| Der sechzehnte September 1942 |
[Nov. 4th, 2008|10:10 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  scared | ] |
Well this is all going fine.
I am not, actually, as confident as I told my angel wife that the British will be smart enough to listen to their refugees and come and get Sharolt. They have to have heard of her at least, if anyone can have got to Britannia from Hell, that girl who has the Leffoy name and the Starn nose and a row of Jeannot dicks nailed to the wall has to have done it. Whether that amounts to anything I don't know. But a man's gotta have a little faith, doesn't he?
Because the alternative is not the usual. This is not a situation where the good guys grab our guns and against all odds shoot our way out of here. I know I've said this before, but this time I think I have the numbers on my side. In fact I'd even take the bet against Sharolt herself. The odds we used to have, they died with Thierry.
In the meantime, this English language is killing me. Why can't Americans speak Latin properly? If the good Lord intended us to speak English, would he have created Latin in a rich, fertile land and English in... England? |
|
|
| Der vierzehnte September, 1942 |
[Jul. 27th, 2008|12:23 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  bitchy | ] |
Firstly before I forget: happy birthday to me! (Why thank you, dear friend, how good of you to recall. No problem at all, friend.)
I expressed my concern to my darling angel that it's not much good running around with the world's foremost genius in everything, a very mysterious young man from a very mysterious place with some very mysterious powers (and I say this as someone who has magical powers, I should add), and a nice young man who is a quite competent healer if not one of them has even thought to divine my birthday yet. Or to pay attention when I thought about it REALLY LOUDLY ALL DAY. In fairness I will record her response for posterity: "darling, we don't have anywhere else to go." Fair enough then, that's a good point. But can't we find some other last ditch effort where I get a nice birthday song?
However, today is not Fife Day, no no. Today is Raven Day. Again. They have nice ravens, apparently, in Britannia, and sometimes they turn into girls. And fly into dreams. Maybe when it is Fife Day, they'll turn up in my dreams.
I think it is safe to conclude we are in receipt of the note from fate saying "Go To Britannia". Where there are nice ravens, and the boss's long lost son, and some people who haven't stopped fighting this godforsaken war yet. If fate could provide some step-by-step instructions that would also be quite useful as well.
(Comments from ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) eudokia, kenjiro, orvos and sharolt below. Thread now closed.) |
|
|
grieving