Time, as a certain Milliways patron insists, is not a strict progression of cause to effect.
It is, as said patron would continue to say, more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly... time-y wimey... stuff.
As such, it shouldn't surprise anyone that the Geoffrey Tennant who bounds through the door, rapier drawn, looks ten years younger
ten years saner
ten years happier
than the last time he'd been in (though the rapier is actually the same; it's not as if the theatre has the money to buy tons of props). It's obvious he's already drunk, but he's an actor.
More booze is never a bad thing. But--
"Ellen? ELLEN!" A faint pause. "Fair Ophelia?" and there's a bright grin on his face, fit to split his face in half even as his head lolls from one side to the other.
As such, it shouldn't surprise anyone that the Geoffrey Tennant who bounds through the door, rapier drawn, looks ten years younger
ten years saner
ten years happier
than the last time he'd been in (though the rapier is actually the same; it's not as if the theatre has the money to buy tons of props). It's obvious he's already drunk, but he's an actor.
More booze is never a bad thing. But--
"Ellen? ELLEN!" A faint pause. "Fair Ophelia?" and there's a bright grin on his face, fit to split his face in half even as his head lolls from one side to the other.