#and when we got to like a few yards away he moved the traffic cone that had been (pointlessly) blocking the pavement

[fingertipsmp3]

Men are so weird!!!!

[lordraveondagooseofdolallytap]

I assert ownership over this work

David Kitchen. March 24th 2020

 Working the line

I’m going south-east on the A14 to a municipal park on the far side of Ipswich. I get an info text a few days ahead from the events company but it’s only the core stuff: working hours, type of event, where it’s at and who is in charge. And a reminder if your fifteen minutes late, the company call it a no show.

After delays at every junction and crawling traffic in between, I make it to the park gates for twelve. Maybe 20,000 Ricky (Soul Man) Palmer fans will be showing up shortly. Who the hell pays a £100 to see him?

Just about all the jobs on-site are for day workers who, like me are on zero-hour contracts. They were somewhere else yesterday and won’t be here tomorrow. It’s pointless asking any questions because they will know nothing beyond the confines of their remit. So I show my ID and drive into the park looking for clues as to where I should go. The fans will be parking up here to catch buses to the concert location in town. My job is to get them parked and then point them in the direction of their onward transport. I figure if I can see a double-decker bus then I should head in that direction. My job will be nearby.

And after a couple of false starts, blocked roads and a lot of frantic driving that’s what happens. I find a hole in a fence, drive my car through and park up in line along with the others.

The ‘Event Manager’ calls me over. He is The Somebody in overall charge of controlling car movement for this event. I worked with him at the Grand National back in April when it rained solidly for all three days. I don’t expect him to recognise me but he does. I’m old, I’m tall and I’m fat and I live in Norfolk and look a little like Mussolini so maybe I stand out. He gives me an orange Hi-Viz jacket which won’t fit across my belly. Its ten minutes to ‘gates open’. He points me on to another supervisor who is organising the teams. It’s good to be remembered. This game is transient. Every day another crowd of people to work with and another boss but reputations stick.

There are five thousand cars about to come through the gates of this park. Our job is to guide them, slot them into a fast-moving queue, direct them into one of four fields, and then park them up with their front bumper just hanging over the white paint line in the grass and with enough space either side of the car for the doors to open. Not an inch more. We place the cars in doubles: that is a front row which will pull out forward at the end of the day, and a backline which will reverse out. Either way, there is just enough space for a medium-sized family car to pull out, straighten up in one go and drive away before they hit the next set of doubles. Mobile homes and vans go at the end of the row and we don’t like them. They make our lines messy and take up scarce free spaces

Speed and flow are what it’s about. Moving wheels mean happy customers. Stop-wait-go gets them tetchy.

The last bus from here into the city concert venue is at 7 pm. At just after eleven the same buses will bring the people back but it’s a simpler task: we just man the channels and deal with blockages. I tell my boss it’s a lot like plumbing. His eyes light up. I tell myself the man is shocked that someone else gets it. That’s how I think of it. A large occupancy building with tanks and pipes to be supplied, filled and empties. No mistake there is a science to this. We are not just men and women in Hi-Viz. We are your secret heroes. Working at the job I get nice remarks shouted out through car window. “Thanks for getting us out so quick”. Things like that.

Twelve men of us line up alongside the company van. We will be at the centre of the operation today. Tasks are allocated, it’s a little like picking teams for sports. They need someone at the gate, someone at the junction, then two teams of three for the actual parking, then two more workers to cover disabled parking and drop-offs plus two for break cover. That’s twelve, no spare capacity for now but there could be a lad coming in later for a 2-8 shift. “It’s going to be hell-of-a hot day, we will get you extra breaks out of the heat”. Welcome words that lift us a little.

I’ve only known the people around me for a short time. I know who I want to work with and who I don’t. Its instinct. Your day can be hell if you stuck with a weirdo or thick bastard, or somebody with a bad attitude. And it makes you look bad. And the heat will compound it, its forecast a high of 34c and it will feel like a lot more out on this shade-less dusty field. I’m wearing my floppy white bush hat. The interior has a brown-yellow sweat line running all around the middle of the crown. Disgusting. And its smells. I get nobody I wanted.

Three of us start in the direction of Field Number One. We sort out jobs along the way. Director, Pointer, and a Parker. In time all will get a turn of each but its best for the first in as a parker to do it for a while. The pointer is important but the parker is king. It all rides on their speed and skill.

Coming over the field at a half gallop is the old half Indian guy I met when we're both doing Stonehenge Summer Solstice parking. Then I saw him at Santa Pod Raceway for a few days. Stan’s his name. Works as a pair with his wife. Both are in their seventies. Got a great big motor home. He shouts over at me, “Hey it’s Septic. I��m on Disabled Parking. God, I thought you were from up north”.

I holler back “Twenty years in Norfolk now. Try and keep up. Catch you for stories later”. Stan’s a great storyteller. Travelling types him and his wife both. They call me Septic. I’m a Patrick but they misheard it the first time.

We, the people who do this job term the field a ‘panel’. That’s the phrase used. A panel is divided into two halves, left and right. Our group go to the endpoint of the first white line, in the upper outer corner of the right panel. This will be our beginning point for the day. Our parking line is fifty yards long. We will fill that and then do a second line directly behind that first row of cars, then jump and repeat as the new drivers pick their way in our direction. This we will repeat all day long till the stream of cars slows, becomes a trickle and then ceases.

For now, I will be The Pointer. A late-middle-aged man called Tim, with a very tentative way about him will be The Director. He goes back to the feeder track which is marked out down the middle of the panel by cones and plastic tape. As the cars roll toward him over a dirt track he will direct them with an (emphatic) arm gesture to make a diagonal route across the grass in the direction of where we will be filling the parking line. Drivers are sneaky. They try and park in the wrong places. Seeking some imaginary advantage for the end of the day. Tim the Director Man has to spot these delinquents, these black sheep and like a good shepherd get them back to where they should be. Tim seems lacking in life force and I wonder if he has the neck to manage the task.

I am The Pointer Man. At the approach of a driver, I raise both arms like a flag to signal my presence and progress to ‘come-hither’ movements with outstretched hands. Drivers panic and go blind sometimes but I am their keeper. When the target is fifty yards out I drop one arm and make a precise pointing gesture with the other. The cars take a ninety-degree turn and at that moment see they are on a straight-line approach to a perfectly presented parking space and I hope they get the feeling that a pilot might get bringing his plane into land. I like to think like that when I am parking cars.

