(no subject)
Bonshurrr de Fransssh à tous. That means "Hello from France, everyone" in French-parseltongue.
Theodore and I are staying at a secluded Chateau in the hills. We've a magnificent view from each and every window -- I can see the Mediterranean from some of them and mountains from the others. Trees and foliage are abundant, as one might imagine, and the weather is more fair than that of England's. There's a provincial, all-wizarding village a few kilometres away that's full of charming little white buildings, and we've ventured there a few times to dine. I would paste in photographs, but I am not a homosexual perverperson and do not feel the urge to do so.
I believe that getting away from the mu city has had a marvellous and rejuvenatory effect on my health. I cannot remember the last time that I felt so alert and energised, yet utterly willing to simply lounge about and relax. The thought of my father's release had been wrecking havoc on my nerves, I will admit, but it's easy to forget about all of that here. Theodore has been lovely company, and I thank him for whisking me away from Bethnal Green just before Dodger's return.
I sense a curious history about this place. I went for a walk yesterday afternoon and met an old wizard who was out foraging for herbs. He was eating a great big bunch of grapes and leaned on a walking stick as he spoke to me in a thick but not inpenetrable accent. I asked him about the very steep gouges I'd seen in the hills, for they looked like roads for autos to me, though I hadn't seen an auto anywhere at all. He told me that in more barbaric times, wizards had rolled stupefied muggles down the hillside for sport, and that the gouges had been created from rolling them in the same spot over and over again. How fascinat barbaric, indeed. But curious, as well.
Speaking of curious, I've heard that there is some sort of protest going on over Tristan Greengrass' release from Azkaban. I do hope Dodger didn't see people thronged in front of the Ministry when he was set loose Monday -- he's likely to think that the protest is all about him and then I'll never hear the end of it.
Theodore and I are staying at a secluded Chateau in the hills. We've a magnificent view from each and every window -- I can see the Mediterranean from some of them and mountains from the others. Trees and foliage are abundant, as one might imagine, and the weather is more fair than that of England's. There's a provincial, all-wizarding village a few kilometres away that's full of charming little white buildings, and we've ventured there a few times to dine. I would paste in photographs, but I am not a homosexual perverperson and do not feel the urge to do so.
I believe that getting away from the mu city has had a marvellous and rejuvenatory effect on my health. I cannot remember the last time that I felt so alert and energised, yet utterly willing to simply lounge about and relax. The thought of my father's release had been wrecking havoc on my nerves, I will admit, but it's easy to forget about all of that here. Theodore has been lovely company, and I thank him for whisking me away from Bethnal Green just before Dodger's return.
I sense a curious history about this place. I went for a walk yesterday afternoon and met an old wizard who was out foraging for herbs. He was eating a great big bunch of grapes and leaned on a walking stick as he spoke to me in a thick but not inpenetrable accent. I asked him about the very steep gouges I'd seen in the hills, for they looked like roads for autos to me, though I hadn't seen an auto anywhere at all. He told me that in more barbaric times, wizards had rolled stupefied muggles down the hillside for sport, and that the gouges had been created from rolling them in the same spot over and over again. How fascinat barbaric, indeed. But curious, as well.
Speaking of curious, I've heard that there is some sort of protest going on over Tristan Greengrass' release from Azkaban. I do hope Dodger didn't see people thronged in front of the Ministry when he was set loose Monday -- he's likely to think that the protest is all about him and then I'll never hear the end of it.