#front doors sussex

[makenna-made-this]

Girl why are you building a moat

[hoe4sports]

Musli

Alessia Russo x Leah Williamson x child

A note from the author: Once again, another fic based off my life. This is a part of a potential series called “Found family”. Enjoy!

Warning: Fostercare, anxiety, long fic

Summary: You are moved into yet another foster home, and you spend your first 12 hours with Alessia and Leah. Oh, and their little companion.

-

You sit in the social worker’s car while she talks about your new home. She says that this home is a good home, but she said that too about the Johnson family and the Sussex family. You shrug your shoulders as a respons before gripping the ear of your plush cat tighter. The kitty is white, or he used to be white until your last foster father spilled his coffee all over him. You tried to rinse him in the sink, but your foster sister got upset with you. He is patchy brown now, and he smells of coffee. You don’t even like coffee. But he is the last piece of home you have left; your parents had no family. No grandparents and no siblings or cousins. Just you.

The houses are passing by your window, and you see the car moving from lower class areas to middle class areas to upper class areas and back to lower class areas. All your bad experiences are sadly linked with lower class families. The families where money is tight is statistically speaking where abuse is more likely to happen. The big raindrops rolls down the windows and you watch two raindrops to see who is faster. The answer is none of them; because a big truck splashes the window and vanishes the raindrops.

“The new family is excited to welcome you. They don’t have any kids, but they do have a friend for you”

“A friend? Like a chicken?”

You feel excited. You like chickens, they are friendly and they don’t bite.

“No silly, a kitty!”

Your eyes widen at the thought of living in the same house as a cat. You used to have a cat, back in your real home and the memory of him makes you miss him every day. You loved your cat. You love your plush cat. It sparks a tiny excitement in you, but then again you worry if you are allowed to touch the cat. Sometimes, foster kids aren’t allowed to touch certain toys, animals or even parts of the house. Tears forms in your eyes of the thought of him, and you clutch your hand tighter around the plastic bag of personal items that you own. It’s weird, you decide. You used to have puzzles that mommy would puzzle with you, and books that daddy would read to you. You used to have Barbie and dolls. And mommy would buy you so many dresses. You don’t have any dresses anymore. No puzzles. No books. No Barbie and no dolls. It’s only you, your teddy and a few pairs of pants and shirts. It used to make you feel sad, but you are just thankful for getting out of the last foster home.

The car suddenly comes to a stop in front of a big white house. It is a fancy house made out of wood and you can see what looks like handrails on the top of the house. There seems to be a garden, and there is a nice front porch with flowers on it. You blink as you look towards the door. It has a cat door. It resembles your real home. Where your mom planted flowers in the garden and your dad would cut the grass. It was only last summer, but it feels like a lifetime ago. The sudden onset of dejavu makes you smile. But then, you suddenly don’t want to leave the car. You don’t feel ready to disappoint yet another family. Perhaps, this family have more rules than draw others. There are always so many rules. Rules about what you are allowed to eat to what soaps you can use. So you let go of the plastic bag and clutch your fists to the seatbelt. The social worker opens up your door, and you shake your head. She tries to grab your hand, but you refuse. You really do not want to come out of the car.

She gives you a sad smile.

“Okay, how about you sit here and I’ll go get your new fosters?”

You shake your head rapidly and your little heart feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest. You feel warm, and sweaty, and stressed, and scared.

“I cannot let you sit in the car forever, I’m really sorry. I’m gonna have to lift you out of the car now.”

You close your eyes while your hand unbuckles your belt. The last family made you buckle and unbuckle yourself, so you are no stranger to helping yourself. You unwillingly hop out of the car and hold your kitty tight to your chest. The plastic bag comes along, but it’s too heavy to carry so it ends up dragging behind you. The social worker would grab it, if you would’ve let her; you don’t trust anyone with your things anymore. One family threw away your favourite dress and another lost the last picture you had of your mom and dad.

You find yourself In front of the big front door when the social worker presses the doorbell. It’s late, close to bedtime and the rain is pouring down. You yawn. The door swings open after a few seconds and you get caught off guard. You drop your plastic bag and hide behind the social workers leg.

“Hi! Welcome, please, please come in!” A blonde woman says. You peek at her from behind the social workers leg while trying to decide what category to put her in. She has kind eyes, like your mommy and she is smiling. Your social worker steps forwards which leaves you stumbling a few steps forwards. The embarrassment shows up on your face, but before you say anything; you see the woman reaching for your plastic bag. You know the drill, so you quickly snatch it from the ground before slowly moving yourself to the inside of the home.

You scan the entrance. There is a white built in bench with shoes underneath. You see a coat rack and there is some decor. There is even curtains and blinds on the windows that faces the entrance. It smells like warm cookies and milk, like your mother would make when you were little. Then, you see the other woman. She looks stricter than the first woman. She’s not that smiley, but she dosent look mean. A piece of her hair hangs in front of her eye before she quickly brushes it to the back of her ear.

“Y/N, that is Leah and this is Alessia. Say hi to them, please.”

You can’t say a word. Like all the words and letters of the English alphabet have left your mind. You shake your head rapidly. All the bones in your body freezes and your tears starts pressing in your eyes. You don’t know what to say or how to say anything. You don’t wanna sound dumb, and you don’t wanna sound sassy. The social worker looks down at you and sighs.

“Thank you for taking her in at a short notice. Things weren’t exactly good, and I had to move her quickly. She’s a good kid.”

One of the women squats down to your height.

“Hi, I’m Alessia. Who is this?” she asks. She points to your kitty, but she dosent touch him. You clutch him to your chest, and a silent tear rolls down your cheek. You feel terrified, maybe you aren’t allowed to have him?

“Uh..His name is Meow” you mumble, barely giving her a second of eye contact. Even though you don’t look at her, she looks at you. She waits and she seems to be patient.

“Im happy that you and Meow came to stat with us. We are happy to have you stay here for a while”

You feel scared. A while. How long is a while? It’s one of those adult’s acronyms that you don’t understand. Maybe, if you are good; they will let you stay for more than a while. You decided that you need to be polite, and kind, and helpful. You offer Alessia eye contact, and she smiles warmly at you.

“Oh look, there is someone else excited to see you” Alessia says as their white cat appears. He has white and brown fur, and he has blue eyes. He looks exactly like your old cat. The cat that used to live with you and mommy and daddy. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, and the cat trots its way over to you.

You reach out your hand, like you mother taught you. He sniffs it before instantly bonking his head into your had. Then, her purrs loudly.

“His name is Musli, he is a ragdoll, and he is 4 years old: just like you.”

“Musli” you parrot quietly while looking at the cat. You decide that you like musli and for a second, you feel calm.

“Alright, Y/N, I have to go now. Be good, okay? I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

She pats your head.

“Thank you once again Mrs. Russo and Mrs. Williamson. Call me if any issues or concerns.”

And with that, you are left alone. You, your kitty and your plastic bag is left to yourself. Tears swell in your eyes, and Musli rapidly rubs himself on you. You look down at him, and a teardrop lands in his fur.

“Y/N?”

You look up and you gulp. Time to be good. You nod your head while wiping your eyes on your sleeves.

“We were about to go into the kitchen to have some cookies, do you like cookies?” Leah asks while looking at you.

You nod again as your stomach rumbles. The last time you had something to eat was this morning, when you had a few pieces of carrots.

“Let’s bring meow to the kitchen with us, so he can have a treat too”

Alessia winks, and it makes you smile shyly. You follow the two women to the kitchen; meow in your right hand and the plastic bag dragging behind from your left hand. The bag leaves a stream of water from underneath it, and it makes you feel embarrassed.

“This is where I sit, and this is where Leah sit.”

Alessia points to a table with four chairs. You nod while scanning the kitchen. It’s big, and white. It’s pretty, and there is a gigantic fridge with a tap in the door. You shove your bag next to the wall, careful to not leave it out for anyone to trip on. That way, nobody will get mad at you.

Leah drags out a chair, it’s pink and it has a little step, a little place for your feet and a seat. It’s a children’s chair and you feel confused. Did they have a kid that you don’t know about? It scares you, because that means that there will be a competition and normally, you lose them.

You stand there dumbfounded while Alessia gets the out the plates. Leah gets out the glasses. They are high up, in the cabinets over the kitchen sink. It makes you sad because that means that you can’t help out with the plates.

Soon, everything is set and you are still frozen in the middle of the room.

“Come here, Y/N” Leah says before patting the pink chair. You slowly walk over to her before looking at it.

“Whose chair is that?” You whisper.

“It’s yours, you can use it for however long you want” Alessia says while smiling at you.

You climb up carefully, and you place meow next to you. Alessia puts forward a little bowl of milk, which leaves you confused. Are you supposed to drink out of the bowl? You don’t mind, really, all you want to is to be good. Your hands grab the bowl and you lean forward to drink the milk.

“For meow” Alessia says, and it makes you feel embarrassed. Leah quickly fills up your glass while Alessia puts the bowl infront of your plate. She pats the table, and you put meow infront of it.

