[Locked from e_rayne. And anya_c_jenkins. And diedalittle. Oh bloody hell, just lock it from every living soul--as well as every soulless monster.]

Dear Lord.

There goes two of my favourite bloody composers.

England. It's really quite a lovely place.

Giles needed to phone Buffy again. Preferably after the hangover and headache dissipated. Perhaps he could simply stare at the words on the page of the dusty volume and they would explain a method of defeating Eyghon.

Or, no. Focusing, Giles realized it the book was open to a section about the care of turnips.

( Read more... )

[locked to lockedhearts]

H-hello, Mister...Heart, you appear to be in grave danger. Do try to avoid Ms. Lilah Morgan if at all possible and return this call at your earliest convenience.

Wonderful, the mail these days.

Reported the cards and documentation as stolen, canceled the necessary credit cards and subscriptions. Paid the bill, ridiculous sum it was.

And sworn off scotch, as well as every other alcoholic toxin known to man and beast.

How did I wake up in a bar five minutes walk away from my flat, wallet and half my clothing mysteriously gone?

And bloody hell, was I run over repeatedly by one of those monstrous American SUV's last night?

An uneventful day is, at best, uneventful. And Rupert Giles could only be glad that his day had hitherto been extrememly uneventful. Uneventful but never boring, certainly. There were prophecies to peruse, furniture and windows to repair, and a new, rather strange-looking volume to decipher ( Read more... )