Our ‘Parker’ for now is ‘No-Nonsense Sue’, a big girl in her early twenties with fleshy arms. She stands on the line and as a car approaches raise a finger and sternly points at her feet. I will soon wonder why she does not smile.

These automobile pilots give themselves away. Some have overly generous ideas of themselves and like to do their own thing, and at speed. One must be careful of them. Others are smooth and precise. Their cars glide in, front wheels exactly on the line and front bumper hanging over just as they ought to. They lean out and ask “am I right” and I say “yes that’s great” or “you’re a champion” or something but I know that Sue will just grunt and step along to the next space along. Then you have the drivers who panic and forget how to drive and come close to running you over. They are the reason for standing to one side when the car is ten yards out. Some drivers turn into headless chickens and their feet lose all memory of which pedal to depress. These are the people who can break your legs or crush your feet.

Our little team are all in place and ready: knowing once the first car comes in sight that will be the beginning and we shall not rest again today without permission. I get on the radio and in my most confident voice say. “Norfolk Boy to control, Team A in position and ready, over”

Five minutes pass and then Car Number One appears from behind a row of trees half a mile away. Even from this distance, it’s possible to sense the driver’s hesitancy until they spot The Panel Man at the first right-angle junction, and pick up speed. It’s like the layout becomes suddenly clear and they proceed confidently point to point to point. It’s so like the game where silver balls roll through channels and drop into holes.

Then there is a second car, this driver watches the first and follows suit, and then a third and so on. In a minute or two it’s a stream. At the endpoint, we accept the flow and take it in. Fluidity is the aim. They move like a stream but when they arrive the cars present to us like a tilting wave and only the smallest of hand gestures are needed to bring them in. No delays and as they say, a frictionless experience.

Our team of three moves down the panel like an old fashioned teleprinter then switches across to the left side and starts over.

Two hours later it’s up at 34c and feeling hotter and we are sweat-soaked and caked in dust. Weary legs of course, but our brains are feeling fried. The Supervisor Man has been around with bottled water. It shifts the dust in your throat but we are working flat out and need a respite from the sun most of all. The boss gets this and over the radio drafts in the six-hour chap, Ronnie to replace each of us in turn for half an hour so we can get into the shade and have a break: eat some energy foods and rehydrate.

Tim is most exposed to the heat and dust so he is sent off first. This allows a switch around. Sue goes out to Tim’s spot and Ronnie becomes The Parking Man. He wanted it.

I know his face. He did the heritage drag-racing event at Santa Pod but worked on a different panel. There was some kafuffle involving him but I am struggling to remember details and dismiss the mental alarm, then drift onto other thoughts. Men called Ronnie should not look like him. They should be in their mid-fifties, five feet ten, broad in the beam and be fans of Rugby Union and time in the bar. Ronnie’s that age but the rest is wrong. Spindly, excessively thin, angular and jerky of movement and everything a little too fast and intense. The sight of him made me uneasy. The tingling alarm in my brain is active again.

The Supervisor Man rolls over in a company van. One of the younger ones, an easy manner, burly, ruddy face, thick tufty red hair, looks like he should have been a hill farmer. His backstory, I find out later is the army and being unable to settle to anything afterwards. I learn this and more bits over the next few hours.  He goes from one event to the next all summer, working seventy hour weeks and sleeping in his motorhome. There are a wife and kids in Cheltenham. I ponder on how that might work.

He leaps off the front seat of the van like a latter-day cowboy “Hi how’s it going? I know.  You’re doing great. Everything flowing easy. No back up on the A14 or even at the roundabout outside the gate. The police are happy and that means the promoters are as well. It’s bloody hot so one of the girls went out and got us Ice-Pops. Put them in your pockets, till you have a chance. They will cool your balls off”.

All this is said while the cars are flowing, I’m a man that needs a hearing aid but this man’s voice carries and can be heard over anything else. “It’s just turned 2.30, between now and five is the peak, then by seven it’s all done with those going in. Then we rest till ten when they all come back and fingers crossed we get them all out easy”.

Ron bawls out “we are the team skipper, we shan’t let you down”. We all cringe and sense immediately we are no longer a team. Supervisor Man looks ill at ease, hands out the ice pops and gets away.

Ron shouts over at me, “I used to be in food and pharma process technology. It’s all the same. Keeping the shit moving hey?” Ron proves to be pickier than most about the positioning of the cars and is not your man for banter and rapport with drivers. The idiot is passively rude to people and that puts my teeth on edge. Part of this job is Show Business. Moving along, giving it some spiel, getting a laugh from the punters and keeping people on side… and happy. A bit of all that and the punters will do anything for you. Ron is odd and I am thinking about how to get rid of him.

It’s just then that an Indian lad, possibly a college student and his friends, in tiny three-door leaves too big a gap between himself and the previous car, a Merc and rolls well over the line so his bonnet is a clear metre ahead of all the others. Ron barks at him “back up my friend and come in again, and this time watch and follow my instructions, hey?” The driver is looking like he has been zapped with a stunner and in his incomprehension puts a foot on the wrong pedal and almost scuttles Ron, who curses obscenely, waves his arms and shouts “back! Back! You stupid twat”. The lad finds reverse and backs up a little too fast in my direction. I jump out of the way and he almost hits a Bedford van coming in. Ron directs him forward again and brings him in too close to the Merc. The passenger door won’t open but Ron ignores this and moves on with a dismissive gesture.

That mess up has caused a delay and given us a problem. I scream over at Sue to stop the cars at her point on the track. I have ten cars all askew in the field and two are driving off in their own chosen direction to find a spot. I shout at all my drivers (if they are on my panel then they are mine) and tell them to stop and there you have a snapshot of human nature. The ones who instinctively think of the common good and the other lot who hate self-important fat old bastards in Hi-Viz jackets like me telling them what to do.

I call over at Ron, “Hey mate, are we good to go again?”

And he bawls back “everything under control here. Roll ‘em big fella”.

I hate Ron…

Supervisor Man comes over on the radio. “Is there a problem? The cars aren’t moving down here at the gate?

