There's cobwebs on this thing ...
Dusting off the journal. Yeah … so. Dust, dust.
I’ve passed Jack Regan in a corridor twice without knowing it was Jack Regan. And yet George has pictures. On the dresser. Which I see every morning. So why did I not notice? Because I’m distracted and need to clean the inside of my head out with bleach, that’s why. I didn’t really notice until Crawford gave me a funny look. What was I doing down their end? Getting my own reports. Because it’s good for my sanity and peace of mind to know I’ve collected them myself. Yes.
The greying curls are very sexy. But never mind.
George has been lovely putting up with me. Because I’ve been a total bitch recently, hiding away in my little office thing. But hey, go me. I actually started to come downstairs and stop hibernating. This is a reasonably new thing. Even went to Charlie’s moving party.
It’s odd, you know, because I’ve been friends with Charlie for a really, really long time and I never realised how I’d missed talking to him until recently. I went over to help him with his exams and somehow we ended up talking about my childhood. That was strange, but good. Nice to be talking about something that wasn’t Lecter or … well. Wasn’t Lecter. Plus, he’s got this vodka stuff. It’s like tropical mango vodka. I swear, I want to live in the wizarding world. George, can we move?
Called Josh. He’s given up surfing. He’s joined the soccer team. God help us all. Molly’s fine, if disgruntled that she’s living with a police escort around the house, yet again. Josh wants to talk to George. Molly says he should leave the poor guy alone. I say torture him. Lovely when he’s all flushed and shifty.
Went for a drink for Jack. It was okay, no trying anything on, no bitching. Just a drink. And a tiny bit of work-talk but when is there not work-talk?
Oh, and my mother misses me. I miss her too but I don’t want her here right now, or anywhere near. Maybe when me and George go to Florida for that holiday after all this is over, we can stop by and see them. Then dad can prove that he’s not homophobic by … patting George on the back or something. Yeah. Anyway.
Off now. I’m hungry. George has sort of trained me into three meals a day. Or … well, two at least. Note to self: find out if there’s chocolate left downstairs.
I’ve passed Jack Regan in a corridor twice without knowing it was Jack Regan. And yet George has pictures. On the dresser. Which I see every morning. So why did I not notice? Because I’m distracted and need to clean the inside of my head out with bleach, that’s why. I didn’t really notice until Crawford gave me a funny look. What was I doing down their end? Getting my own reports. Because it’s good for my sanity and peace of mind to know I’ve collected them myself. Yes.
The greying curls are very sexy. But never mind.
George has been lovely putting up with me. Because I’ve been a total bitch recently, hiding away in my little office thing. But hey, go me. I actually started to come downstairs and stop hibernating. This is a reasonably new thing. Even went to Charlie’s moving party.
It’s odd, you know, because I’ve been friends with Charlie for a really, really long time and I never realised how I’d missed talking to him until recently. I went over to help him with his exams and somehow we ended up talking about my childhood. That was strange, but good. Nice to be talking about something that wasn’t Lecter or … well. Wasn’t Lecter. Plus, he’s got this vodka stuff. It’s like tropical mango vodka. I swear, I want to live in the wizarding world. George, can we move?
Called Josh. He’s given up surfing. He’s joined the soccer team. God help us all. Molly’s fine, if disgruntled that she’s living with a police escort around the house, yet again. Josh wants to talk to George. Molly says he should leave the poor guy alone. I say torture him. Lovely when he’s all flushed and shifty.
Went for a drink for Jack. It was okay, no trying anything on, no bitching. Just a drink. And a tiny bit of work-talk but when is there not work-talk?
Oh, and my mother misses me. I miss her too but I don’t want her here right now, or anywhere near. Maybe when me and George go to Florida for that holiday after all this is over, we can stop by and see them. Then dad can prove that he’s not homophobic by … patting George on the back or something. Yeah. Anyway.
Off now. I’m hungry. George has sort of trained me into three meals a day. Or … well, two at least. Note to self: find out if there’s chocolate left downstairs.