“See? He likes it” Alessia says which makes you smile. Then you eat your warm cookie quietly. Alessia tells you about her day, and Leah answers. You just nod along, busy eating your cookie. This feels nice, you think. They seem kind. But you worry that they will be extra mean once you make them angry for being disrespectful, bad or dumb.

After finishing the cookie and drinking the milk, Leah clears the table.

“Thank you Mrs. Russo and Mrs. Williamson” you mumble, scared to say their names wrong. The pair of them shares a sad look before looking towards you.

“Please love, Call us Alessia and Leah. We aren’t your mom or your dad, but we are here to take care of you”

You nod.

“Should we find the bedroom?”

You nod, again.

-

“This is the bed. I didn’t know what colors you like, so I grabbed what we had. We can go out tomorrow to get you a few things. Where is your bag?”

Alessia says. You lift your bag up, and Leah reaches for it.

“Can I help you put your clothes away in the dresser?”

You nod.

“Thank you, Mrs. Leah”

The pair of them frowns, and you don’t understand why. Then Leah takes your clothes out; one by one until they are all taken out. The clothes are all wet from being dragged on the ground, and the pair of them shares a sad smile.

“Im gonna have to wash your clothes, they are all wet and dirty. Is that okay? Then tomorrow, we will get some more clothes” Alessia says while looking at the small pile of clothes.

You nod, but feel confused. Who are we getting clothes for, you wonder. Perhaps they need you to help carry the bags home. You are either way grateful for getting to come along instead of being left home by yourself.

You let out a big yawn, and drop meow in the action. Alessia instantly picks him up and reach him towards you.

“I think that maybe mr.meow needs a bath? Do you want to grab your toothbrush, hairbrush and pj so you can both get ready for bed?”

You look at her in confusion. You don’t own a hairbrush or a toothbrush anymore. It makes you feel dirty and uncomfortable, so you look down at your socks.

“Mrs. Alessia.. I…uh.. I don’t have a toothbrush or a hairbrush” you stutter out. You don’t see it, but Alessia and Leah shares a heartbroken look.

“Okay little miss, you can call me just Alessia and her just Leah. Whatever you want to, ok?”

You nod.

“We will put down toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrushes, hair ties, hair bands and knot spray on the list for tomorrow. Do you have a pj?”

You shake your head.

“That’s fine, Leah will find something for you to wear. Let’s go to the bathroom to get mr.meow cleaned up”

You smile at Alessia while nodding.

“Okay” you mumble out just loud enough for Alessia to hear.

-

Mr.Meow sits in the bathroom sink in a bubble bath. His whiskers are pointing downwards because of the weight of the water. Musli sits next to your feet, and you find yourself feeling safer around him. Your mommy would always say that a cat knows a good person; so if you ever needed to know how to categorise someone; see if a cat likes them. The memory makes you smile. Alessia hands you a tiny brush and smiles.

“Do you want to give him a little scrub?”

You smile and nod rapidly. Then, you get to scrubbing. You scrub, and scrub and scrub. Then Alessia scrubs, and scrubs and scrubs. Everything from his tail to his ears and paws. Soon enough, meow is white again and he goes into the dryer for a few minutes until he is dried enough for you to cuddle him.

Leah steps into the room while you are hugging him tightly with Alessia sitting on the toilet lid.

“Here, I have a little cousin that is the same age as you. She said that you could have this!”

Leah pulls out a pink pj. It’s a set with flowers on the pants and a princess on the front of it. It makes you light up. You nod your head before crashing into Leah’s legs in excitement. Leah looks surprised for a few seconds until Alessia nudges her to have her put her hand on your head. It feels safe.

“Thank you, Leah”

-

After washing meow, brushing your hair with Alessia’s brush and putting on the new pj; Alessia and Leah put you to bed. Or, rather they followed you to your bed while you put yourself to sleep. They turned on the little nightlamp on the nightstand before they said their goodnights. You found yourself laying in bed listening to the sounds of the house, much like you did at the old foster homes. Always waiting for someone to be disappointed with you.

The bed is soft just like your bed back at home. Not your old temporary home, but your old real home. The home you were born into. Where you took your first steps. Where you learned to put the cereal in the bowl before the milk. Where you learned to say please and thank you.

The bedroom is big. It has been painted a calm pink color, and there is a bookshelf with a few books. A few of the books are books you recognise, like the pink glittery one with Pappa pink. There is some toys and what you seem to recognise as Lego. You are not sure if you are even allowed to use the toys, but you appreciate being able to look at them. You don’t really know who they belong to because you arrived so late that you couldn’t think of asking. Your hand presses down on the mattress you have found yourself laying down on. It’s soft, and it’s comforting in a weird way. It feels like what used to be home. Before mom and dad and you took the trip to the local beach. Before one drunk driver changed your life forever. Before your life become something that you couldn’t even recognise anymore,

But the bed isn’t like home. It’s probably the most comfortable bed you have ever had, you decide. Even nicer than the one you once had. The frame is white with butterflies. The pillows are fluffy and the duvet is warm. You like the print too, it is pink with little purple flowers. Even though your new foster parents have spent a ton of money and effort on making this bedroom feel cosy, you end up sleeping on the ground. Not directly on the ground, but on the big thick fluffy rug in the middle of the room. It’s pink too, so you decide that it is perfect to sleep on. This way, you won’t get too comfortable in Leah and Alessia’s home. If you get too comfortable, then it will hurt even worse when they decide to kick you out. That’s why your hands softly pull the duvet and one pillow down to the floor, before laying down on it and wrapping yourself in the duvet. It feels strangely safe to be in this bedroom, in your temporary house. The feeling is new, and you are not sure whenever to regress the feeling or embrace it. You close your eyes slowly, listening to the soft hum of your two new foster moms chatter soothingly downstairs. It leaves you feeling like you are in a state of bliss that allows all the cells in your body to, for once, relax completely. It feels like you are floating, like you are at peace. Meow is in your hand, and musli comes to lay down next to you. He purrs, sending vibrations through your heart making it feel calm. Soon enough, you see your mom and you feel yourself drifting away.

-

The next morning, you wake up terrified. Did you oversleep? Why don’t your foster moms wake you up? You feel anxious. Perhaps you were supposed to wake yourself up? Irresponsible. That would already be one shot. You only get three. That’s what the other fosterfamily told you. Three shots and you are out.

You are only four, so it isn’t expected of you to wake yourself up. But you don’t know that. You drag yourself out of bed, and then it hits you: oh god. You fell asleep on the ground, but you woke up in the bed. Was it wrong of you to sleep on the floor? Did Leah or Alessia put you in bed? Maybe they are upset with you? It scares you to the point where you feel yourself shiver like a chihuahua.

You stumble out of bed before making a silenced run to the door. You shuffle down the hallway until you see the staircase and you peek out from behind the handrails. It smells like coffee, and pancakes. You find a place to sit in the staircase where you can look into the kitchen, but still be partially hidden by the shadows of the dark hallway.

Leah and Alessia is in the kitchen. Leah is reading something from her phone out loud and Alessia is listening while making pancakes. You can see orange juice on the table as well as jam, cheese and milk. Leah has a cup of coffee with milk in it. It’s light brown, and you recognise it because your old foster mother would tell you to put milk in her coffee for her.

You can feel the hunger growing in your gut, and you hold meow close to you while closing your eyes hoping that it will disappear. Then, Musli hopes downstairs. He sniffs your arm before meowing at you. You quietly try to shush him, but it doesn’t help.

“Y/N? There is breakfast for you in here love”

Leah says while smiling at you from the kitchen. You look back at her with wide eyes. Musli is still rubbing himself on your shoulder, and you force yourself to stand up. You quickly go to the kitchen, not wanting your new moms to wait. Waiting isn’t a good thing, especially when they are waiting on you. It can cause them to be upset with you. You don’t want that.

You hop up on the chair you sat in last night, and your eyes widen when Alessia places a pink princess plate infront of you with a few pancakes on. Are all of these for you? You feel confused. She hands you a fork, not an adult fork. A tiny fork with a bunny engraved into it.

Alessia sits down, and you look at her. She is now eating, and you look over at Leah who is pouring herself juice. You feel conflicted; if you ask if it is for you then they might take it away because you seem ungrateful. But if you don’t ask, then they can get upset with you for eating everyone’s breakfast.

“Uh, Alessia? Can I eat this?”

“Huh? Are you allergic?”

“What’s allergic?”

They both share a sad look, but to you; it looks like disappointment.

“It’s for you baby, just eat however much you want”

You look at Alessia and Leah. Sceptical, yet grateful. You nod before you start eating. Then you realise that you might need to eat everything; because you don’t know if you are gonna get another meal today. It feels strange to sit here with two adults eating pancakes. Musli is sleeping by your chair. It almost feels like a dream. Like something that is taken out of a movie. But it’s a movie that you don’t want to end. That’s the thing about movies; they always have an end.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

What do you think about the "kill notice" about the new Catherine pic? I looked at the picture, there doesn't seem to be any distortion or manipulation. Some filters have been used but nothing is misaligned or photoshopped in or out. No dodgy shadows. Wtf is with the reporters agreeing with it?? Is this a shady attempt to force Catherine to be out in the public sooner than she would like to be? Apparently the controversy is about her left hand and somewhere along Charlotte's left sleeve. Part of me feels it's because reporters know she is now well and are angry she isn't back to work and giving them content. But, the picture agencies pulled the pic, so what's with that?? Such an unnecessary controversy.

