First Entry Post!
Somewhere in one of London's more comfortable old neighbourhoods, it is 4 AM of a night in early spring. Inside one of the venerable old houses, (Of the sort where the mantles of coal fireplaces from the turn of the 20th century now hold very 21st century digital photo albums of granchildren.) someone has left a bathroom light on.
The someone in question is snoring gently, sleeping the sleep of the aging and the male, peaceful and secure in the now quiescent state of his bladder.
In the bed beside him, someone else is neither snoring, sleeping, 'nor quiescent. It's been a long few days at The Office. And the woman who now thinks of herself as 'M' would like nothing more than to turn over and forget for a few hours about the current mess in Kazakhstan that no-one else knows about. But the light from the bathroom will have none of it. It shines on, cheerfully malevolent. A withering glare that has, in past, reduced field agents to jelly as no effect. And so, with a grumble and a vague kick directed at the peaceful lump beside her, she rises, dons a housecoat and slippers, and goes to turn the light off herself.
Two steps through the bathroom doorway, hand reaching for a lightswitch no longer there, it's clear that someone's been doing some serious remodelling in the middle of the night.
A woman of older years and immense dignity is now in Milliways Bar. She is not amused.
( Ignore the quilted navy housecoat and the lambskin slippers -- she is. )
[OOC: The power's just started flickering here, since we're getting mass amounts of freezing rain. May vanish if it does more than just flicker. Although I need sleep soon, so this could be a moot point. ]
The someone in question is snoring gently, sleeping the sleep of the aging and the male, peaceful and secure in the now quiescent state of his bladder.
In the bed beside him, someone else is neither snoring, sleeping, 'nor quiescent. It's been a long few days at The Office. And the woman who now thinks of herself as 'M' would like nothing more than to turn over and forget for a few hours about the current mess in Kazakhstan that no-one else knows about. But the light from the bathroom will have none of it. It shines on, cheerfully malevolent. A withering glare that has, in past, reduced field agents to jelly as no effect. And so, with a grumble and a vague kick directed at the peaceful lump beside her, she rises, dons a housecoat and slippers, and goes to turn the light off herself.
Two steps through the bathroom doorway, hand reaching for a lightswitch no longer there, it's clear that someone's been doing some serious remodelling in the middle of the night.
A woman of older years and immense dignity is now in Milliways Bar. She is not amused.
( Ignore the quilted navy housecoat and the lambskin slippers -- she is. )
[OOC: The power's just started flickering here, since we're getting mass amounts of freezing rain. May vanish if it does more than just flicker. Although I need sleep soon, so this could be a moot point. ]