“Ron here, no problems skipper, just some Western Oriental Gentlemen who cannot drive. On track now”

Supervisor Man snaps back, “Ron we cannot talk like that, please stay professional on the radio”. Reggie’s face fills up red. Starts at his neck and rises. He is the colour of beetroot.

I glance back over at ‘No-Nonsense Sue’ on the access track. She is bent over a car window. I can just see a young woman shouting at her, and then the driver pulls hard right and speeds at ninety degrees to the middle of the panel entirely ignoring us. Other cars break out of line and follow suit and in a second this insubordination has spread and maybe half of the hundred cars in the queue break out and drive off in every direction…something that reminds me of one of those starburst fireworks.

I turn back and see the most astonishing thing, Ron is aiming punches at the face of an old man in an ancient Morris Traveller who is using his forearms to shield his head. “Ron, Ron what you doing man?”

“Norfolk Boy to control. We have a problem. Could you stop all traffic at the gate until we sort this out? We have lost…” And that’s when Ron punched me on the chin and I fall to the ground like a felled tree. He leaps onto my body, places a knee ether side my torso, and then puts his hands around my neck. My denture plate has snapped with the punch and has fallen into the back of my throat. I’m choking but manage to grab Ron by his ears, fold my right leg and push off with that so we roll over and I spit my teeth out. Ron scrambles back on top of me so I kick off against the ground some more and we roll again. Cars and vans are treating us like a traffic island and driving to the left and right. Ron’s is screaming something about standards and trying to push his thumbs into my eyes.

2 am. The whole site is empty apart from our cars and a couple of wind up, illumination towers. Stan and I are the only ones left on the site apart from Mark, the Supervisor Man who is down by the gate talking with the police about Ron. Our timesheets need signing before we head off so we wait.

I’m having some problems swallowing, there’s grazes on my back and head, and a black eye is coming out. I ache rather than hurt. Ron was pulled off me by Sue who then decked him with a head butt. I am grateful. I suspect his time in food and pharma process technology had not been without issue.

Stan’s day has been quiet over in disabled parking. No more than twelve cars all day and all very civilised and social. Drivers and passengers spread themselves out on the grass for picnics. Stan sat in, chatted and shared their sandwiches. Of course all the shouting and the sound of car horns and revving engines had drifted over on the wind but at his age, he felt it best to remain at his post.

“Me and my wife are having a crisis”. Their youngest daughter: a first-time mother at forty has just had a baby. “Septic, the wife wants to settle. Rent a flat somewhere near our daughter and help with the baby. I want to see the kid… of course I do, but don’t see myself in a pokey flat on an estate in Barking. I thought she would keep with me but seems this is it. So it’s going to be good friends and past good companions and I don’t know what else if anything. I’m flying off to Toronto tomorrow night. This game and bar work will fund my doings all the summer”.

I tell Stan I’m flying out to Samarkand in September and joining the Silk Road all the way back to Istanbul. Backpacking, trains, buses and cheap smelly hotels. “If the company has not been doing their criminal records check, I could be in for a bonus”.

Stan puts on his wistful philosophical face, this man could turn a watering can into an object lesson about life, and “Who would have known it Septic? Looking at two old buggers like us in our Hi-Viz, who would credit it? We are like modern day cowboys. Battered but undefeated. Riding till we drop. Yes, I’m telling you, we are modern-day cowboys…who park cars”.

[floralicious]

dynamic lives, static signals: part 1

telephone blues

Crossposted on ao3

part 2

Summary: Alfendi is tired, and Kat just wants her brother to keep in touch. Lucy is... otherwise occupied. A movie night.

Relationships: Lucy Baker/Hilda Pertinax, Katrielle Layton/Pipper Lowonida

Rating: T for language and implied sex

--

“And that about wraps up the Simmons case, Prof.”

Lucy dropped the file on the Prof’s desk, where he was sitting and studying another open case file.

“Thank you, Lucy,” said Alfendi absentmindedly. “I'll double-check it later.” He kept looking at the page in front of him, eyes glazing over as they moved back and forth pointlessly.

Lucy gazed down at the Prof. “You quite alright?” It looked almost as if he was going to fall asleep. Just watching him made Lucy drowsy. As her eyelids started to drop, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

“Yes, just tired. The amount of homicides going on recently is a tad overwhelming. I appreciate your help with all these cases.” While Alfendi spoke, Lucy took out her mobile .

Text from: Kit Kat

make sure al is coning to movie nite 2day

It buzzed again.

the basrrerd was “sick” last weel

“Hey Prof, Katrielle wants to know if you’ll be at my flat later for movie night,” Lucy said. “We’re watching some Rector film with Leonardo diCameo and Cate Quinslet, if that's any incentive.”

Alfendi sighed. “Tell my sister it will take a little more than a romance film to get me to see her.”

Lucy started typing.

Text to: Kit Kat

I don't think he wants to come. Seems dead tired if you ask me.

Text from: Kit Kat

tell that asdhole I’m getting the good pizza and mr. lipsli’s cookies

and if he doesn't come I'll make sure he ends up on a mysteey room caae file

“She's getting the good pizza from that place by Guildhall. And cookies from the bakery on Chancer Lane,” Lucy read from her phone.

“Plus she said, and I quote, 'if he doesn't come I’ll make sure he ends up in a Mystery Room case file.’ I think she means as the victim, Prof.”

Alfendi got up from his seat behind the desk. “Fine. Tell Katrihell I'll be there. Your flat is near hers, correct?”

“Aye, P. Usle Avenue. I'm number 33, just shoot me a text when you get there,” Lucy said. She smiled, writing a quick confirmation message to Kat before slipping her mobile back into her pocket.

“That being said, I've got to get back. Hilda will have my hide if I don't clean the flat before we have guests, and we've finished enough cases for today, dontcha think?” Lucy glanced back at the Prof for confirmation, but he was already buried deep in his case file.

“Yes, fine. See you later,” he mumbled.

As she walked out the door, Lucy shouted over her shoulder at the Prof. “It's at seven! Don't be late!”

-

Alfendi sat, stewing in his car. Traffic was a nightmare come to life at six o'clock on a Friday evening, apparently, and the unusually warm fall weather helped nothing. The inspector was sweltering in his turtleneck, even without his lab coat.

For fuck’s sake, he thought. I thought rush hour was over when I got home. Cars honked all around him, but Alfendi just looked out the windshield and mourned the loss of a quiet night at home.

