RP: What do I do with a secretary?
Date: 16 November 2004
Character: Cedric Diggory
Location: Boston Tea Party in Exeter (coffee shop)*
Status: Private
Summary: After a year, Cedric has a routine, but it might be changing soon.
Completion: Complete
After a year back in Devon, Cedric had developed a routine. There had been times the refugees had kept him so busy, he'd been unable to maintain it. Or he'd been traveling seeking shelter supplies. But if he were home, then every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday morning could find him apparating into Exeter via a little alley off Queen Street. He'd then stroll up Queen, buy his requisite four newspapers (which ones changed depending on his mood, but they always included The Times and The Guardian), tuck them under his arm and proceed to the Boston Tea Party -- an upscale, couch-strewn coffee shop frequented by collegiate types and young professionals, and which offered free WiFi.
There in the upstairs room, he'd set himself up at a small, dark-wood table beside one of the chic red walls hung with modern poster art. He'd take his laptop out of its case and plug it in to charge both the main and his extra batteries, order coffee and pasties, and check his email or read his favorite political blogs.
Like his cat, Cedric preferred a certain amount of predictablity in his life. The fact it was a peculiar predictability for a nearly pureblood wizard raised in a house without telephones or electricity -- never mind sophisticated electronic equipment -- didn't much concern him. True, he'd been almost thirteen before he'd ever seen a television or a microwave, and hadn't known who Mr. Spock was until nineteen -- which had been the same age, ironically, that he'd purchased his first computer. But now he could program HTML, set up firewalls, work on Linux -- and play computer games for hours on end when he was procratinating about writing papers for class. Well, once upon a time.
If any of the other young twenty-somethings and college students in the café realized they were sharing space with one for whom "It's magic" was not a metaphor, they might have been surprised -- but they'd have been hard pressed to pick him out of the crowd. He liked it that way.
Just at the moment, the political blogs were full of outrage or vindication (depending on their bent) regarding the American presidential election. The Shrub was back in office -- a fact that didn't surprise Cedric in the least, however much he, like many Brits and Canadians (never mind British Canadians), might not like George Bush. Cedric skimmed the rhetoric, but gave time to the more thoughtful reactions and analyses, pulling at his lower lip when he found something that particularly made him think. These might not be British elections, but what happened in America tended to have a ripple effect on Britain -- and not only because Blair and Bush were bedfellows.
He was in the midst of this perusal, when his mobile rang. It startled him so badly he almost spilled coffee on his keyboard. He'd had the phone out sitting on the table, charging it too while in a place with electricity. (And oh, how glad he would be when he could have plugs at his own property.) Now he grabbed for it before it buzzed its way right off the varnished top, and flipped it open. "Hullo?"
"May I please speak with Mr. Cedric Diggory?"
"Yes, this is him."
"Benjamin Stoats of the Royal Albert Memorial Museum again. We met on Monday at your interview."
Cedric sat up. "Yes, sir." He let it be half question, too nervous to inquire as to whether this call meant he had a job -- or didn't have one.
"Congratulations, Mr. Diggory."
Cedric breathed out in relief.
"While your educational background is somewhat atypical, we were impressed by your resumé and how you conducted yourself, and are pleased to offer you the position of conference coordinator at 26,000.00 GBP a year if you're still interested."
"Yes, sir, I am," Cedric replied, trying to avoid sounding too eager, and resisting pumping the air with a victory fist. "Er, when would you like me to start?"
"Monday morning. The museum opens at ten, but most of us are there by half-eight. If you'll bring your documents, we'll have you fill out forms, then give you a brief orientation and introduce you to your secretary as well as the fellow who you'll be replacing. He'll be responsible for training you."
A secretary? He had a bloody secretary? What was he supposed to do with a secretary? How positively intimidating! "That sounds ... spectacular. I'm very excited to begin."
And that had sounded juvenile. He rubbed his forehead. "Thank you, sir." He started to add 'for taking a chance on me' but that was an even worse cliche so he bit his tongue and left it at the simple expression of gratitude.
"We'll see you Monday morning, Mr. Diggory. I should add that our dress code is business casual in the office, but business dress for actual conferences. Monday, please assume business casual. Have a good evening."
"You too."
And his new boss hung up. Now Cedric did pump his fist in the air, muttering, "Brilliant!"
He had a job. Not just any job, either -- a salaried job. With a secretary.
And the need for a new wardrobe. 'Business casual' might mean he could get away without a tie, but he would have to have a suit for some things, and he needed more trousers and dress shirts. Shopping was in order -- not sitting about drinking coffee all morning. He was supposed to meet Harry later that afternoon so he didn't have time to dally.
Turning back to his laptop, he closed the blog he'd been reading and opened his mail instead to compose a quick letter before departing:
Dear Dad and Mum,
Guess what? I've got a job ...
