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timerippleBecause everybody could use a little lunacy right now. If you have no idea what this is about, take a look around; the beginning's around here somewhere.
Goat-Girl: The Sequel, Or, The Very Beginning Of Another Goat-Girl Tale In Which There Are No Pink Fiskars Safety Scissors Whatsoever: Title Pending
“Well. Whoever thought of the ‘8 glasses of water a day’ rule, it wasn’t the British.”
Goat-Girl stared glumly at the glass in her hand. Full, it might have held a quarter of a cup of liquid. It was currently empty.
“Nonsense. What about all that tea, then?” said her companion, gesturing at the impressive display of teas on the wall. Teas intended to be drunk at specific mealtimes. Teas named after Very Important Persons Remembered as a Drink, who would probably have preferred to be remembered for something more, well, earth-shaking, but that’s fame for you.
“Doesn’t count. It actually dehydrates you.”
“’Zat so?”
“Yup.”
Moody silence. Between the two of them they had decimated the pub’s supply of non-alcoholic beverages, and were now staring about in a depressed manner. Across the room, a translucent blue plastic water dispenser sat with a stupidly unconcerned expression, but that was only because anything that dispenses anything almost always looks stupidly unconcerned. This particular water dispenser had a small cardboard sign atop its translucent blue plastic shape. “20p,” it read. This was slightly cruel, considering the number of essential appliances that only accept 20p pieces, and probably decreased public income, if anybody had bothered to think about it.
“Must be all that rain,” Goat-Girl’s companion offered eventually. “Osmosis, and all that.”
It had in fact not rained since Goat-Girl had arrived in Scotland a week ago, and people whose job it was to tell other people about it were secretly getting rather fed up with telling those other people to go have a good time at the beach; telling other people to go have fun at the beach, while one had no chance of having fun at the beach oneself, was a bit of a rum deal, really. Something was off Up There and no mistake. If the Powers That Be had wanted little colored umbrellas to appear anywhere outside of a bar, Britain would have been called the Caribbean and Marks & Spencer would have devoted a larger aisle to beach towels.
There are large number of coincidences and otherwise-strange-happenstances in this world. Take a couple of young troublemakers called Bill and Ted, who appear in an Agatha Christie novel, and nearly thirty years later star in their own movies about just how cool they really are. Take the “20p” sign on top of the translucent blue plastic water dispenser in the corner of the pub, which was in fact identical to those pasted on the gate leading to every public toilet in Britain. Taking these into account, it is perhaps not so astonishing that Goat-Girl should have run into an American tourist in a pub near Inverness.
What was astonishing was that a) they were both under the age of 21, and b) neither of them was inebriated, intoxicated, or in any other of various ways, drunk. The reasoning behind b) was, like the 20p-charge on both water and public toilets, slightly fuzzy, less-than-perfectly logical, fairly irrelevant, and entirely fictional.
The point is, Goat-Girl was sitting in a pub near Inverness, Scotland, across the table from an American tourist, and like most people tapping his or her glass against the table – gently, so as not to attract the attention of people trying to sell her more drinks – waiting for someone.
The someone in question walked through the pub door at precisely 15:15, just as Goat-Girl was about to give up and buy some shrimp-flavored crisps just to keep the bar staff happy. She loathed shrimp, but the looks on their faces had progressed much in the manner of a bad case of poison oak: from vaguely irritated through various shades of pink annoyance to all-out itchy pestiference. Her non-drinking companion had wandered off some time ago to re-join his tour group, muttering something about Heilan’ coos; the looks the bar staff were shooting her could have used a good dose of Calamine lotion; and Goat-Girl was, frankly, bored. So all in all it was quite a relief when Phips arrived.
“Where HAVE you been?!” were the first words out of her mouth, and considering what she’d been mentally saying a mere five seconds before, they were fairly subdued.
Phips blinked. “I do beg your pardon, miss. Mr. Malfoy here was mobbed by a crowd of National Geographic fans, and has only just now joined us.”