Damn Kat and her damn movie nights. Why can't she just call me like a normal person to catch up? And I bet she's bringing her damn girlfriend too. Two goddamned couples and I'll be fifth wheeling. Good thinking, Al. You give in to your goddamned kid sister and now tonight will be louder than Dolly Hollerday at a kids’ concert.

Traffic started to move, and Alfendi moved with it. He supposed seeing Katrielle again wouldn't be so bad, but it had only been two weeks since they had last seen each other. One if you counted the time she dropped into his office on business. But he liked Lucy’s place, and Hilda would be there. The movie didn't sound so bad either.

This could be fun, thought Alfendi as he made his way through the still-busy streets. He braked suddenly, jerking himself forward as another car cut him off at an intersection.

“Dickwad!” He yelled out the window, shoving out a hand with one finger raised. Or maybe not so much.

-

Lucy opened the door almost right as Alfendi sent her a text. Over an hour later, he had managed to find P. Usle Avenue again. By the time he arrived it was 7:14 P.M., and the whole party was already there.

“Hiya, Prof!” Lucy beamed at him, and Alfendi returned the smile.

“Hello, Lucy. Sorry I'm late.” He stepped into the modest flat, which was filled with knickknacks and bright colors. His former co-worker was sitting on a large couch in the living area, typing something on a laptop.

“Hi, Al,” said Hilda, barely glancing up from her work. “Good to see you.”

Alfendi smiled. “Likewise, Hilda. It's been too long. You really ought to accompany Lucy to the Yard more oft- oof!”

Katrielle Layton had jumped on him, smothering him in a tight hug around the neck.

“Big brother!” She squealed.

“Hey… Kat… rielle…” Alfendi croaked out. He spotted a blonde-haired woman occupying a chair next to Hilda. “Hello… Mayor-” he gasped- “...Lowonida.”

“Just Pipper is fine, Inspector,” said the mayor through her giggles.

Kat released him, and Alfendi took a few huge breaths. “Jesus, Katrihell. Are you actually trying to kill me? After I showed up and everything?”

“Yes, because you missed last week's movie night!” Kat said in a voice suspiciously close to a growl. “I’ve been worried sick, not to mention you looked terrible when I saw you at the office last week. You look even worse now, you silly boy.

“Have you slept at all this week? And look at this. Roots, Al.” Kat reached up and pulled the top of his head towards her, frowning at the brown hair around his part.

Alfendi, head still bowed, met Kat’s eyes. “Sorry that making a living is keeping me from dyeing my hair,” he jibed. “We're a bit stressed up at the Mystery Room.”

“Wait, Prof, your hair color isn't natural?” Lucy had taken a seat and was leaning on Hilda.

“Nope!” chirped Katrielle. “He dyed it this color when he was- what were you, Al, seventeen?” Alfendi nodded in agreement.

“Around that time.”

“Oh Lu, you should have seen it! Dad was so shocked, I thought his eyes might fall out,” Kat said.

Hilda looked up and grinned. “Al made me and Justin help touch up his roots in school because he didn't want to pay for a professional.” Lucy laughed at this and buried her face in Hilda’s shoulder.

“Enough about my hair, how about the movie? And food? I only came because we're getting the good pizza,” Alfendi grumbled.

Katrielle’s eyes lit up like stars. “Oh, the pizza should be delivered any minute! I can’t wait! Pipper, you set up the movie so we can start it as soon as the food gets here, right?”

“All taken care of, darling,” the mayor said from her seat. “It's like you care about the food more than me!”

“Mmm…” mumbled Kat as she watched the door, waiting for a knock.

Soon the detective got her wish, and flung open the door. She hurriedly paid the delivery girl and toted a stack of pizza boxes in.

“Okay…” she said. “A medium Hawaiian for Al and Hilda…” Katrielle pushed a box into Alfendi's arms. He moved to sit next to Hilda, forcing Lucy to release her girlfriend and sit amongst several cushions instead. Hilda snapped shut her computer at last and turned her attention to the food.

Lucy took a pizza box offered to her by Kat. “Large pepperoni?” she asked.

“Enjoy,” Kat replied with a wink.

She handed Mayor Lowonida a small box. “A personal cheese pizza for my beautiful lady-” she sat down as close as possible to Pipper “- and two almost-everything pizzas for me!”

“How are you going to eat all that?” Alfendi scoffed. “Jesus, Kat. Good thing you bike everywhere.”

Katrielle frowned. “Well, I don't understand how pineapple on pizza could possibly taste good to anybody. How you two can stand it might be the only mystery I can't solve.”

“Oh, shut up,” Alfendi said, though he was smiling.

The mayor pressed a button on the remote, and the movie started.

“Ah, what romance!” said Lucy around a mouthful of pizza. “They knew right away that they were meant to be, even bein’ strangers to each other.”

“I think our love is just as strong, dear,” said Hilda. She dabbed at her mouth before moving to the other end of the couch. She sat next to Lucy once more and kissed her cheek.

“As is ours,” Pipper said. Katrielle smiled at her. Kat leaned her head on Pipper’s shoulder and took another bite of pizza.

“What about you, Al?” Kat said, mouth still full. “Anyone special I should know about? I don't know anything about your life, seeing as you haven't called me.” With this she gave Alfendi a pointed look.

He considered flipping her off, but decided to just speak. He didn't really care about disturbing the movie at this point. “Well, prospects have dwindled. I haven't met anyone worth dating in ages. Not that it's your business what my love life looks like, Katrihell.”

“Hmmm,” murmured Kat, eyes on the screen. “All I'm saying is that Ernest is available.”

Alfendi just looked at his sister, dumbstruck. Once again, he thought about giving her the finger. “Are you nuts? I'm at least ten years older than that poor kid! At least! Not to mention how you led him on, the sap.”

“I pay him now! And-”

“Y’know, I were jus’ talkin’ to an old friend of mine. She’s a pretty lass if I ever met one, and clever too. I'm sure I could convince her to go on a date with you, Prof,” piped Lucy.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Lucy, but it's really a non-issue. Dating isn't an important part of life right now. Work is the priority.” Now it was Alfendi's turn to give a pointed look to Kat.