I think it’s much ado about nothing. A lot of what people are point out as edited can be explained away, such as:

Kids are wiggly so of course they’d be blurry.

It’s a still from a video or a Live Photo.

Kate isn’t wearing her rings because maybe her fingers are still swollen from all the post-op meds and steroids, or maybe she just doesn’t want to wear them.

It's a program/app on William’s phone that stitches together the best parts in a sequence of photos to fix a squirming kid. (Like Google’s Best Take feature, in which case it’s AI, not photoshop.)

But wait, what about that pap pic last week of Kate with all weight in her face looking unrecognizable, and now in this photo she looks like herself? It’s about camera angles and body positions. There’s a pose - I call it the goose pose - where if you tilt your upper body forward just slightly and push your head/chin all the way forward, the extra weight in your midsection, neck, and face disappears from the camera if the photo is being taken from the front. (When you do this pose and the picture is taken from the side, you look like a goose.)

It’s great that the wires all have standards and that they take it seriously but the “kill” request illustrates a bigger problem: that in todays age of photo editing, filters, and AI, is any photo we see real and original? Once you permit minor edits like removing dust (which is an AP allowance), it opens the door for other edits and who’s the authority to say what’s right or wrong? So it’s a sticky line.

The reporters are writing about it because they have nothing else to write about. The media makes a ton of money off Kate and the children (more than they care to admit) so of course they’re going to pick up on this and write about it. They’re desperate for Kate content because she sells.

[[Interrupting now to say that I've just seen the update from KP of Kate (scroll to the end) acknowledging the edits and apologizing for any issues. It's bullshit she had to do this but I understand why she did it: she's proud of her photography, it's her own picture she edited and not one from anyone else, and it's overshadowing the Commonwealth Service coverage.]]

I mean, it's no coincidence that a prolific royal fashion blogger notorious for bashing Kate while simultaneously profiting from her appearances and photographs announced she's taking a break to Easter. Other royal events are still happening. Other royals are still working. Other royal families are still working. But that doesn't matter: she makes her money from Kate and when Kate doesn't work, she can't make money. So why bother keeping up the blog?

Anyway, believe what you want to believe about the photograph, but just be ready for all of this to backfire. And trust me, it will backfire.

If it's true that the Sussex Squad is behind this, well, Meghan may work hard but karma works harder. Harry and Meghan's own photoshopping and photo-editing may become equally under fire: Harry's Friar Tuck bald spot is world famous and everyone knows about it, no matter how much photoshop they do.

If it's true that the media and social media is making this a bigger issue than it actually is (which it sounds like, given Kate's newest message), then reap the consequences of your actions: fewer pictures from Kate and fewer pictures of the Wales family. The chances are extraordinarily high that they'll stop sharing pictures of their family now. It's already happened - back in ye olde days, it was custom for the royal family to have a photo call during a ski holiday so the press pack could get their pictures and leave them alone. William and Kate did this in 2016 on a skiing holiday, and boom - immediate criticism. Now no more vacation photos.

If it's true that the reporters picked up on this to force Kate to returning to work sooner than expected, well, I hope Kate retreats further into the cocoon of privacy and doesn't give you the satisfaction of new birthday pictures.

If it's true that this is a sign of how shambolic KP's communications office is, then hopefully the right people learn the right lessons and make more professional decisions. We know Kate will. She always learns from her missteps, even if it takes some time.

If it's true that the wires and the press associations need to revise their rules because everyone edits, I hope they do. Trust me, there are more worrying matters about photo editing and AI manipulation to write and "kill" than a touched-up family photo of the future king's family posted to social media. This is not the hill to stake your professional reputation on.

But I guarantee you that the same people who are making a fuss about these photo edits that EVERYONE does are the same people who are moaning about the dearth of content from the Waleses and they're the same people who scream and shout when the Waleses don't do what they want them to do.

But at the end of the day, it's a family photo taken by a proud husband and dad, who probably made stupid cheesy jokes to make his kids laugh like that, which his wife and their mother edited to make sure everyone looks their best. Everyone does this. It's fucking normal.

It's much ado about fucking nothing and I hope that everyone, most especially the reporters, who fed into the hysteria understand what they've done. They've just signed the execution notice for Waleses family photos.

Kate's apology:

[foolishlovers]

MUTUAL PINING FIC RECS: Below you'll find a list of Good Omens fics in which Aziraphale and Crowley are pining for each other.

You can request more fic recs here.

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There were three things of which Crowley was absolutely certain: 1. Aziraphale, being an angel, was required to be kind and loving towards all things, even when those things were flawed or sinful or fallen. 2. Notwithstanding that obligatory kindness, Aziraphale would never, and could never truly love a demon, in any meaningful sense. 3. Despite this, Crowley was desperately, hopelessly, in love with him.

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got a pretty face, pretty boyfriend too by KissMyAsthma, leukozyna (T, 9k)

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There is a trick people do with a mint candy and a bottle of cola which results in a small eruption, and something very like it, for much higher stakes than a laugh in a car park, is about to take place in Aziraphale’s back room. Or: what happens when you finally unscrew the cap on a six thousand years of repression, and drop in Valentine’s Day.

Something We Were Withholding Made Us Weak by triedunture (M, 17k)

"Yes, exactly. Retire." Aziraphale reaches for the last remaining tartlet brimming with summer berries. "Somewhere along the south coast, perhaps." Or: Crowley and Aziraphale learn to move in tandem.

32 Questions That Lead To Love by ffonippop (E, 32k)

”First formulated in 1997, [32] questions to fall in love is a study by psychologist Dr. Arthur Aron which took place at Stony Brook University, New York. The aim? Speeding up the creation of intimacy between two strangers.” The Cosmopolitan Okay, fine. Crowley was 32-Questions-That-Lead-To-Love-ing Aziraphale. Sue him. He had no expectations, all right? Just, an innocent curiosity.

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“But y’know, if my boss finds out I’m helping you even a little, they’re gonna throw me out on my ass.” “Yes, I understand it is a bit of a conflict of interest for you… Is there something I can offer you in return? Something you would like?” Aziraphale questioned hopefully. You, Crowley thought loudly as he took a second sip. I want to know if you moan when you kiss the same way you do when you try something delicious. I want to know if your lips taste like Zinfandel. “Yes, actually.” Aziraphale is having difficulty running his restaurant, and it isn't helping that he believes the place across the street is trying to sabotage him. To his surprise, chef Crowley comes to him on friendly terms. Together they come up with an arrangement that could benefit them both.

On Espionage and Prophecy (or How to Accidentally, but Wholly, Fall in Love With a Soho Bookseller) by RockSaltAndRoll (E, 133k)

1941 is the London Blitz and the year that MI5 really comes into its own with the now infamous ‘double cross’ system. The service keep tabs on suspects, root out enemy agents and try to turn them into doubles. Anthony J Crowley is fucking great at this job. He can be sneaky, underhanded and damn ruthless but also charming and kind. It’s what makes him good at turning. Aziraphale is just a regular Soho bookseller who loves his shop and books and good food and wine when he’s approached by a woman claiming to be MI5, wanting to recruit him for espionage. The poor man is too trusting and gets the shock of his life when he’s approached by a charming but dangerous-looking man also claiming to be MI5. Crowley recruits Aziraphale to double cross a double crosser and Aziraphale takes to espionage like a duck to water. Danger, hijinks, and sex ensue.

Old Vines by sevdrag (E, 189k)

A.Z. Fell, one of the most respected names in wine and food blogging, has been sent on assignment with his assistant Warlock Dowling to spend six months in California Wine Country. Under direction (by his boss, Gabriel) to use this experience to double his blog followers and write a novel, Aziraphale is both excited and anxious about the opportunity. Anthony J. Crowley is the owner and viticulturalist of Ecdyses, a winery that unexpectedly fell into his lap eleven years ago when he hit rock bottom. He may be in debt, yeah, but he’s paying off his loans — and despite pressure from his lenders and their team of inspectors, Crowley has found a kind of contentment tending his little corner of terroir and producing extraordinary wine. Crowley’s old vines are the heart of his vineyard, and he’s never let anyone in. Crowley finds Aziraphale intriguing; Aziraphale finds Crowley enthralling. Turns out a famous wine expert and an experienced viticulturalist can still learn things from each other. The summer of 2019 unfolds.

[raina-at]

Green

John sips at his tea, breathing deeply. The air smells of earth and the sea, salty and fresh.

It rained yesterday, but today the sun is out and it’s warm. The grass is lush and green in the summer sun, the birds are singing, the neighbour’s bees are humming in the garden. 

They've only been here two days, and John feels - renewed. Settled. Calm.

He turns his eyes from the lush greenery of the Sussex landscape to Sherlock, who's baking... something. He can't tell from here, but judging by the number of bowls, implements and ingredients, he guesses it's something complicated. Right now, Sherlock is either whisking egg whites or whipping cream, it's difficult to say. He looks absorbed and yet abstracted, fully concentrated on the task at hand yet miles away.

