Monday 8th October. Prison Cell

[therealpm]

*Peter stares out of the window at the thoroughly dismal weather, unable to concentrate on the briefing in front of him.  It's a new one, so it probably contains something of value if leaked to the press via one of his erstwhile colleagues, aka Tinkerbell, aka Alastair.  He should at least search for something to give Chuka, but he really can't be

Comments

6 pm

[bamfbercow]

*John makes his way to Peter's cell once more. He's been trying for days now to get the other man out of whatever funk he's in, but without any success. Promise of excursion out of the Palace without Paddy following him, extension of television capabilities, any book he could ever wish for, none of it had any impact on the man in the cell. As such, John had concluded that only a radical approach would work.*

*In one hand, John carries three bottles of the most expensive wine he could find. His other hand is waving along a procession of plates full of food and two wine glasses. He goes through the fireplace to other other room and, without a work, lets himself into Peter's cell.*

Peter, I have no idea what it is that is bothering you. What I do know is that you haven't eaten a proper meal for days now, and that is a situation which cannot, under and circumstances, continue.

*John summons over several plates of food and has them hover in front of the other man.*

Eat at least one of these, Peter, and you may have as much of this as

Re: 6 pm

[therealpm]

*Peter blinks. He'd been so busy ruminating (wallowing in self pity, an unhelpful part of his conciousness supplied) that he hadn't even heard the man entering the cell.*

That's... do you have any idea how much one of those bottles costs, John? Put it down before you drop it!

Re: 6 pm

[bamfbercow]

*John places the bottles on Peter's desk.*

Pick a meal - and fast, Peter, or I'll put these bottles back where I found them.

Re: 6 pm

[therealpm]

*Peter cautiously picks a bowl of soup out of the air, more to prevent the contents' perilous acceleration over the rim as it orbits John's head, than any real desire to taste it. Choice made, he considers the bottles before him.*

Did you raid the Palace cellars for these, John? Whatever would the Mail say, keeping a monster in luxury at the taxpayer's expense?