She studiously ignored him in favor of the film. Alfendi grumbled indistinctly as he shoved a chunk of pineapple into his mouth. He grabbed a pillow from the couch and lay down on it, settling down to watch the movie.

-

“Al? Come on, wake up.” Katrielle shook her brother. Alfendi was passed out on Lucy’s sofa. He had shoved a pizza box to the floor.

Katrielle was trying desperately not to wake Lucy and Hilda, who had fallen asleep snuggling together.

She continued to shake Alfendi. “Wha? Kat, what’re you-”

“Shhhhh,” she said, pointing to the cuddling couple.

“What's going on?” asked Alfendi. He was whispering this time.

“The movie’s over. Come on, you can stay in my flat, it's just down the street. Flora’s room is empty since she's in America.” Kat paused and tugged on Alfendi's arm. “Up with you now.”

She dragged the man off of the couch. He reluctantly walked out the door with her, too tired to really understand what was going on. Katrielle waved an arm at Pipper, asking her to join them.

The trio walked down Kat's street. It was lit by sturdy street lights, the kind nice to look at. Everyone walked in silence as they admired the few stars above.

Kat thought to herself how idyllic it was. A perfect night.

They entered Katrielle's flat. It was marked by a pretty blue door,which creaked upon being opened.

Pipper flipped a light switch, illuminating the dark hall.

“I can drive back to my home, Kat,” said Alfendi, now at full volume and full attention.

“Hush, it's late and I've got an empty room. Plus, your place is across town. You're staying,” Kat replied.

Pipper silently moved to Katrielle's own room, while Kat and Alfendi headed towards Flora's. Alfendi immediately flopped into the tidy bed.

“I miss Flora,” he said.

“Me too,” said Kat, “but she wouldn't appreciate having your shoes on her bed.”

Alfendi laughed and moved to remove his shoes. “Thanks for letting me stay, Kat. Really.”

“Goodnight,” she sing-songed as she closed the door.

“Love you,” said Alfendi.

“I love you too, big bro,” Kat said through the cracked door. “Now sleep. You need it.”

Katrielle walked down to her room, where she found Pipper undressing. “Now that we're alone…” said Kat, “what am I going to do with you?”

They both grinned.

end

Thanks for reading!

A/N: This is probably super out of character but I don't really care

(P.S. I'm sorry if I butchered any accents please forgive my American ignorance)

Clarifications:

Timeline: Set sometime shortly after Millionaire's Conspiracy.

Nicknames: Alfendi calls Kat "Katrihell" because hell is what she gives him (haha I think I'm funny). Lucy kalls her "Kit Kat" because she's sweet.

Kat's cursing- She doesn't curse out loud as it's not very gentlewomanly, but has no qualms about cussing out her brother over text. He is, after all, the one who taght her every curse in the book.

The living situation- Kat and the mayor alternate between each other's homes. Flora lived in Kat's spare room for a month or so, but has since returned to her life and career. ( I think she's significantly older than Kat and Alfendi because she couldn't have been younger than 12-14 when Al was adopted or born. This is assuming he was adopted as an infant.)

Flora's location: Flora is in America with parties who will probably become named in a shorter follow-up fic.

Technology- If someone tries to tell me they have a crime scene simulator but not cell phones in the Laytonverse I'm going to scream.

[brokenbones-singsongs]

Memories

Every now and then I sit down and write down a list of random memories that have come across my mind. Here’s the newest one.

Making hammocks out of our sheets and the bars under the top bunk of our beds.

Singing Beautiful Girls by Sean Kingston at the top of our lungs in fifth grade

Camping in the box truck a few nights before Kaitlyn moved to Arizona

Camping on the trampoline with Kaitlyn, Chris, and Luke 

Catching starfish in Hilton Head 

Chasing baby ducks around Kaitlyn’s house

Rays Splash planet

The first time I ever got my nails done in that little shop in Sun Valley. The way the sunlight poured into the building on an incredibly hot summer day. I had my nails painted a shimmery royal blue with little daisies. 

The way that same summer smelled like coconut sunscreen and chlorine.

The way the sun poured into my room at my moms house in sixth grade and how old spice lingered on everything we owned.

Silly string fights on Christmas morning. 

Finding an old Tiffany’s bracelet with the “If Found Please Return to Tiffany’s NY” and being obsessed with getting it back to the right person. (I was 7 and didn’t know any better)

Trying to figure out if I wanted to laugh or cry or both the first time I saw the opening of Phantom of the Opera.

This very particular feeling I can’t explain for the life of me that I felt walking out of the recreation center in NYC after serving one late September evening just before a thunderstorm hit the city. It was cloudy, windy, and chilly. The first time I got to experience fall in the city and the first time I didn’t feel like a tourist, but like I had been there for years. Wistful? I don’t know. But it’s been on my mind quite a bit this past week.

Joey resting his hand on my shoulder outside of the Broadhurst. Also using me as an armrest periodically and tracing circles on my knees.

Walking through the almost empty CLT convention center after Heroes con

Taking pictures in a sunflower field with michelle

Celebrating my 20th birthday at Amelies at 3 in the morning

Taking walks in the snow at midnight with my little brother

Running on the beach at midnight

The way Corey’s parents new house smelled the day they moved in.

Laying on his floor in his empty room listening to the thunder outside

The way his old house smelled when I met him and how it never quite left his clothes even months after moving.

Listening to “All This Time” by OneRepublic on New Years Day.

Hiking Craggy Pinnacle in a thunderstorm

Old Salem on my 20th birthday

Eating dinner alone on my 16th birthday

The snowfall in Asheville 

Sleeping in front of the fireplace on Christmas Eve in the 5th grade. 

Catching caterpillars at the house in Newton.

Giving pine trees hair cuts with my cousin in Indiana

Watching my mom play Spyro on the living room floor in kindergarten.

Making a peanut bread moisturizer sandwich by myself for the first time

Pawpaw Kelly teaching me to make scrambled eggs

Getting him to play along with our antics on the last Christmas morning we spent together.

When Pawpaw Thurman noticed my love for hot chocolate and made sure he always had it in the house for me.

When he told me why he fell in love with my granny. 

When he gave me her favorite music box on Christmas day just a few weeks after she passed away. 

Seeing him for the last time at his nursing home and regretting every day since that I only visited once.

