35. Val Da Ree
[It was a glorious summer's day; the sun was shining and the sky was blue, lovely little white clouds scudding along merrily to provide a picture-perfect tableaux.
It was all wrong, in Aziraphale's mind.
This wasn't how summer was supposed to be, not a real summer, anyway. There was supposed to be random bouts of pouring rain, and a myriad of Cockney men in dirty T-shirts bemoaning the tiny biting insects that spoiled what little sunshine they did get. Not this perfect actual summer's day, it just wasn't natural and Aziraphale was feeling quite resentful towards it as he woke up that morning.1 It wasn't even that type of humid and dusty intense heat that sometimes rolled over Britain; that sort that still leant itself to some good complaining, it just wasn't on.
Nevertheless, as an angel it was his duty to make the best of the circumstances; and so he had risen with the dawn to get ready for the only respectable activity a man of a certain age could do on a day like today2. Some knee length beige shorts and walking boots, had been paired with a shirt that fit a little too snugly over his plump physique to provide the perfect rambling outfit. Choosing a direction at random, not having studied the map of Paradisa at much length, he struck out over the fields.
Forty-five minutes later (and a few sneaky instant changes in location to try and find some more interesting scenery) and he was really getting into it. He had a blister forming nicely on the heel of his right foot for chuntering purposes later on, and had his voice raised in a surprisingly tuneful rendition of The Happy Wanderer.3]
♫ Mein Vater war ein Wandersmann,
und mir steckt’s auch im Blut.
D’rum wand’re ich froh, so lang ich kann,
und schwenke meinen Hut,
falleri, fallera, falleri,
fallera ha ha ha ha ha,
falleri, fallera,
und schwenke meinen Hut. ♪
[What was that up ahead? A manor house, how odd! It took him a moment or two to recall that this was supposedly the lair of that Riful woman, a most unpleasant sort who had been causing a bit of a stir recently. He could just turn around and walk away, of course, but he was here now and it was his job to try and turn a soul back onto the path of right. Perhaps it was the Ineffable Plan that had led him this way? Well, whatever it was, with the Lord Almighty in the castle, Aziraphale didn't want to shirk his duties.
So it was down to the front door, tactfully miracling away the sweat patches under his arms from the long walk in the bright sunshine, knocking politely. Anyone home?]
1. Or as resentful as an angel could feel, which generally meant a slightly baleful look and a barely audible sigh.
2. Once you had ruled out a car-boot sale and fishing, that is.
3. He could have sang it in English, of course, as there was a perfectly good translation. But Aziraphale was a stickler when it came to matters of the original text versus a translation.
[ooc: Closed to Dolly and any others at the mansion, sorry for the wall of text.]
It was all wrong, in Aziraphale's mind.
This wasn't how summer was supposed to be, not a real summer, anyway. There was supposed to be random bouts of pouring rain, and a myriad of Cockney men in dirty T-shirts bemoaning the tiny biting insects that spoiled what little sunshine they did get. Not this perfect actual summer's day, it just wasn't natural and Aziraphale was feeling quite resentful towards it as he woke up that morning.1 It wasn't even that type of humid and dusty intense heat that sometimes rolled over Britain; that sort that still leant itself to some good complaining, it just wasn't on.
Nevertheless, as an angel it was his duty to make the best of the circumstances; and so he had risen with the dawn to get ready for the only respectable activity a man of a certain age could do on a day like today2. Some knee length beige shorts and walking boots, had been paired with a shirt that fit a little too snugly over his plump physique to provide the perfect rambling outfit. Choosing a direction at random, not having studied the map of Paradisa at much length, he struck out over the fields.
Forty-five minutes later (and a few sneaky instant changes in location to try and find some more interesting scenery) and he was really getting into it. He had a blister forming nicely on the heel of his right foot for chuntering purposes later on, and had his voice raised in a surprisingly tuneful rendition of The Happy Wanderer.3]
♫ Mein Vater war ein Wandersmann,
und mir steckt’s auch im Blut.
D’rum wand’re ich froh, so lang ich kann,
und schwenke meinen Hut,
falleri, fallera, falleri,
fallera ha ha ha ha ha,
falleri, fallera,
und schwenke meinen Hut. ♪
[What was that up ahead? A manor house, how odd! It took him a moment or two to recall that this was supposedly the lair of that Riful woman, a most unpleasant sort who had been causing a bit of a stir recently. He could just turn around and walk away, of course, but he was here now and it was his job to try and turn a soul back onto the path of right. Perhaps it was the Ineffable Plan that had led him this way? Well, whatever it was, with the Lord Almighty in the castle, Aziraphale didn't want to shirk his duties.
So it was down to the front door, tactfully miracling away the sweat patches under his arms from the long walk in the bright sunshine, knocking politely. Anyone home?]
1. Or as resentful as an angel could feel, which generally meant a slightly baleful look and a barely audible sigh.
2. Once you had ruled out a car-boot sale and fishing, that is.
3. He could have sang it in English, of course, as there was a perfectly good translation. But Aziraphale was a stickler when it came to matters of the original text versus a translation.
[ooc: Closed to Dolly and any others at the mansion, sorry for the wall of text.]