And indeed Draco Malfoy, looking as he always did, had strolled into the pub right behind Phips.
Goat-Girl rolled her eyes. “I might have guessed, Malfoy. They didn’t mess up your hair, did they?”
Malfoy smirked. Few things in the known universe were constant, but as Goat-Girl often privately thought, Draco Malfoy’s smirk was one of them. “Nice of you to inquire, Goat-Girl. Although you’re hardly one to talk about hair.” Sure enough, the ends of Goat-Girl’s hair were as split as a hung jury and twice as frizzy.
“Gee, Malfoy, you wound me. You’ve run my heart over with your metaphorical semi-truck of ickiness, and now it’s broken into a thousand teeny little pieces all running around singing bad ‘80s songs,” she said very, very sarcastically. “Where’s Harry?”
“Harry’s at the studio, obviously. And what do you mean, my metaphorical semi-truck of ickiness? I demand at least a metaphorical SUV of ickiness; Malfoys don’t drive semi-trucks.”
They might have gone on in this manner for several hours, had Phips not interrupted them with a polite, butlerly cough. “May I remind you that time is of the essence? Mr. Wiggle has found a secure location and is ready to begin as soon as we return.” He paused. “And Lady Peabody will be wanting her tea.”
Malfoy and Goat-Girl sighed identical exasperated sighs, and Goat-Girl rose – not unwillingly - from her chair. “All right then; let’s go before the nice bar people throw us out on our –never mind.”
The door thudded shut behind them.
The nice bar people all breathed a sigh of relief.
The blue plastic water dispenser chugged away in the corner, looking more stupidly unconcerned than ever.
Disclaimer: All characters belonging to JKR belong to JKR. I wasn't going to use them at all in this one, but I needed Malfoy for the 'metaphorical semi-truck of ickiness' line, which I owe to Sonja, my fellow American lunatic. I share Phips, Lady Peabody, and Salmon P. Wiggle, Esq., Count of the Starry Down: Gentleman with Melanie, Allie, and Siena. Goat-Girl, who is an AntiMarySue now that I think of it, is mine. All mine. I blame Hansen & Quinn.
Goat-Girl: The Sequel, Or, The Very Beginning Of Another Goat-Girl Tale In Which There Are No Pink Fiskars Safety Scissors Whatsoever: Title Pending
“Well. Whoever thought of the ‘8 glasses of water a day’ rule, it wasn’t the British.”
Goat-Girl stared glumly at the glass in her hand. Full, it might have held a quarter of a cup of liquid. It was currently empty.
“Nonsense. What about all that tea, then?” said her companion, gesturing at the impressive display of teas on the wall. Teas intended to be drunk at specific mealtimes. Teas named after Very Important Persons Remembered as a Drink, who would probably have preferred to be remembered for something more, well, earth-shaking, but that’s fame for you.
“Doesn’t count. It actually dehydrates you.”
“’Zat so?”
“Yup.”
Moody silence. Between the two of them they had decimated the pub’s supply of non-alcoholic beverages, and were now staring about in a depressed manner. Across the room, a translucent blue plastic water dispenser sat with a stupidly unconcerned expression, but that was only because anything that dispenses anything almost always looks stupidly unconcerned. This particular water dispenser had a small cardboard sign atop its translucent blue plastic shape. “20p,” it read. This was slightly cruel, considering the number of essential appliances that only accept 20p pieces, and probably decreased public income, if anybody had bothered to think about it.
“Must be all that rain,” Goat-Girl’s companion offered eventually. “Osmosis, and all that.”
It had in fact not rained since Goat-Girl had arrived in Scotland a week ago, and people whose job it was to tell other people about it were secretly getting rather fed up with telling those other people to go have a good time at the beach; telling other people to go have fun at the beach, while one had no chance of having fun at the beach oneself, was a bit of a rum deal, really. Something was off Up There and no mistake. If the Powers That Be had wanted little colored umbrellas to appear anywhere outside of a bar, Britain would have been called the Caribbean and Marks & Spencer would have devoted a larger aisle to beach towels.