Watching That 70′s show with pawpaw Tim in his shop 

Trying to fly a kite in the back yard

The way the grass in my neighbors yard turned to ice in the winter when his sprinklers went off. It sparkled in the sun.

Getting lost in the woods with my brothers and Chandler.

The first time I realized I was not as privileged as my friends.

The first time I swam in the catawba river.

That summer we lived on Confederate Street. The whole thing.

Trick or Treating in second grade

Going to Derrick and Patrick’s house early in the morning in the fall.

Jumping off the dock on Lake Wylie

Walking out to the parking lot at FMHS through the courtyard after the pep rally.

Moriah’s house on hot summer days.

Going to Pride for the first time and hanging out with my momma and seester.

How pretty the grass was at Ciera’s house in Aero Plantation

The way Peckensniff’s Lemongrass handsoap smells

Puling the sheets out of the washer at the Air BNB

Taking the long way home just to roll down my windows and sing at the top of my lungs during the summer.

Driving home alone after seeing Paramore and Fallout Boy with Katie.

Listening to When You Were Mine in the car in the summer.

Leaving Zach’s house late at night.

Ciera yelling at me about traffic cones and driving too fast when she was drunk.

Saying goodbye to Kaitlyn

The night my mom made homemade fried chicken tenders and the thunderstorm that followed

Coming home to ambulances in front of my house. They still make me panic to this day.

The smell of our hotel room in Seattle

Collecting palmetto roses scattered around Charleston

Sitting wrapped up in a blanket on the beach after a thunderstorm

The hayride around regent park and roasted peanuts

The specific feeling of leaving air conditioned places to walk out into heat and humidity on summer nights.

The way pine needles smell after they’ve been baking in the sun all day.

The sound of the air units running outside of the apartment buildings in the summer after third grade.

The Noel Paris tea latte I made on that one snowy day.

Selling girl scout cookies outside of food lion 

Vacation bible school with Faith

The first time my dad took us to Carowinds back when it was owned by Paramount.

The first time I went to Scarowinds

Dancing in the Christmas Parade at Winterfest

Watching Keegan dance with the Blues Brothers at Universal Studios

Visiting the art institute in Chicago with Rachel

Getting cotton candy as big as I am in Chicago

Visiting the zoo with Rachel

Breakfast in Asheville with the snow falling outside

Climbing Chimney Rock for the first time

Walking down the river at Chimney Rock

Sitting in Steven and Sabrina’s shop 

Seeing the pictures of my dad walking me down the aisle for the first time

When Keegs told me we’re going to Disney World

Watching Keegan see Universal for the first time

Eating chicken nuggets in the bridal suite

[minename0-blog]

All Twenty Take: What’s Wrong With Lane Johnson?

Quick: what’s the biggest issue for the Philadelphia Eagles, right now?

I’d argue it’s pure execution. They’re just dropping the ball — literally and figuratively — in key moments. That’s little stuff that you expect to regress back to the mean; you expect to get ironed out by veterans and competitors.

But it is neither fun nor constructive to write about the crazy fumbles that haven’t fallen Philadelphia’s way; the small penalties that put them behind the sticks.

So we go to the next answers to the question: what’s the biggest issue for the Philadelphia Eagles?

Some would say the secondary; I certainly would. That’s something I wrote about last week, and will continue to touch on throughout the season.

Some will say the offensive line, and that’s what I’ll be covering here.

The offensive line is playing well

Sorry, I needed to get that in there, clearly and unequivocally, before we got into the film. The offensive line is generally playing pretty well — better than a lot of lines in the league. They remain an elite run-blocking unit that has opened up rush lanes regardless of who’s touting the football; their athleticism and power show up in pass-protection.

They’ve been struggling with blitz recognition and the consequent coordination among one another and the ancillary pieces (running backs and tight ends). These are unit-wide issues that usually cannot be attributed to any one player every single time; they belong to the recognition and communication of every player along the line, the running backs, the quarterbacks, and the coaches in film study the week previous.

Charted pressure does not interest me very much

I know, when I say that, the first response will be the pressure statistics offered by charting services at the end of every NFL week.

I was talking with a bunch of football guys a while back, and we brought up Pro Football Focus. Anybody involved with football to a certain degree knows that PFF is a controversial service, in terms of accuracy and value of information. But this isn’t even about PFF — they just happened to be the example here.

I was told that, among the services that provide charting data to NFL teams, the degrees of variance between services is staggering. Upwards of 70% differences between PFF, SIS, ESPN charting data, NFL Next Gen Stats, et cetera. NFL teams basically throw away pressure data they get from these services, because of how much it varies from their internal numbers.

Who’s right? I don’t really know. But I know I’ll trust good film analysis before I’ll trust highly subjective charting numbers.

Even within the same service — PFF grades the Eagles’ offensive line with worse pressure rates this season, as compared to last — I still take pause. I don’t dispute more pressure has been surrendered, but the origin and affect of this pressure is far more interesting to me than whether or not it happened.

Let’s look at an example.

Carson Wentz was pressured on this play:

Poll

Was Carson Wentz was pressured on this play?

37%

Yes

(392 votes)

62%

No

(667 votes)

1059 votes total Vote Now

Regardless of what you select, both Lane Johnson and Jason Peters make high-quality plays here.

Peters wins in his typical fashion: he takes that hard 45-degree set to quickly establish leverage against the edge rusher. Sometimes he even jump sets out there, just to take the speed out of the rusher from the snap — he’s forcing the defensive end to play slower than he’d probably like to.

Regardless, after the hard set, Peters begins dropping vertically, maintain a tight relationship to LG Isaac Seumalo to protect against inside moves. Once the defensive end (#91 Stephen Weatherly) acknowledges he can’t go inside, he tries to go through. Peters absorbs the contact, locates his hands, and begins turning Weatherly to the outside.

Weatherly tries to bend, giving his back to Peters in an attempt to slink through the block, but Peters has the power and hand placement to shove him beyond the peak of the pocket, with his back to the action. That’s a win.

Lane also plays in his preferred fashion: he takes that vertical set and then waits patiently. Philadelphia very frequently slides away from Lane, so he’s left on an island with a two-way go. He can’t maintain that tight relationship to his guard the way Peters did Seumalo, so he has to be more respective of the potential inside move.