Character: Cedric Diggory
Location: Boston Tea Party in Exeter (coffee shop)*
Status: Private
Summary: After a year, Cedric has a routine, but it might be changing soon.
Completion: Complete
After a year back in Devon, Cedric had developed a routine. There had been times the refugees had kept him so busy, he'd been unable to maintain it. Or he'd been traveling seeking shelter supplies. But if he were home, then every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday morning could find him apparating into Exeter via a little alley off Queen Street. He'd then stroll up Queen, buy his requisite four newspapers (which ones changed depending on his mood, but they always included The Times and The Guardian), tuck them under his arm and proceed to the Boston Tea Party -- an upscale, couch-strewn coffee shop frequented by collegiate types and young professionals, and which offered free WiFi.
There in the upstairs room, he'd set himself up at a small, dark-wood table beside one of the chic red walls hung with modern poster art. He'd take his laptop out of its case and plug it in to charge both the main and his extra batteries, order coffee and pasties, and check his email or read his favorite political blogs.
Like his cat, Cedric preferred a certain amount of predictablity in his life. The fact it was a peculiar predictability for a nearly pureblood wizard raised in a house without telephones or electricity -- never mind sophisticated electronic equipment -- didn't much concern him. True, he'd been almost thirteen before he'd ever seen a television or a microwave, and hadn't known who Mr. Spock was until nineteen -- which had been the same age, ironically, that he'd purchased his first computer. But now he could program HTML, set up firewalls, work on Linux -- and play computer games for hours on end when he was procratinating about writing papers for class. Well, once upon a time.
If any of the other young twenty-somethings and college students in the café realized they were sharing space with one for whom "It's magic" was not a metaphor, they might have been surprised -- but they'd have been hard pressed to pick him out of the crowd. He liked it that way.
Just at the moment, the political blogs were full of outrage or vindication (depending on their bent) regarding the American presidential election. The Shrub was back in office -- a fact that didn't surprise Cedric in the least, however much he, like many Brits and Canadians (never mind British Canadians), might not like George Bush. Cedric skimmed the rhetoric, but gave time to the more thoughtful reactions and analyses, pulling at his lower lip when he found something that particularly made him think. These might not be British elections, but what happened in America tended to have a ripple effect on Britain -- and not only because Blair and Bush were bedfellows.
He was in the midst of this perusal, when his mobile rang. It startled him so badly he almost spilled coffee on his keyboard. He'd had the phone out sitting on the table, charging it too while in a place with electricity. (And oh, how glad he would be when he could have plugs at his own property.) Now he grabbed for it before it buzzed its way right off the varnished top, and flipped it open. "Hullo?"
"May I please speak with Mr. Cedric Diggory?"
"Yes, this is him."
"Benjamin Stoats of the Royal Albert Memorial Museum again. We met on Monday at your interview."
Cedric sat up. "Yes, sir." He let it be half question, too nervous to inquire as to whether this call meant he had a job -- or didn't have one.
"Congratulations, Mr. Diggory."
Cedric breathed out in relief.
"While your educational background is somewhat atypical, we were impressed by your resumé and how you conducted yourself, and are pleased to offer you the position of conference coordinator at 26,000.00 GBP a year if you're still interested."
"Yes, sir, I am," Cedric replied, trying to avoid sounding too eager, and resisting pumping the air with a victory fist. "Er, when would you like me to start?"
"Monday morning. The museum opens at ten, but most of us are there by half-eight. If you'll bring your documents, we'll have you fill out forms, then give you a brief orientation and introduce you to your secretary as well as the fellow who you'll be replacing. He'll be responsible for training you."
A secretary? He had a bloody secretary? What was he supposed to do with a secretary? How positively intimidating! "That sounds ... spectacular. I'm very excited to begin."
And that had sounded juvenile. He rubbed his forehead. "Thank you, sir." He started to add 'for taking a chance on me' but that was an even worse cliche so he bit his tongue and left it at the simple expression of gratitude.
"We'll see you Monday morning, Mr. Diggory. I should add that our dress code is business casual in the office, but business dress for actual conferences. Monday, please assume business casual. Have a good evening."
"You too."
And his new boss hung up. Now Cedric did pump his fist in the air, muttering, "Brilliant!"
He had a job. Not just any job, either -- a salaried job. With a secretary.
And the need for a new wardrobe. 'Business casual' might mean he could get away without a tie, but he would have to have a suit for some things, and he needed more trousers and dress shirts. Shopping was in order -- not sitting about drinking coffee all morning. He was supposed to meet Harry later that afternoon so he didn't have time to dally.
Turning back to his laptop, he closed the blog he'd been reading and opened his mail instead to compose a quick letter before departing:
Dear Dad and Mum,
Guess what? I've got a job ...