I lost the plot a bit last week and it was Wednesday morning before I remembered that I should have done HDH. Silly me. This week I’ve done it in plenty of time and plan to be a bit more efficient about getting round to register my presence. I read all the entries last week – lots of cool stuff – but was too dopey to comment.
Anyhow! This week I’m using the usual ancient bit of fiction, for which I don’t have a proper title, but if I did it would probably have been something like “The Rake and the Bluestocking” just so people knew what they were getting. Blame Mills and Boon. I read a couple and thought “Pffft, I could do that” so I tried – and failed because I was far more interested in breeches than bodices. And THIS week that’s what you’re getting – the hero.
We left Aubrey and Cicely hatching plot to make Mad Pat uncomfortable. This is what Pat is doing:
Just as Aubrey was seating himself at Cicely’s desk, her betrothed was groaning his way to consciousness while his valet attempted to repair the wreck of his room.
“I can’t understand it myself,” the man was saying. “I just can’t see where the attraction lies in going out and getting puking drunk three nights out of four. Mark my words, lad, you’ll end up like your cousin Kevin – screaming your nights away in a madhouse. The first time you wake me up to tell me your feet have been eaten off by funny green things out of the wall, that’s it, I’m off home to Sligo.”
“Shut up, Phelim,” muttered a hummock amongst the tangled debris of a four-poster bed. “Faith, I need a drink.”
“No you don’t,” Phelim snapped. “You need to get up and clean and dressed. A pint of coffee, a cut of beef and a canter in the Park’s what you need.”
“If you don’t shut up you’ll be needing a doctor.”
“And another thing! How can you expect any decent woman to live in this Bedlam? Half your servants speak Gaelic, the other half speak Pushtu and the cook’s Chinese. Honest to God, it’s like the Tower of Babel in the servant’s hall.”
The hummock erupted with a roar. “Phelim, do you want my boots down your throat? My God, I’ve still got them on! Couldn’t you at least have undressed me, you lazy bastard?”
“Undressed you? The state you were in nobody wanted to touch you. We paid the crossing sweeper who brought you home to carry you up the stairs – well, more drag really, he was only a little feller.”
Ah full of sweetness and light. Tune in next week to learn more about our gracious hero.