There are large number of coincidences and otherwise-strange-happenstances in this world. Take a couple of young troublemakers called Bill and Ted, who appear in an Agatha Christie novel, and nearly thirty years later star in their own movies about just how cool they really are. Take the “20p” sign on top of the translucent blue plastic water dispenser in the corner of the pub, which was in fact identical to those pasted on the gate leading to every public toilet in Britain. Taking these into account, it is perhaps not so astonishing that Goat-Girl should have run into an American tourist in a pub near Inverness.
What was astonishing was that a) they were both under the age of 21, and b) neither of them was inebriated, intoxicated, or in any other of various ways, drunk. The reasoning behind b) was, like the 20p-charge on both water and public toilets, slightly fuzzy, less-than-perfectly logical, fairly irrelevant, and entirely fictional.
The point is, Goat-Girl was sitting in a pub near Inverness, Scotland, across the table from an American tourist, and like most people tapping his or her glass against the table – gently, so as not to attract the attention of people trying to sell her more drinks – waiting for someone.
The someone in question walked through the pub door at precisely 15:15, just as Goat-Girl was about to give up and buy some shrimp-flavored crisps just to keep the bar staff happy. She loathed shrimp, but the looks on their faces had progressed much in the manner of a bad case of poison oak: from vaguely irritated through various shades of pink annoyance to all-out itchy pestiference. Her non-drinking companion had wandered off some time ago to re-join his tour group, muttering something about Heilan’ coos; the looks the bar staff were shooting her could have used a good dose of Calamine lotion; and Goat-Girl was, frankly, bored. So all in all it was quite a relief when Phips arrived.
“Where HAVE you been?!” were the first words out of her mouth, and considering what she’d been mentally saying a mere five seconds before, they were fairly subdued.
Phips blinked. “I do beg your pardon, miss. Mr. Malfoy here was mobbed by a crowd of National Geographic fans, and has only just now joined us.”
And indeed Draco Malfoy, looking as he always did, had strolled into the pub right behind Phips.
Goat-Girl rolled her eyes. “I might have guessed, Malfoy. They didn’t mess up your hair, did they?”
Malfoy smirked. Few things in the known universe were constant, but as Goat-Girl often privately thought, Draco Malfoy’s smirk was one of them. “Nice of you to inquire, Goat-Girl. Although you’re hardly one to talk about hair.” Sure enough, the ends of Goat-Girl’s hair were as split as a hung jury and twice as frizzy.
“Gee, Malfoy, you wound me. You’ve run my heart over with your metaphorical semi-truck of ickiness, and now it’s broken into a thousand teeny little pieces all running around singing bad ‘80s songs,” she said very, very sarcastically. “Where’s Harry?”
“Harry’s at the studio, obviously. And what do you mean, my metaphorical semi-truck of ickiness? I demand at least a metaphorical SUV of ickiness; Malfoys don’t drive semi-trucks.”
They might have gone on in this manner for several hours, had Phips not interrupted them with a polite, butlerly cough. “May I remind you that time is of the essence? Mr. Wiggle has found a secure location and is ready to begin as soon as we return.” He paused. “And Lady Peabody will be wanting her tea.”
Malfoy and Goat-Girl sighed identical exasperated sighs, and Goat-Girl rose – not unwillingly - from her chair. “All right then; let’s go before the nice bar people throw us out on our –never mind.”
The door thudded shut behind them.
The nice bar people all breathed a sigh of relief.
The blue plastic water dispenser chugged away in the corner, looking more stupidly unconcerned than ever.
Disclaimer: All characters belonging to JKR belong to JKR. I wasn't going to use them at all in this one, but I needed Malfoy for the 'metaphorical semi-truck of ickiness' line, which I owe to Sonja, my fellow American lunatic. I share Phips, Lady Peabody, and Salmon P. Wiggle, Esq., Count of the Starry Down: Gentleman with Melanie, Allie, and Siena. Goat-Girl, who is an AntiMarySue now that I think of it, is mine. All mine. I blame Hansen & Quinn.