John wonders what he's thinking. Why he brought them here.

John needed a break, no doubt about it.

He thought nothing could be worse than the war, but then he worked in a London A+E during the worst of a global pandemic. Of course he’s ten years older than he was when he was in Afghanistan, but it’s something deeper than that. The last two years have taken something from him, something he didn't even know he still had. It’s like a well inside him has dried up. 

He looks out the kitchen window, past Sherlock, towards the sea.

It's beautiful here. Quiet. Sedate.

Boring, he hears Sherlock’s voice in his head whisper.

They arrived on Sunday. Took a walk through the village. Went to the beach. Napped. Had savoury pie for dinner. John fell asleep at nine, the sound of the sea lulling him into a deep, dreamless rest.

It rained all day yesterday. They spent the day quietly indoors. Read books, watched some telly. John baked scones, the first time in a long time. It felt a bit like coming home.

They had slow, lovely, calm, dreamy sex in front of the fireplace. Also the first time in a long time.

After, they lay on the sofa, his head pillowed on Sherlock's chest, and John didn't have the words for a truth that’s slowly become clear to him, that has been sitting on his chest for a while now.

He still doesn't have the words. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever have them.

The click of the oven door and the whirring of an egg timer being set tells him that Sherlock's contraption is in the oven.

He looks up from his tea. "What are you making? Smells amazing."

Sherlock shrugs, leaning against the counter. There's flour on his cheek. "A three-layered Neapolitan pie.” 

John walks over into the kitchen and wipes the flour from Sherlock’s cheek. “Show me?”

*-*

They spend hours in the kitchen, baking, tasting, having tea while the fillings set in the fridge. They don’t talk much, except for simple requests for implements or ingredients. 

Finally, the pie is done and the last layer is setting in the fridge, and John is whipping up a quick and easy pasta dish for dinner. He feels more relaxed than he’s been in weeks. Months. Possibly years.

“It’s okay, you know,” Sherlock says after a good half hour of silence, during which John sliced and fried onions, tomatoes and courgettes, tossed a salad and started cooking the water.

“What’s okay?” John asks, adding another teaspoon of salt to the pasta water.

“You don’t want to go back. And I’m telling you it’s fine.”

John freezes. His entire world whites out a bit on the edges. He can’t really breathe anymore, doesn’t remember how it works.

Then Sherlock’s hands are on his shoulders, massaging the cramping muscles between his shoulder blades. Sherlock’s other hand comes to rest on his belly. “Breathe, John.”

John breathes, concentrates on breathing into Sherlock’s hand on his belly, on the warmth of him, the reassuring strength at his back. 

“How did you know?” he finally asks, little more than a whisper.

“I live with you, remember?” Sherlock says, sounding just a tiny bit amused, but then turns serious again. “Do you think after twelve years together, I can’t tell when you’re unhappy? Do you think I don’t know what the last two years have cost you? I was there every time you came home after eighteen hour shifts, every time one of your patients died, every time one of your colleagues died. I was there when you got sick, and I know how afraid you were, even though you did your best not to show me.”

John closes his eyes and lets himself lean back against Sherlock’s body, lets Sherlock’s arms come around him, lets his head fall back against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I can’t quit,” he mutters, finally saying out loud what he’s been thinking about. “They need me. I can’t abandon my post.”

Sherlock sighs and gently turns John around so John has to look him in the eye. “John,” he says, gently, seriously, “don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

John bites down on his lips to stop himself from bursting into tears, because he will never believe that anything he does is good enough, and he knows Sherlock knows this, and disagrees. For Sherlock, John needs to do one thing: exist. That’s it. And John’s never been able to wrap his head around the simple fact that he doesn’t have to do anything to make Sherlock love him. He just does. 

Sherlock seems to realise that John’s about to do or say something incredibly stupid, because he takes him by the shoulders and says, “I know that if I told you that you don’t have to be perfect to be allowed to exist, you won’t believe me anyway, so I’m going to tell you something else. Something selfish. I miss you. I want you home with me more. I can’t stand watching you like this. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

John blanches, breath hitching in a moment of blind panic, Don’t leave don’t leave don’t ever leave. 

Sherlock seems to catch his drift because his hands wander to the sides of John’s face and he presses their foreheads together. “No. Not this. I will never leave you. Ever. But I can’t be happy when you’re miserable. So please. If you can’t do it to save yourself, save me. Please.”

John makes a strangled noise, incapable of responding, but he hugs Sherlock tightly, clinging to him like he’s a lifeline. And he is. He never would have made it through the last two years without Sherlock. And he knows that it wasn’t an easy time for Sherlock as well, but he realises only now how much Sherlock worried about him, how many times Sherlock must have swallowed down his own worries and needs to avoid putting any more pressure on John.

They stand there for endless minutes, holding each other tight, while John pulls himself together. 

“I heard you,” he finally mutters into Sherlock’s shirt. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, lips pressed into John’s hair. “I know.”

“Let’s finish dinner before this becomes inedible,” John says, and Sherlock releases him with a laugh. 

They finish preparing dinner in silence, then take their plates out into the garden, watching as the sun sets over the lovely green landscape, the sound of the sea a beautiful background music to their meal.

“What would I do instead?” John finally asks, finally puts the thought he’s been carrying around into words. 

Sherlock smiles at him, and the relief in his voice is hard to miss when he answers, “Whatever you want, John. Whatever you want.”

I've always wanted to write a Bakers story that deals with John being a frontline health worker during the pandemic. I can't even imagine what hospital staff has been through these last years. Heroes, the lot of them.

This was written for @notjustamumj 's promt Green.

I'm tagging some usual suspects: @calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @jrow @keirgreeneyes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @missdeliadili @topsyturvy-turtely @the-reading-lemon @thetimemoves

I hope I didn't miss any horrible typos or anything.

[g-h-0-s-t-3-d]

Silhouettes & Songbirds // a Modern Warfare Story - Chapter 1

Pairings (Eventual): Simon "Ghost" Riley x Wren "Hawk" Yarrow (Original Character)

Tags: Military Themes (Call of Duty), Canon-Typical Swearing, Implied Abuse (Past, by Graves)

A/N: I am so excited to FINALLY have this OUT!! Hope y'all love it <3 Looks like Tumblr also crushed my image quality so yay

Kate Laswell folded her hands neatly on the worn-out desk as she eyes the Captain. The scruffy man held his stance, blue eyes unwavering as he only nodded in encouragement. John Price was nothing if not persistent, and the CIA agent knew better than to question him.

“Fine, but I want Sergeant Yarrow on the team. And I’m not asking.” Her tone was low, but it pierced the room nonetheless with the compromise.

Price grunted softly. “You think she’s solid after being back in Urzikstan?”

“She will be if she has to be.” Laswell’s answer was resolute, and she held his gaze as she squared her shoulders. There was no room for negotiation here. Price was silent as he took a long drag from his cigar in contemplation.

“Thought that last assignment was a one-off for her. That PMC really fucked her up.”

Laswell sighed. “We need her, John. Are your men really any better?”

“…Everyone’s got their problems, Kate.” He didn’t elaborate, and she didn't ask. As much as she disliked the risk of a special operations endeavor with current international relations, she couldn’t deny that Price was right - Al Qatala needed handling. She sighed briefly and nodded in acknowledgment.

“What are you calling this task force?”

“141.”

—

A young woman sighed as she gazed out the window. It was a nice day in Rye, East Sussex… she wished she could enjoy it more than she did. For as long as she’d spent off the force, she never thought she’d get used to civilian life. Wren Yarrow was a creature of habit, of constant direction and purpose.

She was a creature of Shadow Company… of Phillip Graves.

There was no meaning in daily tasks that were surely obsolete. Sure, it was a routine, one she clung to at that, but it was nothing more. It was something she did mindlessly, day after day after fucking day.

She felt pathetic - it had been years since her discharge - she should’ve long been over this. And yet, it never seemed to settle for her.

There was always something perfectly boring about living.

More often than she’d like to admit, she found herself reminiscing about her time in Shadow Company… her time with Graves. She wondered if she’d ever stop missing it; missing him…

It was a slow day at the bakery that day. Normally, she found solace in the day to day workings of the store - she could expect the same people every day, she could expect to make the same things…

She thought she knew what she wanted - to come home and run her bakery like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t been called on a whim to ship out to Urzikstan after years of being out of the military.

Life never goes the way you plan it. And she had once again become living proof when Laswell called her that morning just a few months after she had returned home.

“John wants a Task Force. I want you on it.” Short and to the point; Laswell was never much to sugar-coat. Wren could hear the subtle undertones in her voice, though - Kate knows her history, and she knows the weight of her request. Wren knows it damn well, too.

“What’s the situation?”

“Classified. You understand.” She knew that, of course, but it wouldn’t have stopped her from asking.

It was almost embarrassing how quickly Wren had accepted the request. Apparently, uprooting her life and business once more was not a concern as she hung a ‘closed indefinitely’ sign for the second time over the front door and rushed upstairs to pack her belongings. Surely, she was insane, grasping at any straw that presented her with some sort of purpose…

When she laid in bed that night, she wondered very briefly if this is what she really wanted, but the cold truth was that Wren didn’t know what she wanted. She thought a civilian life here would suit her, that she’d grow accustomed to the slow pace of lazy mornings and meaningless conversation, but it always left her feeling incomplete - there was no purpose to serve here, just existence.

