she had any Cheerios in the house and was given twenty minute lecture on the evils perpetrated by the global cereal industry. Note to self: never, ever, under any circumstances mention own patronage of Starbucks in Anathema’s presence, except in unlikely even that self ever wants to be exposed to that look again. After breakfast, or a least what I could eat of it, left laptop with Newt, who kindly invited me to dinner tonight:
“It’ll just be me, Anathema, my old Sergeant and Madam…er, I mean, his wife,” he said.
Was surprised by this: Newt doesn’t look like type who would pass army physical and Anathema doesn’t seem like the type who’d let anybody associated with the military into the cottage.
“That’ll be super,” I said, making a mental note to eat before I arrive.
“Great, we’ll come and pick you up at half six. We should have a temporary replacement for the Wasabi by then.”
Wasabi? Possibly indicating that sushi in on dinner menu; however as Anathema is strict vegetarian, can only assume that will be eating some sort of fishless sushi substitute. Eeep.
Newt then pointed me in direction of nearest bus stop, which is almost a mile down the road from cottage and lacks bus shelter (possibly due to vandalism by unruly local youth). Still, bus is due very soon and it doesn’t look like it’s about to rain.
10:55 a.m. Bus still not turned up. Suspect that in the part of the country following timetable is optional. Clouds in sky starting to look v. ominous.
11:15 a.m. Is pouring down. Am wearing ill advised white t-shirt. Where the hell is the bus?
11:25 a.m. Bus has finally arrived. Only other passengers are two scruffy-looking men in grubby macks who’re skulking about on the back seat (had not previously thought it possible for anybody to skulk while sitting down yet they seem to have managed it). Think the tall thin one is leering at me and his short, fat companion glowering. Clearly even picturesque rural areas have dirty old men lurking about in the social undergrowth.
5:30 p.m. Well, after the journey from hell, during which the bus got stuck for half an hour in a small pothole in the road and the driver, clearly unaware that anybody on board might have been in a hurry, twice paused for a cup of tea, a smoke and a short walk round the outside of the vehicle, finally arrived at the Oak Tree Hotel in Upper Tadfield. Unfortunately, when I attempted to check in the man at the front desk informed me that the entire crew from Cinnamon Productions had checked out two hours earlier and relocated to somewhere called Tadfield Manor due to a dispute about towels. Was mid-way through v. loud rant on why the bastard should have at least told me that they were buggering off to another hotel, when realised that reason for lack of communication was that mobile had run out of battery.
Having learned lesson about local bus service the hard way, I then caught a taxi to the slightly creepy-looking Tadfield Manor, whereupon was berated by over half of the crew for not turning up yesterday.
“Well, you should have bloody checked the map before you set off,” shouted Dave the alcoholic sound technician, completely unsympathetic to my plight.
Feel that crew’s lack of compassion is indicative of way society is becoming less tolerant and understanding of the misfortunes of others. When I mentioned this to Dave however he completely lost it and proceeded to scream something about just being intolerant of shear bloody-minded incompetence. Found self maliciously wishing that Dave would develop a severe case of laryngitis.
Was then driven back to Lower Tadfield - just five hundred metres from where I first set off this morning - and taken to the home of my first interviewees Mr. and Mrs. RP Tyler. Mrs. Tyler stared at me in highly disapproving fashion as I entered their chintz filled horror of house. Suspect that this Mrs. Tyler puts any woman who wears a skirt that doesn’t reach her calves must be a gin soaked prostitute.
“So Mr. Tyler, could you describe the behaviour of local teenagers?” I asked, in my most professional and serious-sounding voice, expecting him to detail a catalogue of break-ins and drug fuelled violence.
Mr. Tyler cleared his throat a look of horrible smugness crossing his face. “Yesterday,” he said. “There were four of them sitting on the village green.”
“And what were they doing?” I asked.
“I just told you,” he said, looking at me as though I was completely stupid. “They were sitting on the green.”
“Just sitting on the green?”
“Well,” he lowered his voice, “I heard one of them swearing.”
“Er, right. Anything else?”