Danielle Hunter (DE #99) knows this, and does a great job stuttering inside before ripping back to Lane’s outside shoulder. Put in a recovery position, Lane’s natural athleticism and length shine: he’s able to get on his horse and track Hunter across the outside edge of the pocket, and he locates that long left arm of his on Hunter’s inside shoulder to ride him deep and out of harm’s way.

Lane does leave himself susceptible to the inside spin — and to a lot of counter moves in general, given how much space he accounts for when Brooks slides away — but by the time Hunter can hit that, Carson is already out and away.

Lane’s been getting the majority of the heat along the OL. Let’s talk about Lane.

Lane Johnson is so, so good

Lane’s playing great football guy. He’s either the best right tackle in the league, or right behind Mitchell Schwartz; he’s easily a Top-6 tackle in the league, and has been performing as such this season.

Lane is what you could call a “take you where you want to go” offensive tackle. Part of that is due to the nature of his responsibilities: again, Philadelphia very frequently asks Lane to play with a two-way go when they slide protection away from him. But part of that is due to his style. Because Lane is so long, and he’s such an athlete, he can match you to the inside or to the outside, and he can drop anchor if you try to go through him.

This is a perfect example here. Brandon Brooks stays thick to the 2-technique off the line, which leaves Lane with miles of space to account for against the stand-up 9-technique, who has a huge runway to attack here. After pushing up the edge track, DE Stephen Weatherly (#91) goes to convert speed to power, and Lane attaches his hands and drops anchor, stymieing the rush.

Reading the deep drop of Carson Wentz, Weatherly works to an arm-over outside counter to try to release from Lane. Because Lane has such a strong grip on the inside chestplate, however, he rides Weatherly back a few yards beyond Carson, who only has to step up in the pocket a bit to release to his check down.

I cannot emphasize this enough: few offensive tackles are asked to do this in the NFL. Very few do it successfully. And, when given the choice between asking Lane Johnson or Jason Peters to do it, the Eagles regularly ask Lane to do it.

That being said, Lane has given up a couple of sacks this season — more than we’re accustomed to seeing, five games into the season. What gives?

Good players can give up sacks; commit drops; throw interceptions. Yet we’re much quicker to forgive, say, the crucial 3rd and 20 Alshon Jeffery drop late in the fourth quarter than we are the sack Lane Johnson surrendered halfway through the second — why?

I’d argue because it’s much easier to remember Alshon’s redeeming qualities; his good plays. Yeah, he had that drop — he also had that wicked touchdown catch against the Titans and that key fourth-down snag on an earlier drive against Minnesota. And he was amazing in the Super Bowl, so on, and so forth.

The tricky thing about playing offensive line is that nobody remembers your good plays, because they didn’t see them. Their eyes were fixated on Carson Wentz, wondering where the ball was going to go, praying he was about to wind up for a deep shot that would get the viewer out of his seat.

Meanwhile, Lane Johnson and the rest of the offensive linemen were giving him the time and space to deliberate such a decision.

As such, we have this play:

Great little inside move by #91 Stephen Weatherly. Because help was sliding to Lane Johnson this time, he set aggressively to the outside — when help is coming to you, you typically don’t have to worry as much about the inside move, given the amount of bodies there.

However, Weatherly 1) does a great job of reading Carson Wentz’s short set — going outside would bear no fruit here, so it’s not worth it. And 2) benefits from Brandon Brooks getting displaced to the center of the field, leaving a slimmer of daylight through which he can sneak. Lane fails to locate hands on Weatherly’s torso, which lets him maintain his momentum through the inside swim and into Carson Wentz, who’s caught just in the preliminary moments of his throwing motion.

But we don’t remember these reps:

Results of these reps? In order: A pressure (maybe?), a sack, and an incompletion. But never evaluate on results; evaluate on process. All three are wins against the inside move for Lane Johnson.

On the first rep, Carson Wentz can be reasonably expected to move in the pocket, given the block Lane executes — but because he’s already finished his motion by the time the rusher arrives, it seems as if the rusher won. Carson’s been stationary for basically the whole play — that’s like trying to pass-protect for a traffic cone, which nobody should reasonably expect.

On the second rep, Halapoulivaati Vaitai is asked to play on the island on which Lane Johnson regularly lives. See how well that goes for him.

But look at Lane, who (just like on the strip-sack) has a slide to him. But this time he’s better prepared for the inside move, locates his hands on the chest plate, and completely nullifies the rusher. There’s a big escape route for Carson to his right, but he isn’t able to beat Danielle Hunter there.

That’s what you see on the final rep: Carson gets to the escape route offered him on the outside. But because the Colts were looping the defensive tackle over the top of the inside move here, there’s still edge contain, so Carson gets rid of the football.

Pressure is a messy concept to understand and to quantify. It affects different quarterbacks in radically opposite ways, it can be intentionally allowed or schemed into a play, and it can be nullified or created by a far, far wider variety of factors than simply the play of the offensive line.

With a quarterback like Carson Wentz — big-bodied, determined to extend the play, willing to hang in the pocket, tackle-breaker — pressure charting can lie. It seems the offensive line is relinquishing rush after rush, when really, they’re doing what they can be reasonably expected to do.

There are other film pieces we can discuss: how Wendell Smallwood’s pass protection struggles screwed the Eagles against the Titans; how Stefen Wisniewski and Jason Peters seemed (to me) to be passing off stunts very well; how Isaac Seumalo is limited in pass-protection. But the greatest grievance I saw following the Vikings game was that of the declining play of Lane Johnson.

And frankly, I just can’t find what y’all are talking about there.

Source: https://www.bleedinggreennation.com/2018/10/10/17959214/philadelphia-eagles-offensive-line-lane-johnson-minnesota-vikings-film-review

[missharmonyus-blog]

Panic attacks...