So she agreed, and she shipped out the next morning.

—

She was grateful her last leave - though it was intended to be permanent - was only half a year, because owning a bakery didn’t exactly do wonders for one’s figure. She fell back into her training fairly easily and adhered to the strict regimen scarily well… she wondered if that deep-rooted need for a routine would ever change about her.

She wondered if she’d ever live normally, if she wasn’t condemned to this life of purgatory and violence. And yet, she craved it still.

She was put back in contact with Captain Price a few weeks into her training, and periodically he’d fly out to evaluate her progress. But, try as she might, no amount of prying would convince the Captain to tell her even the smallest detail of her upcoming mission…

“Need to make sure you’re solid, Sergeant,” he repeated himself for what must have been the dozenth time over the last few weeks. She huffed in moderate displeasement, but returned to her exercises. Price barked out a few more commands in that low, gruff voice she’d only just recently gotten used to once more before straightening up. She slowed from her jog, the difference in his gaze piquing her interest.

“0500 tomorrow. Nik will transport you to a covert location in Urzikstan. We’ll meet and brief there.” He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask. If there was one thing she’d learned from her time  with the Captain, it was to keep the questions and the bullshit to a minimum.

Kate must have had sympathy for her, because that night she emailed her a heavily encrypted file containing dossiers of each of the Task Force members.

To: Wren Y. (Sgt., Special Forces)

From: Katherine L. (Chief, CIA)

Subject: Dossiers

Don’t tell John I sent you this. [encrypted file]

CIA Station Chief Katherine Laswell

George Bush Center for Intelligence

Langley, Virginia

She read through them without much thought. They were names on a paper, just like all of her Shadow Company comrades had been. She vividly remembered sitting with Philip and sifting through application after application… back when she felt like she could take on the world. When he made her believe she could.

She sighed. Even years later, she wondered if she’d ever quite get over it. Over him. It still nagged at her - she should’ve long been past it, but Wren was always a creature of habit.

She didn’t like change, and there sure had been a lot of it over the last few years. Maybe this time would finally mean something.

She liked the team well enough. Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost. She knew Price and Gaz already, of course. Soap seemed like an interesting guy, but she made a note to never get on his bad side. All of Ghost’s information was redacted - even his name. It sparked her curiosity, but she knew her place well enough to leave it alone.

She slept well enough that night… It was amazing what a good cup of tequila and a sleeping pill could do.

[the-empress-7]

I understand what you mean. But forget matters as serious as the LoS and involving the Parliament, Charles has made it very clear at every turn that the door is wide open for Harry to return whenever suits his fancy. Can't wait to see HRH Princess Lilibet on the balcony this year!

Oh no, I never meant any of this would happen under Charles's watch. Charles would still be married to Diana and doing Camilla on the side if things had gone his way. He would have plodded along with his two households, pretending things were fine if Diana hadn't blown it all up. And now he would be perfectly happy plodding along again with his fantasy life where he has his mistress wife and his darling two boys, both terribly devoted to daddy and [step]mommy. Charles lives in a world of his own creation. Always has, always will. Reality has never pierced his bubble.

As for L or any of them on the balcony, I think this is the one area where William throws all his power. There is no way he will be standing on the same balcony as any of them or if any of them are within restraining order distance of anyone in his family. If that were to happen, I'd be deleting all social media and focusing on some new interest. I'd be done-er than done. Done.

Actually, now that I think of it, I can't see a world where M lets those children on any balcony. She wouldn't be able to control their behavior - and I don't just mean in terms of standing still, yada. I mean their interactions with her. They clearly don't know her. No way she would have them front and center in anything but a photograph she controls.

I hear you on what you said about William, but as you can tell I am feeling quite hopeless about this entire circus. No one seems interested in doing anything, everyone just waits for the Sussexes to be hoisted by their own petards.

As for the kids on the balcony, she needs them on that balcony for the money shots. She needs her kids next to the Waleses kids in order to play the same false equivalency game she played with Catherine. William is the only person who can stop this, whether he will or not, only time will tell.

[dickwheelie]

here have the first few paragraphs of my retired holmes/watson fic that is currently at 13k and counting. hoping putting some of it out there will force me to finish it in a timely manner lol.

this is sort of a combo of canon and granada holmes, based on whatever vibes were necessary in the moment. enjoyyyy if ya nasty

____________

It was I who came to him, a few months before the end.

He had written me several times from his lodgings in the Sussex Downs, and so I had his address on hand for a visit I took in late June of that year. It was, I admit, a bit of a whim on my part, otherwise I would have sent a letter ahead, but then again I did not expect to be turned away and had only intended to stay for a few days, perhaps a week at the most. The fact of the matter was that year the summertime ennui had struck me with more strength than I could ever before recall, and with my practice closed for the season and my bachelor's apartments lonelier than ever, I felt I had no choice but to pay a visit to my old friend and colleague.

Holmes had retired to a rather modest cottage in the countryside, with a sizable bee farm, as he had so often spoken about in our younger days. I knew of this from his letters, of course--apparently the honey business was doing remarkably well--but it was another thing entirely to wander up the long drive and hear the incessant buzzing and humming crescendo as one approached the lines of wooden hives that dotted the back yard of the house.

I knocked at the front door with the head of my cane, which by then I was using full-time, but when no staff nor retired detectives arrived to greet me, I wandered round to the side of the house and through the back gate, which was latched but not locked. It was then that I caught sight of him, sitting smartly upon a metal bench at the apex of a small flower garden, a thin silhouette with a proud posture overlooking the lines of the beehives. His back was to the house and thereby also to me, but the bench sat a little off to the right from the gate so that I could see the outline of his profile. That proud, hooked nose, that pointed brow, the thin lips; in silhouette against the late afternoon sky he looked just as he might have back in our rooms at 221b, staring down at Baker Street from that upper window which at one time or another saw the entire world passing by underneath.

It was not my intention to surprise the man any further than my unexpected visit would undoubtedly do already, but taking a few steps across the grass towards him I realized that my footfalls were entirely silent, hidden beneath the unending buzzing of the bees. I might have called out to him, or made my presence known in some less startling way, but I did neither of these as I approached, silent as an Indian tiger in the underbrush.

At least, I had thought so. I was not a meter behind him when a sharp, clear voice cut through the breezy afternoon air.

"My dear Dr. Watson, you might have phoned ahead. I believe that is what the younger set call courtesy these days."

I could not help the bark of incredulous laughter that emerged from my throat as Holmes turned on the bench to face me, his eyes shining with mirth. Up close, with the full light upon him, I could see that he had changed considerably since our last farewell; his face, lined as mine now was, was even more angular than it had been, and indeed it was only those keen, grey eyes that had remained untouched in our decade apart. His hair was entirely silver, a quite distinguished look for his brunette, in my opinion, than the pale grey I had been left with.

He held a cane now, too, which rested now between his knees as he sat. His fashion, I observed, had not changed an iota; not in style, nor in color, nor in cut.

An almost unbearable fondness rose in my throat then, looking upon him in that moment, so familiar and yet so strikingly new. Perhaps if I had more of my wits about me I could have put all that he had taught me to some use and gleaned some clue as to his recent dealings, where he had been that day, what he had eaten . . . but I confess all my faculties faded away in the face of that wry smile, identical to that I had seen countless times across the breakfast table, in the armchair by the fireplace, facing me in a train car, next to me in a cab or in a concert hall. I had not realized, until that very moment, what a drought I had been in.

"Holmes," I said before any hellos, for they could hardly be of any use between us now, "you must tell me how you knew."

Read the rest on ao3!

[darkhorse-javert]

Day 5; 'Bees and Honey

@flufftober

1920s Sussex Downs

How fickle and fleeting the world is, the thought passes through my mind one dozing summer evening as I sit out in the garden enjoying the long stretch of warm light.

My eyes rest on the tall figure, cowed now over his white ships of bee-houses. That the finest mind of London, help (and occasional frustration) of Scotland Yard, Hero of the thrilling papers, could slip into the quietness of Sussex life with hardly a ripple of interest from the wider world. To those who were nearby we are simply Mr 'olmes - as the accent places it - and I a retired medical man. No one of any consequence, really.

"Whither your Musing, my dear Watson?" My beloveds voice says, his long hand coming to settle fingertips on the arm of my chair.

"The waves and shifts of time and memory Holmes." I wave my hand lightly at the soft green garden, the just visible edge of a vegetable patch, a thick hedge at a bottom end "That we, after everything, may just be here and nothing comes rattling to our door. As if the great string of cases never was."

"Another era was it not Watson?" Holmes nods a little "We're from Before, before that terrible war which divides time like a deep river." His eyes glint with their old sharpness, "But you still have cases, John."

"Only in situation extremis, Holmes, as you well know." When Johnny Hodge fell out of the tree and fractured his arm so badly, then someone had run to the front gate yelling for me 'Old Doctor Watson', and I had been glad to splint it until they could get the poor boy to a proper hospital.