Mr. Tyler then proceeded to spend the next three hours listing a series of equally bizarre complaints about the children in the area, before declaring that hanging, flogging, compulsory national service and a ban on anybody under the age of twenty-eight staying out later than half past nine at night was the one and only cure for society’s ills, whilst his wife made sporadic comments (with pointed looks at me) about how the filth on TV was entirely to blame for young people’s rudeness these days. When I suggested that they were perhaps being a little hard on the youth of today, Mr. Tyler declared that he hadn’t expected such impertinence from me and was going to write a letter of complaint to The Times about the impoliteness and libertine standards of the media. Went away with distinct impression that the Tyler’s would not be satisfied unless everybody under the age of twenty-one spent all day sitting quietly indoors. Still, the crew has assured me that non-sensical ranting about young people appeals to a large section of the 55+ viewing demographic.
Anyway, will put all thought of unpleasant old men out of my mind as am currently getting ready for Newt and Anathema’s dinner. Have decided not to wear anything that has visible designer labelling as suspect that this may lead disapproving comments on Anathema’s part about consumer culture. Am also against consumer culture, of course, just in a less obvious way than Anathema; after all Discovering Your Social Consciousness devotes five chapters to explaining how overspending on non-essential items can lead to alienation and unhappiness (though this sometimes makes me wonder why Discovering Your Social Consciousness costs £27:99).
5:45 p.m. Gah. Just remembered that Newt and Anathema don’t know I’ve moved hotels. Still, never mind, I can phone them up.
5:55 p.m. Have realised that a) I’ve left my phone charger at home and a) don’t have the number for Jasmine Cottage anyway.
9:20 p.m. Well, that has to be one of the strangest dinner parties I’ve ever attended. Amazingly Newt and Anathema turned up at Tadfield Manor at 6:00 p.m. on the dot. When I asked how they’d known I’d be there they both just smiled. Was then driven in Newt’s new hire car back to Jasmine cottage, whereupon, at Anathema’s prompting, Newt confessed that the upgrading of my laptop hadn’t quite gone as planned.
“I did manage to double the size of the hard drive,” he said, looking at the floor. “It’s just…just, well; it seems to be refusing to run Windows in any language apart from Norwegian. I’m not quite sure what happened.” Then he seemed to brighten slightly. “I’ll have another go at fixing it tomorrow though.”
“We’ll buy you a new one,” said Anathema. “You’ve got all your important documents backed up, haven’t you?”
“Er, yes,” I said, not wanting to admit that I only ever seem to use the laptop for playing Solitaire and Minesweeper.
Ten minutes later the other guests arrived. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected Newt’s old sergeant and his wife to look like, but I really hadn’t expected him to be dressed in an ancient, stained anorak and her to be wearing a full sequinned evening dress and feather festooned hat.
“Bridget,” Newt said, “I’d like you to meet Sergeant Shadwell and Madam Tracy. And Sergeant Shadwell and Madam Tracy I’d like you to meet our new friend Bridget Jones.”
“Hello love, it’s just Tracy now, I’ve retired,” said Madam Tracy, smiling at me.
Sergeant Shadwell looked at me critically for a moment before saying. “So lassie, yeh not one of the daughters o’the night are yeh?”
“Of course she’s not,” said Newt quickly. “She’s works for a television company.”
“So how many’s she got then?”
“How many what?” I asked, rather disturbed that the old man suspected me of being some sort of prostitute.
“Nipples,” he said.
For a moment there was deathly silence.
Finally the woman formerly known as Madam Tracy cleared her throat. “There’ll be less of that,” she said sharply, before smiling at me again. “You shouldn’t mind him love. He sometimes forgets that he’s retired.”
Forgets that he’s retired? I know that Shaz is always going on about the army being a breeding ground for misogyny and sexual harassment, but I didn’t think that it would be this bad.
Dinner itself turned out not to be sushi substitute, but what seemed to be a watery vegetable stew. Sergeant Shadwell muttered darkly about something called ‘phenomena’ throughout and insisted on referring to his wife as ‘my painted Jezebel’ whilst the rest of us ate in an uncomfortable silence. On the bright side however none of those present showed the slightest inclination to make comments of a smug married variety. Afterwards Newt and Anathema apologised profusely and drove me back to Tadfield Manor.
Monday 22nd June
9st 5 (must do better), alcohol units 2 (vg), cigarettes 4 (g), calories 1869 (vg).