What is it? I’ve always liked to think that I can do things by myself without too much help from others. Wrong. I tried for a long time to keep it a secret but slowly but surely, it was creeping into my life and making its presence known! I was about 23 when it first struck and boy did it show its ugly face in the worst possible situation… I was driving my then boyfriend’s car with him in the passenger seat back home from Kent after a relatively nice, but slightly stressful weekend seeing friends. We were on one of the major motorways in the outside lane when suddenly I had an overwhelming compulsion to stop! Yes, I did say stop and outside lane of a major motorway!  Why? I couldn’t to this day explain, other than to say I was compelled to do so. By fear? I think so. Of what though, that is a fact that escapes me to this very day. I am being a little unfair withholding background details leading up to this life changing moment so let me expand. I had been with my b/f for a few years but he was a bit of a stress-head to say the least. We didn’t live together and he had no intention of popping the question anytime soon. He was in hindsight a very selfish man but I just ‘put up’ as I thought it was his job causing him the stress. I was always the calm, happy one making light out of every dark corner but what I hadn’t realised is that over the course of our 4 year relationship, he had started to control things and nit-pick, little things here and there but nevertheless, nit-pick. This was no more apparent than in the car! Every time I got into the driver’s seat, he would start, “It’s too cold, it’s too hot, when can we stop for a toilet break, watch that car! Jesus woman, where did you get your driving licence?” Just positive comments like that! :p  This was slowly having a bit impact on me without me actually knowing it. He was unsupportive and unsympathetic to my feelings most of the time, but I had always carried on with it, never giving up and always remaining positive! (I can hear you shouting, “Why didn’t you just leave him?” And I can hear myself saying, like a Jeremy Kyle guest, “Because I loved him!” Yes, pathetic. All this built up tension and negativity had clearly reached boiling point, but instead of just walking away from him or questioning him, (by the way, both those options I tried later in our relationship but it was like arguing with a 3 year old), had exploded into that one single moment in the car! That one solitary dot on my lifeline changed my love and enjoyment of driving forever; fear, panic and anxiety have replaced it and it still haunts me today, 24 years on! So, there I was, outside lane of the motorway and I was stationary! When I write this, I realise just how scary that scenario really is, we are lucky to be alive! I felt terror – I was dizzy,  my head felt fuzzy and my heart was about ready to burst right out of my chest and run off down the motorway screaming for air! My b/f was yelling at me to move, I tried and managed about 20 yards when I felt utter panic as I convinced myself we were about to crash and die, so I stopped yet again, still in the outside lane. I looked over at my bf in the vain hope of some comforting words, but he was mouthing something at me and his face wqas all contorted and I knew instantly that the words flying out of his mouth were anything BUT complimentary.  I  could feel tears streaming down my face as I recall him dragging;   and I do mean dragging, me out of the driver’s seat and into the passenger side. He got into the driver’s side and immediately went from 0-100 in a nano second… There was a few moments respite and I relished it with open arms. The moment was not to last when, moments later, he started, “What a stupid, useless bitch you are!”.

Yes I heard that! His insults continued and were incessant all the way home to the M4. Boy was that a long journey. I said nothing. Shame, tears, sadness and confusion were abundant, all vying for my soul.   Not once did he let up, so I went to bed and cried myself to sleep.

A few months passed and the incident faded into the background; I genuinely thought I was ok! One Saturday morning, I was driving, alone up the M4 and there had been a few roadworks going on. As I continued driving, singing to some banging tunage, I noticed that the hard shoulder  had been closed off for normal traffic. Normally this would  not have been a problem,  however, this was not normal and I was not in a good place and so it happened once more. A blanket of doom was slowly being pulled up towards my head, heavier with every tug! How would I stop? Where would I stop? Ridiculous, right? However its how I felt and right at that point I wanted to escape; I felt scared, tearful and fearful of death! What the hell was this? Why was it happening to me again? The more cones I saw, the worse it became until the tears started and I desperately looked around, trying to get other driver’s attention, god knows why, but that’s what it felt like. I was hot yet shivering and I felt breathless and very alone. My heart was trying to escape again and I was fully convinced that it was actually going to! I couldn’t stop, the cones were relentless, taunting me with their pointy little tips. There was nowhere for me to go as the three lanes filled with oblivious drivers carelessly going about their journeys. This 10-15 minute drive was feeling more like 2 hours of hell on the way to the end of the world! In the back of my mind I knew this was not a rational response, but my state of panicked mind was clearly stronger and very persistent in showing me who was in control right now. As I reluctantly drove forward, constantly wanting to slam on my break, a miracle appeared in the form of a junction…… Do I take it and get off this highway to hell? Do I stay on here with the evil cones and trapped in my own private nightmare? Before I’d had a chance to think about it, I had indicated and was heading off the motorway and towards the roundabout. I drove almost on autopilot and stopped in a side road. I don’t even remember getting there, but somehow I did. I sobbed and sobbed trying to make sense of what had just happened. After about 20 minutes of crying, the tears seemed to disperse and I was left feeling numb but calm. This feeling I was much more comfortable with. It was as if tge tears haf released me from my prison of panic; and it enabled me to get myself bavk home with no further drama. From then I’m, every car journey my bf and I took together was an absolute nightmare. I had no choice but to drive because he thought it a good idea to ‘get bav K on the horse’ so to speak. He was right, but it wasn’t easy for me and with every journey it became worse and worse to the point that I could not go anywhere above 30mph. It felt ok at that speed, like we were safe. The relentless insults were still there but I just got on with it. After most journeys I cried and as usual, some of the stress would be carried away by such tears. About a year later, my friend and I were out shopping and she wanted to go to the top floor of the precinct. We stood outside the lift waiting for it to arrive just chatting away. I was calm, she had driven and things were not too bad. As the lift arrived, its doors opened to reveal hundreds of people crammed in like little sardines! I suddenly began to tremble with fright, my hands were numb, my breathing increasing and my head spinning. I was stuck to the spot unable to move and trying to catch my breath! Noticing my distress, my friend grabbed my arm, ‘we will take the stairs,’ she whispered sympathetically. This was a new level to the car panic that I had previously felt and it wasn’t welcome either. I managed to get through the rest of the day without anymore drama and my friend dropped me back at home. I had sat in her car as a passenger feeling a little envious Of her ability to drive with such ease and calmness; something I now found difficult and stressful and extremely upsetting. The months passed and summer turned to Autumn but things stayed the same. I was now stuck in this vicious circle of being moaned at during driving which made me not want to drive, which made him moan at me because I didn’t want to.do it etc etc etc… as Autumn turned to winter and bavk into spring and the episodes were yet to subside, I knew I had to take action. I hadn’t told a soul about my feelings or what was going on, mainly due to embarrassment I guess but I knew NEED TO FINISH IT OFF…

8