Holmes touches my arm again with light fingertips, I cover it with my own.

"Will you play tonight?" I ask soft on the air.

"Of course, Watson," His eyes are lit warm by the drooping sun "I rather fancy that new one by Vaughan-Williams."

(A/N By which I mean 'The Lark Ascending' )

[therealtruealiyah]

NOVA - the making

Raine heavily exhaled the stress and exhaustion of what was, yet another, double shift.

Just as she was on the hind side of her nightly cleaning duties, she lifted her head at the sound of the front doors' bell.

Shit! I forgot to lock the door. She thought as she hurried up to the front of the clothing shop she was enslaved to.

"Sorry, we're clo—" Her voice was caught as if trapped in the betrayal of her own throat.

"I'm sorry, are you closed? The door was unlocked." There she stood at 6'3, jeans hugging her hips, a giant white smile on her gorgeous face, and red upon her lips.

"Yeah— ahem. Erm, yes, we're closed." Raine could hardly compose herself. She's never seen such a divine being before. She believed she was now in love after 26 years of not believing in love at first sight. Anything is possible.

"Oh! I'll just come back tomorrow." The woman smiled at her, turned on her heels and began back the way she came.

"Wait!" Raine stopped her and immediately winced.

What the hell am I doing? She thought, for 'wait' was the only word she could think of. The stranger whipped her perfectly symmetrical head around.

"Ma'am?" Her voice was a lot lower now, her eyes darkened with something Raine couldn't quite put her finger on— but she was bound to find out.

"Um, I didn't close down the register yet. Is— is there something I could help you find?" Raine bit her lip nervously. She'd obviously bit off far more than she could chew here. The woman smirked and turned back toward Raine, suddenly a lot closer than before.

"Wanna lock the doors first?" She nodded back toward the front of the store.

"Yeah, erm, yeah that's- that may be a good idea." Raine scurried past the stranger to lock the doors, taking a deep breath before turning back around. Raine gasped to find the woman just inches away from her face. Raine looked up into her beautiful eyes and felt nothing but tingles and butterflies.

"What's your name?" She growled lowly.

"R-Raine. Jackson?" All she could do was sputter.

"Are you asking me or telling me?" The divine being smiled, amused. She leaned in closer... so close that Raine could feel the heat radiating from her body.

"I-"

"My name is Nova." The woman backed up so quickly that Raine believed Nova might've taken a part of her soul with her.

"I'm new to the area. I just moved here last month from West Sussex. Are you familiar?"

"I learned a little about it in college." Raine chuckled nervously. Just then, they both fell silent, staring into each other's glistening eyes before Nova broke into a warm smile.

"Then I'll just have to teach you more. Anyways, sorry for the intrusion. I really could just come back tomorrow." She headed toward Raine in a long stride and stopped dead in front of her. Raine was so frozen with a burning feeling in her core that she didn't realize she was still blocking the exit. Nova cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head slightly to the left.

"Are you going to let me out?"

"Oh! Yes! I'm sorry." Raine quickly unlocked the door and moved to the side.

"Actually, what are your plans tonight?" Nova asked as she made it halfway out the door.

"M-my plans? I- I was just gonna go home and binge 'Stranger Things'."

"How about you come out with me instead? I've been dying to visit Luigi's Bar since I discovered it last week."

"Luigi's is great! You'll love it there."

"Come with me. Here, give me your phone. I'll put my number in, you'll send me your address, and I'll pick you up at 10, yes?"

"Yeah- um- okay." Raine's melanin cheeks flushed with red as she handed Nova her cell. For a brief second, their hands brushed and Raine felt a spark of electricity that she hasn't felt in a very long time.

If only she knew she was in for the ride of her life.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

What do you make of the moment when Kate shrugged William's hand on a Christmas show in 2019? The sugars use this to show how they actually hate each other, but I've always thought Kate just reacted immediately because they never did PDA and she was caught by surprise, as in to say "what are you doing? we're working"

I've been following the BRF since the Sussex drama, so I don't have decades the reflect on, but from what I've seen, it really seemed there was a no PDA rule. They also appeared much stuffy, even towards each other, with Kate standing straighter, making sure she was walking behind William, often keeping her hands in front of her as if to protect herself. But the last years, the seem more at ease in public, allowing some hands on the back here and there. And I've actually been wondering if H&M overdoing it with the PDA meant the BRF could actually relax a bit and allow some touching without looking unprofessional.

There isn’t a “no PDA” rule. The rule is that everyone is expected to be professional at work. And PDA - over the top PDA like the Sussexes - is not professional behavior in any industry, in any profession, in any country in the world.

William and Kate are affectionate and playful with each other. They always have been, long before Meghan had Harry in her claws:

Before their engagement: L - Graduating St. Andrews in 2005 C - Saying hello at polo in 2006 R - Paparazzi catching them making out. Date unknown, suspected sometime 2009 (based on William's hair).

Newlyweds: L - Canada, July 2011 C - Edinburgh, July 2011 R - London Olympics 2012

Early Parenthood: L - Christmas Walk, December 2013 C - Commonwealth Games in Glasgow, July 2014 R - Rugby World Cup, September 2015

Before the Love Bomb: L - Hiking in India, April 2016 (there's a well-known story from royal reporters on the India trip that William and Kate were close and affectionate until they spotted the reporters and photographers. Once they saw the royal rota, they immediately separated and became more formal/professional.) C - Private family ski trip, February 2016 R - Canada, September 2016

Before Meghan made her official debut with Harry and the BRF: L - Heads Together awareness event, February 2017 R - Wimbledon Men's Final, July 2017

And no, I didn't see "the incident" as Kate shrugging off William's hand because it was PDA. I see that moment as Kate adjusting her position in her seat and William briefly touching her. If you watch the clip, you'll notice that Kate's whole body wiggles; her shoulders, her trunk, and her legs. William just happened to touch her in that same moment. If she was shrugging him off, if she was recoiling from his touch, only her shoulder would have moved. It was a harmless, normal moment that happens to everyone.

Others may see it differently, and that's fine.

Harry and Meghan overdoing it with the PDA didn't open any doors for anyone to be more affectionate or show more affection. All they did was highlight the difference between working professionals who a) know they're on the job, b) know their roles for the job, and c) know that their job is bigger than their individual needs and people who think their love and togetherness is more important than the job.

[ingek73]

PRINCE HARRY EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW

‘This is not about trying to collapse the monarchy, this is about trying to save them from themselves’

By BRYONY GORDON

Montecito is on mudslide alert, its residents nervously awaiting an evacuation order. I wake up on the morning of my meeting with Prince Harry to a media storm – his book, Spare, has found its way into Spanish shops almost a week before publication – and a meteorological storm, this normally bone dry part of southern California being battered by rain. Both squalls are doing a good job of reminding me that, while you might be able to run 5,000 miles from the source of your pain, you can rarely escape from it.

When I finally reach Montecito’s most famous resident – and possibly, right now, the world’s – he is nonplussed about the weather, which some have described as biblical, but I might describe as… well, British. Prince Harry tells me that the day before I arrived, he put on his waterproofs and headed down to the beach in the pouring rain with his dog, Pula, ignoring all offers of an umbrella from those around him. (I don’t tell him that I already know this, having seen pictures of said outing on a website that morning.)

And yet, even with the threat of mudslides, the Duke of Sussex clearly feels safer here in his Montecito home than he ever did in the royal palaces where he grew up. You could hardly blame him. The house is a sanctuary, surrounded by acres of greenery, complete with chickens, a play area and a teepee so lovely that I find myself jokingly asking if I can move into it. I am taken to a finca-style guest house where I find a generous spread of crudités alongside umpteen types of tea, served, of course, in the finest china. Soft music tinkles in the background. Candles flicker. It would all feel very relaxing, were it not for the fact it is only a matter of hours since the book somehow leaked to The Guardian newspaper and went on sale early at a chain of Spanish book shops.

There is some amusement from Harry about how the passages on his “frost-nipped penis” might have come out in translation, but mostly he is sad and disappointed that the general public’s first encounter with the contents of Spare will come not through reading the book itself, but via newspaper headlines.

In the book, he describes those who work on Fleet Street as a “dreadful mob of dweebs and crones and cut-rate criminals and clinically diagnosable sadists”, and that’s the more polite stuff. Am I mad to be speaking to him on the day that many of my colleagues are ripping him to shreds, especially knowing, as I do, that he has killed 25 members of the Taliban while on a tour of duty in Afghanistan? But the moment he walks through the door, a trail of dogs in his wake, I am reminded of his warmth and down-to-earth humour.

Today he is dressed in the TK Maxx uniform of T-shirt and jeans that he writes about in Spare. He welcomes me with a hug and rushes to make the tea. He is bright-eyed, looking far happier and healthier than when I last saw him at Buckingham Palace in early 2020, on his final day as a working member of the Royal family. He seems relaxed, more free – the nerves he had during our first interview, back in 2017, are gone, replaced with the quiet confidence of someone far more at ease with himself.