9:30 a.m. Cinnamon Productions called this morning to tell me am now assistant producer for Rural England Uncovered; ultra tacky expose of the seedier side of village life. Have been instructed to go to meet film crew in village called Lower Tadfield and get residents to talk about problem of juvenile delinquency in the area. Plan to be super efficient and get all interviews done in two days, so will be able to spend rest of week enjoying lovely carefree mini-break in the countryside.
10:00 a.m. Oh bugger, the car won’t start.
11:30 a.m. Bloody car still won’t start. Cannot call Mark as he’s in Bolivia doing important human rights work. Shaz not answering mobile. Jude was in v. important meeting, and was therefore not ecstatic to hear from me. Never mind, am independent self-sufficient woman who is more than capable of navigating the British railway network.
3:00 p.m. Ugh. Bloody railway network. Must have got on the train at the wrong platform. Am standing in tiny station located somewhere called Little Whinging. Have no idea which part of the country am in - if am still in the same country that is - or where the hell it is relative to desired location. Also, phone’s battery has run out, and am unable to call television crew. Help!
5:00 p.m. Hurrah, am finally back on way to Lower Tadfield. It took over an hour for the bloody train to arrive, but didn’t mind so much as managed to have lovely conversation with a very polite young man called Harry. Poor thing told me that he use to go to awful public school where he was stalked by unhinged upper class prefect called Drake or Drakie or something like that. There was also a weird nutcase headmaster (now deceased) who told him that he had to save the world.
“Nobody can ever succeed all of the time. The important thing is that we find our true path in life,” I told him, attempting to sound like wise guru type figure.
“If I don’t succeed then me and everyone I love will die,” he said, looking thoroughly miserable.
Talk about pushy, draconian, outmoded education practices.
As if that wasn’t bad enough he also said that it was a regular occurrence for the boys to get their wands out in public!!! Will possibly report this Hogwarts place to social services and/or the Local Education Authority. Still, I did manage to give him one of my self-help books, which might help with his chronic insecurity and debilitating fear of failure.
7:00 p.m. Made it to the Tadfield terminus. Now all I have to do is find The Oak Tree Hotel, where film crew are staying.
7:45 p.m. Am currently in a lane in the middle of nowhere dragging enormous suitcase behind me. Cannot find hotel. Cannot even find village. Am probably being stalked by crazed axe murderer. Help!
11:00 p.m. Thank God (or other world deities). I’m finally safe; and sleeping on sofa of Jasmine Cottage. Was stumbling down an empty country road, scared and completely lost, when I heard a voice ask me if I was okay. I thought at first that I’d started to have auditory hallucination; but when I turned round there was actually a woman standing there.
“I’m looking for the Oak Tree Hotel,” I said, trying to project outward appearance of inner poise.
“But that’s in Upper Tadfield, which is over six miles away in that direction,” said the woman, pointing to somewhere in the distance.
Was unable to stop self from promptly bursting into tears.
“I think that we should probably get you inside. You look freezing. My name’s Anathema by the way.”
Anathema! Parents must have been complete sadists.
“Bridget,” I sniffled.
Was then led to charming tumbledown cottage where Anathema lives with fiancé Newt Pulsifer. Suspect that his parents must have been sadists also. Newt offered to give me lift to hotel, but Anathema vetoed suggestion on the grounds that ‘nobody was getting into that car until it’s been fully serviced at the garage’. Newt said that he had spent all weekend making the necessary repairs. Anathema countered by saying that he’d claimed the exact same thing about the downstairs wiring.
“The men from the National Grid said that it was probably just a coincidence,” protested Newt.
“And the satellite dish?” said Anathema, raising an eyebrow.
“Anybody could have made that mistake. Even the people from NASA didn’t know how that happened.”
“Newt, the probe got redirected to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.”
After much debating it was decided that I should stay at Jasmine cottage for the night and then get the bus to Upper Tadfield tomorrow morning. Newt’s also offered to upgrade my laptop to the latest version of Windows. Think I love Anathema and Newt (in totally platonic way of course).
Tuesday 23rd June
9st4 (approx. as Anathema’s bathroom scales don’t work), alcohol units 0 (saintly), cigarettes 24 (perfectly understandable given circumstances), calories 1250 (vg. But probably more due to Anathema’s organic cooking than actual self-control).
9:35 a.m. Day’s started very well; even if Anathema’s organic muesli was impossible to chew. Asked if she had any Cheerios in the house and was given twenty minute lecture on the evils perpetrated by the global cereal industry. Note to self: never, ever, under any circumstances mention own patronage of Starbucks in Anathema’s presence, except in unlikely even that self ever wants to be exposed to that look again. After breakfast, or a least what I could eat of it, left laptop with Newt, who kindly invited me to dinner tonight:
“It’ll just be me, Anathema, my old Sergeant and Madam…er, I mean, his wife,” he said.
Was surprised by this: Newt doesn’t look like type who would pass army physical and Anathema doesn’t seem like the type who’d let anybody associated with the military into the cottage.
“That’ll be super,” I said, making a mental note to eat before I arrive.
“Great, we’ll come and pick you up at half six. We should have a temporary replacement for the Wasabi by then.”
Wasabi? Possibly indicating that sushi in on dinner menu; however as Anathema is strict vegetarian, can only assume that will be eating some sort of fishless sushi substitute. Eeep.
Newt then pointed me in direction of nearest bus stop, which is almost a mile down the road from cottage and lacks bus shelter (possibly due to vandalism by unruly local youth). Still, bus is due very soon and it doesn’t look like it’s about to rain.
10:55 a.m. Bus still not turned up. Suspect that in the part of the country following timetable is optional. Clouds in sky starting to look v. ominous.
11:15 a.m. Is pouring down. Am wearing ill advised white t-shirt. Where the hell is the bus?
11:25 a.m. Bus has finally arrived. Only other passengers are two scruffy-looking men in grubby macks who’re skulking about on the back seat (had not previously thought it possible for anybody to skulk while sitting down yet they seem to have managed it). Think the tall thin one is leering at me and his short, fat companion glowering. Clearly even picturesque rural areas have dirty old men lurking about in the social undergrowth.
5:30 p.m. Well, after the journey from hell, during which the bus got stuck for half an hour in a small pothole in the road and the driver, clearly unaware that anybody on board might have been in a hurry, twice paused for a cup of tea, a smoke and a short walk round the outside of the vehicle, finally arrived at the Oak Tree Hotel in Upper Tadfield. Unfortunately, when I attempted to check in the man at the front desk informed me that the entire crew from Cinnamon Productions had checked out two hours earlier and relocated to somewhere called Tadfield Manor due to a dispute about towels. Was mid-way through v. loud rant on why the bastard should have at least told me that they were buggering off to another hotel, when realised that reason for lack of communication was that mobile had run out of battery.
Having learned lesson about local bus service the hard way, I then caught a taxi to the slightly creepy-looking Tadfield Manor, whereupon was berated by over half of the crew for not turning up yesterday.
“Well, you should have bloody checked the map before you set off,” shouted Dave the alcoholic sound technician, completely unsympathetic to my plight.
Feel that crew’s lack of compassion is indicative of way society is becoming less tolerant and understanding of the misfortunes of others. When I mentioned this to Dave however he completely lost it and proceeded to scream something about just being intolerant of shear bloody-minded incompetence. Found self maliciously wishing that Dave would develop a severe case of laryngitis.
Was then driven back to Lower Tadfield - just five hundred metres from where I first set off this morning - and taken to the home of my first interviewees Mr. and Mrs. RP Tyler. Mrs. Tyler stared at me in highly disapproving fashion as I entered their chintz filled horror of house. Suspect that this Mrs. Tyler puts any woman who wears a skirt that doesn’t reach her calves must be a gin soaked prostitute.
“So Mr. Tyler, could you describe the behaviour of local teenagers?” I asked, in my most professional and serious-sounding voice, expecting him to detail a catalogue of break-ins and drug fuelled violence.
Mr. Tyler cleared his throat a look of horrible smugness crossing his face. “Yesterday,” he said. “There were four of them sitting on the village green.”
“And what were they doing?” I asked.
“I just told you,” he said, looking at me as though I was completely stupid. “They were sitting on the green.”
“Just sitting on the green?”
“Well,” he lowered his voice, “I heard one of them swearing.”
“Er, right. Anything else?”