We sit on enormous cream sofas in front of a roaring fire, overlooked by a watercolour painting of a beach. I apologise for bringing my jet lag with me. He looks at his watch. “Think of it this way – it’s 11.10pm in the UK. You’re in the pub.” He quickly remembers that I don’t drink. “Or you’re not in the pub, but you’re OK. You can do this!” And so I switch on my tape recorder, and we begin.

He tells me that he is “someone who likes to fix things”. “If I see wrongdoing and a pattern of behaviour that is harming people, I will do everything I can to try and change it.” He worries about the other “spares” in the family. “As I know full well, within my family, if it’s not us,” and at this he points at his chest, “it’s going to be someone else. And though William and I have talked about it once or twice, and he has made it very clear to me that his kids are not my responsibility, I still feel a responsibility knowing that out of those three children, at least one will end up like me, the spare. And that hurts, that worries me.”

I first met Harry in 2016, when I began working with him and his brother and sister-in-law on their mental-health campaign, Heads Together. Right from the get-go, he seemed to grasp the issue of mental illness in a way that seemed quite unexpected from a member of the traditionally buttoned-up British Royal family.

I have only wonderful, warm memories of that period, which culminated in Harry coming on my podcast, Mad World, and speaking for the first time about the anguish he experienced trying to process the death of his mother. We developed what I would call a working friendship, which saw me get involved with various Heads Together and Royal Foundation events, and we have stayed in touch over the years.

The Harry I have come to know is perhaps best summed up via an anecdote in Spare, where he develops trench foot while out on an army exercise in Wales. He has been yomping through the countryside for several days, with equipment equivalent to the weight of a young teenager strapped to his back, during a heatwave. Halfway through, the heatwave breaks with a storm of torrential rain. They continue marching. Eventually, he realises that his foot is burning. At a checkpoint, Harry takes off his boots and socks, and the bottom of his right foot peels away. Medics inform him that the exercise is over for him, but when a staff sergeant tells him that there are “only” eight miles left, he resolves to tape his feet in zinc oxide and get the hell on with it.

“The last four miles were among the most difficult steps I’ve ever taken on this planet,” he explains. “As we crossed the finish line I began to hyperventilate with relief.” He hobbled about like an old man for the next few days, proud as punch that he pushed on through.

Here we have Harry – or Harold or Haz or H, depending on who you are – to a tee. You can say what you like about him (you probably have), and throw what you like at him (you may wish you could), but when he feels he is on the right path, he keeps going, through thick and thin and trench foot. What you see with Harry is what you get – a quality that made us love him until relatively recently, when it suddenly became the reason he has come in for so much hate.

He has been called a “cycle-breaker”, which is a term that refers to a person who changes decades – nay, centuries-old family patterns. There are some who cringe at all this “therapy speak”, dismissing it as “woke” Californian psycho-babble. That might have been the case way back in the 80s, but it isn’t now. The truth is that when Harry speaks about his feelings, about his escape from dysfunction, he doesn’t sound that different from any other person in their 30s who has been forced to confront issues with their mental health.The only real difference is a claim to the throne dating back to William the Conqueror. He speaks the language of recovery. And like most languages, being forced to learn it is painful. It is often messy, and mistakes are made. But boy is there a tremendous sense of reward when you start to be proficient in it.

Harry is matter-of-fact about this process. He accepts that any chance of reconciliation is unlikely at the moment. “What I’ve realised is that you don’t make any friends, especially within your family, because everyone has learned to accept that trauma [as] part of life. How dare you, as an individual, talk about it, because that makes us all feel really uncomfortable? So right, you may not like me in the moment, but maybe you’ll thank me in five or 10 years time.”

As someone who writes about mental health, I am far more interested in the detrimental effects of what Harry describes as living in “fancy captivity” than I am in the minutiae of who said what and to whom. To me, the most shocking thing about Spare is that he kept all of this inside him for so long, with only the one altercation with paparazzi. For all the side swipes about his privilege, trauma is trauma is trauma – whether it takes place in a damp bedsit or in front of a worldwide audience of billions as you walk behind your mother’s coffin. In Spare, Harry reveals that for 10 years after Diana’s death in 1997, his brain went into a state of complete shock, refusing to believe that she was actually dead, instead engaging in the kind of magical thinking that is most often seen in people with severe obsessive compulsive disorder or psychosis.

For an entire decade, Harry’s grief was buried so deep that he believed his mother had gone into hiding, that she would return to him and his brother at any moment. He refers to it throughout as “the disappearance”, a detail so heartbreaking that you would have to be cold-blooded not to be moved by it. At Eton, his brother shuns him – an occurrence relatable to most younger siblings, but one that nevertheless blows apart the narrative that Willy and Harold had been attached at the hip until Meghan came along. At 15 he has his head shoved in a deer carcass, an act that is seen as an aristocratic rite of passage at Balmoral, but that would be seen as child abuse anywhere else in the world. At 16, he is splashed across the front pages of the papers and frogmarched by his father to spend a day at a rehab in Peckham, because he has indulged in a spot of adolescent experimentation with cannabis (it’s hard to see how this story would be justified today). All credit to him, really: I think, had all of this happened to me, that I would have been on even harder drugs by the time I turned 13.

“Lots of people go through lots of s--t,” he shrugs, when I express sympathy for the litany of misfortune he has gone through. His critics have accused him of playing the victim, and yet I find a man who is anything but. “It’s interesting because so many of those moments have made me the man I am today. Would I encourage Archie to stick his head inside a carcass? Probably not. But people who’ve experienced trauma deal with it in different ways. I think when it comes to me and William, the fascinating part is that we both experienced a similar traumatic experience.

“He wanted to talk about it when [we were] younger, which built up a little bit of resentment. It wasn’t anything against him, I just didn’t want to talk about it. And then as we got older, I started to go slightly off the rails, and deal with it through drinking and drugs, and he went completely silent and completely shut down. And then my life started to alter and completely change, because I wanted, or had no other choice, than to confront the very thing that I had been running from, or scared of, for all those years.”

He tells me that he wasn’t walking around thinking of his mother the whole time. “I was doing everything humanly possible not to think about her.” Therapy, at first suggested by his brother, but properly engaged with once he got together with Meghan, changed everything. “It was like clearing the windscreen, clearing away all the Instagram filters, all of life’s filters.”

It allowed him to deal with the guilt he felt about his inability to cry (in the years after his mother’s death, before therapy, he shed tears only twice – once at the burial at Althorp, and then years later on a skiing holiday with his girlfriend at the time, Cressida Bonas). “I started to confront the idea that mummy wanted me to cry,” he tells me. “I convinced myself that she must have wanted me to cry, that that was the only way I could prove to her that I still miss her.”

He took ayahuasca, a psychedelic, with a professional – there is some research that the plant has positive effects on mental wellbeing. “After taking ayahuasca with the proper people,” he says, sipping his entirely non-mind altering chamomile tea, “I suddenly realised – wow! – it’s not about the crying. She [Diana] wants me to be happy. So this weight off my chest was not the need to cry, it was the acceptance and realisation that she has gone, but that she wants me to be happy and that she’s very much present in my life. And now, as two brothers, if one of you goes through that experience and the other one doesn’t, it naturally creates a further divide between you. Which is really sad. But as much as William was the first person to even suggest therapy, I just wish that he would be able to feel the same benefits of that as opposed to believing what he doesn’t need to.” (Harry claims that William thinks therapy has made him delusional.)

Maybe if the brothers had taken an ayahuasca trip together, none of this would have happened. As it is, Harry concedes that “it couldn’t be worse”. But he sees Spare as a last resort – not as a reconciliation, but an attempt to get his side of the story out (he doesn’t know the exact number of unofficial books that have been written about him, but believes it to be in “three figures”). He has been accused of airing his family’s dirty laundry. “But I always say: ‘What’s the difference between airing lies about your family through the British press, or airing truth through a book?’ In my case, this is all contained in one place where I hold myself entirely accountable and responsible for what I am saying.

‘William was the first person to suggest therapy – I just wish he could feel the same benefits’

“I don’t see why it’s so ingrained [in society] that whatever happens in your family, you should never talk about it. That no matter what’s happened, I can’t do this. But they [the Royal family] can? Because of who they are and what they represent? The way I was brought up is that, as a member of the Royal family, you lead by example. So you shouldn’t be able to use that privilege to get away with more things. No institution is immune to criticism and scrutiny, and if only 10 per cent of the scrutiny that was put on me and M was put on this institution, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now.”

“It’s so…” he shudders, and makes a guttural “urggh” sound. “It’s so dirty. It’s so dark. And it will continue and it will carry on and I look forward to the day when we are no longer part of it, but I worry about who’s next.”

He says he knows that the press “have got a s--t-tonne of dirt about my family. I know they have, and they sweep it under the carpet for juicy stories about someone else.” He tells me about some of the darkest moments in 2019. “I was coming back to Frogmore after Archie was born, and I would walk into the nursery and there she [Meghan] was in floods of tears, tears dripping on Archie while she was breast-feeding him. That was a breaking point for me. And she is someone who doesn’t read the stories. She would be dead if she was reading the stories.”

We talk about his reasons for doing this. “This is not about trying to collapse the monarchy, this is about trying to save them from themselves. And I know that I will get crucified by numerous people for saying that.”