Mr. Tyler then proceeded to spend the next three hours listing a series of equally bizarre complaints about the children in the area, before declaring that hanging, flogging, compulsory national service and a ban on anybody under the age of twenty-eight staying out later than half past nine at night was the one and only cure for society’s ills, whilst his wife made sporadic comments (with pointed looks at me) about how the filth on TV was entirely to blame for young people’s rudeness these days. When I suggested that they were perhaps being a little hard on the youth of today, Mr. Tyler declared that he hadn’t expected such impertinence from me and was going to write a letter of complaint to The Times about the impoliteness and libertine standards of the media. Went away with distinct impression that the Tyler’s would not be satisfied unless everybody under the age of twenty-one spent all day sitting quietly indoors. Still, the crew has assured me that non-sensical ranting about young people appeals to a large section of the 55+ viewing demographic.
Anyway, will put all thought of unpleasant old men out of my mind as am currently getting ready for Newt and Anathema’s dinner. Have decided not to wear anything that has visible designer labelling as suspect that this may lead disapproving comments on Anathema’s part about consumer culture. Am also against consumer culture, of course, just in a less obvious way than Anathema; after all Discovering Your Social Consciousness devotes five chapters to explaining how overspending on non-essential items can lead to alienation and unhappiness (though this sometimes makes me wonder why Discovering Your Social Consciousness costs £27:99).
5:45 p.m. Gah. Just remembered that Newt and Anathema don’t know I’ve moved hotels. Still, never mind, I can phone them up.
5:55 p.m. Have realised that a) I’ve left my phone charger at home and a) don’t have the number for Jasmine Cottage anyway.
9:20 p.m. Well, that has to be one of the strangest dinner parties I’ve ever attended. Amazingly Newt and Anathema turned up at Tadfield Manor at 6:00 p.m. on the dot. When I asked how they’d known I’d be there they both just smiled. Was then driven in Newt’s new hire car back to Jasmine cottage, whereupon, at Anathema’s prompting, Newt confessed that the upgrading of my laptop hadn’t quite gone as planned.
“I did manage to double the size of the hard drive,” he said, looking at the floor. “It’s just…just, well; it seems to be refusing to run Windows in any language apart from Norwegian. I’m not quite sure what happened.” Then he seemed to brighten slightly. “I’ll have another go at fixing it tomorrow though.”
“We’ll buy you a new one,” said Anathema. “You’ve got all your important documents backed up, haven’t you?”
“Er, yes,” I said, not wanting to admit that I only ever seem to use the laptop for playing Solitaire and Minesweeper.
Ten minutes later the other guests arrived. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected Newt’s old sergeant and his wife to look like, but I really hadn’t expected him to be dressed in an ancient, stained anorak and her to be wearing a full sequinned evening dress and feather festooned hat.
“Bridget,” Newt said, “I’d like you to meet Sergeant Shadwell and Madam Tracy. And Sergeant Shadwell and Madam Tracy I’d like you to meet our new friend Bridget Jones.”
“Hello love, it’s just Tracy now, I’ve retired,” said Madam Tracy, smiling at me.
Sergeant Shadwell looked at me critically for a moment before saying. “So lassie, yeh not one of the daughters o’the night are yeh?”
“Of course she’s not,” said Newt quickly. “She’s works for a television company.”
“So how many’s she got then?”
“How many what?” I asked, rather disturbed that the old man suspected me of being some sort of prostitute.
“Nipples,” he said.
For a moment there was deathly silence.
Finally the woman formerly known as Madam Tracy cleared her throat. “There’ll be less of that,” she said sharply, before smiling at me again. “You shouldn’t mind him love. He sometimes forgets that he’s retired.”
Forgets that he’s retired? I know that Shaz is always going on about the army being a breeding ground for misogyny and sexual harassment, but I didn’t think that it would be this bad.
Dinner itself turned out not to be sushi substitute, but what seemed to be a watery vegetable stew. Sergeant Shadwell muttered darkly about something called ‘phenomena’ throughout and insisted on referring to his wife as ‘my painted Jezebel’ whilst the rest of us ate in an uncomfortable silence. On the bright side however none of those present showed the slightest inclination to make comments of a smug married variety. Afterwards Newt and Anathema apologised profusely and drove me back to Tadfield Manor.