The question so many have put to him is: is it worth it? His response is simple. “I feel like this is my life’s mission, to right the wrongs of the very thing that drove us out. Because it took my mum, it took Caroline Flack, who was my girlfriend, and it nearly took my wife. And if that isn’t a good enough reason to use the pain and turn it into purpose, I don’t know what it is.”

I tell him that from reading Spare, it seems clear that it nearly took him, too. “Yeah.” I get the impression that he didn’t want to exist, and then he met Meghan, and he had an experience of… “I want to live. I was never aware of how unhappy I was. I didn’t allow myself to think about it.”

I put it to him that even if Meghan is difficult – and I don’t think she is – it is unlikely that the monarchy have never encountered a difficult member of the family before. “But that’s the thing,” he nods, “that’s the unconscious bias. But they always tell on themselves. The press will tell on themselves and the family will tell on themselves as well. You look back on the history of how many members of my family have shouted at staff, [and] that is apparently all forgotten about and Meghan’s the bully.” He shakes his head. “It’s like, what? No, no, no. The members of this family that are literally brought up within this construct, have some issues to deal with.”

I talk to him a bit about the process of writing the book with the ghost-writer J R Moehringer. “It was definitely cathartic. It was painful at times. It was eye-opening.” In the book, he talks about “The Wall”, a mental block in his brain that divides his life before and after his mother died. “There were memories that I managed to pull up and over The Wall that I had forgotten about, that I didn’t even know existed. And there were times when I scared the s--t out of myself as well.”

In what way? “For example, Afghanistan. There were moments there that took me back. I would close my eyes and put myself back in the cockpit and fly those missions again. And JR was amazed by the level of detail that I could remember.” He tells me that the first draft was 800 pages, whereas the finished manuscript is just over 400. “It could have been two books, put it that way.” Some stuff, such as his life-changing trip to Nepal in 2016, had to be removed because of space issues. “And there were other bits that I shared with JR, that I said: ‘Look, I’m telling you this for context but there’s absolutely no way I’m putting it in there.’”

And why wouldn’t he put those bits in? “Because…” he pauses. “Because on the scale of things I could include for family members, there were certain things that – look, anything I’m going to include about any of my family members, I’m going to get trashed for. I knew that walking into it. But it’s impossible to tell my story without them in it, because they play such a crucial part in it. And also because you need to understand the characters and personalities of everyone within the book. But there are some things that have happened, especially between me and my brother, and to some extent between me and my father, that I just don’t want the world to know. Because I don’t think they would ever forgive me. Now you could argue that some of the stuff I’ve put in there, well, they will never forgive me anyway. But the way I see it is, I’m willing to forgive you for everything you’ve done, and I wish you’d actually sat down with me, properly, and instead of saying I’m delusional and paranoid, actually sit down and have a proper conversation about this, because what I’d really like is some accountability. And an apology to my wife.”

His wife is up in the main house, with the kids. We go there after the interview, with a smiling Meghan greeting me at the door. We spend some time together, drink turmeric lattes, and I get to see Harry in his element – Husband Harry, Dad Harry, the normal bloke in thoroughly abnormal circumstances. The children run around, the dogs jump on the cream sofas with muddy paws, and all is much as you would find it in any other home, during the witching hour just before the kids tea.

Before I go, Harry is keen to show me another wall, one he feels a little bit more positive about than the screen that sprung up in his head after his mother died. It’s a picture wall on a staircase, the kind found in homes all over the world. It features scores of framed photographs of his wife and children, alongside lovely hand-written cards from his grandparents. He has just finished putting it together, and as we admire it, I recognise that familiar look of pride I have seen on the face of my own husband – the look of a dad who has just completed a DIY task without destroying the plaster.

It’s tea time for the kids, and the early hours of the morning for my jet-lagged brain, so I say my goodbyes to Harry and Meghan, who pack me off with hugs and homemade jam. But I think about that wall for the whole of the drive back to Los Angeles, and then, on the plane, all of the way back to London. I think about the glee Harry found in it, the smile on his face as he showed me it. But mostly I think about how nice it would be for Harry’s brother and father to see the wall, and one day maybe even have some of their own carefree photographs included on it.

Lead picture credit: Bryony Gordon

[houseofbrat]

I'm tired of Charles, I no longer have my respect and support. I am for a republic and let the Wales live the life of simple aristocrats

Some of you people are so mentally weak that it's nothing short of amazing.

You sound like a fucking twelve-year-old who can't deal with anything and needs immediate encouragement whenever you finish a task. My god, how do you get through life without someone congratulating leaving your front door?

When Charles issues the letters patent, he'll have to decide whether or not he's going to officially strip a bunch of other royals titles--James, Louise, Beatrice, & Eugenie. The letters patent isn't going to be just about the Sussex kids, even though everyone complaining about it today seems to think it is.

It's long been assumed that Louise & James will not have titles & styles with Charles as king. This is because of decisions that the BRF made in the late 1990s, before and after Diana's death. However, QEII didn't have the stones to make the changes back then. She didn't want to affect any of her grandchildren, aka Beatrice, Eugenie, Louise, and James.

Most people do not realize this because Ed & Sophie chose to always style their kids as children of an earl to prevent any kind of future embarrassment. Harry and his wife don't have such long-term thinking. They don't care if their kids get embarrassed later on down the road due to their pr games.

Everyone freaking out about this right now--including YOU--failed to realize that legally the Sussex kids had the titles ever since Charles ascended to the throne. That's the way it is.

The difference is that eventually Charles will issue a letters patent eliminating certain royals' rights to titles and styles. Just as George V did in 1917.

We just don't know when he will do it. Perhaps it's this month. Perhaps it'll be before the coronation in April. Perhaps he's just waiting to do it after the coronation because he doesn't want to strip a certain niece(s) and nephew before the coronation.

Regardless, the eventual result will be The Earl of Dumbarton and The Lady Lilibet Mountbatten-Windsor on the line of succession page.

Get a grip.

[charles-and-camilla-fanfictions]

All the Time in the World - Chapter 4

1970, Sussex

He kisses both of my cheeks in greeting and the contact makes me smile. Then we launch into a tirade of a conversation as we amble through the countryside. His hand is so close to mine, I allow mine to brush against his and our fingers catch and don’t let go. My skin is tingling from the sensation and for a while, I quieten and listen to him talking. He’s so clever. I don’t know many people who have been to university that returned quite so keen to continue learning, in all its facets. But he’s also wonderfully innocent, which is making this courtship so different. It’s been two months and he’s still not trying to sleep with me. He’s desperately trying to get to know me and it makes every touch that bit sweeter. The green fields around us, filled with new born lambs, seem to have been painted from a folk story and we wander through without a care. The bright yellow petals of the daffodils shine out, reflecting the afternoon sun, and cast a gentle warmth upon us. He helps me down from a style, pulls me to him and kisses me without any warning, making me gasp in surprise. I register the smirk in his eyes before I kiss him back, running my fingers over his face and savouring the feeling in my stomach. We could kiss away an entire afternoon without stopping for air, it feels so nice, but he’s too reserved to press me for more. The rest of the afternoon passes in a daze between trying to walk where his fingers stroke mine and send a rush through me, to the pauses where we rush to kiss each other and the fire between us is immediate. 

Back at his car, we pull apart and he insists on taking me back to my parents’ house rather than letting me walk. I sit in the front seat, next to him, a flush on my cheeks and a smile shining out from my face. He parks just out of view from the house and reaches for me again, kisses no longer soft and sweet but passionate and I want him to touch me. I can feel his hands pressing against my coat and then one hand pushes up my thigh, making me squirm, and I wonder if he’s quite as innocent as I first thought. But then he pulls away, he is a gentleman after all, and I see how dark his eyes are as they look at me with so much desire, it makes me bite my bottom lip and giggle slightly. I don’t quite dare take this any further.

“I’ve got to go. The Parentals will be expecting me back for dinner.”

That makes him laugh, “Would I be in trouble for bringing you back late?”

“Definite black mark against your name, President Fred.”

“Well I don’t want to be deaded.” He gets out of the car and I sit, waiting for him to walk around to open the door for me, grinning up at him as he offers his hand to help me up.

“Do you want to come inside?” I register a flicker of panic on his face and grin, adding, “I’ll introduce you as my friend…”

“No.”

I nod, a little disappointed but not surprised.

“I don’t want to be your friend. Don’t say that.”

That makes me smile. “Okay. What would you like me to say?”

“Introduce me as your boyfriend.”

“Are you?”

“Am I not?”

“Have you asked me?”

“I sort of assumed it was evident?”

“Don’t assume.”

“Goodness me, Milla. You don’t half make it difficult. Introduce me as the man who would desperately like to be your boyfriend.”

“Desperately?”

“Yes. Desperately.”

He reaches for my chin and tilts it up to kiss me. I could spend forever kissing him. Then we walk down the drive to my parents’ house, get to the front door and reach up to hammer the great knocker.

“Hold on.”

“What?”

He kisses my nose, making me laugh. “You’ve not given me an answer.”

“You’ve not asked a question.”

“Milla, will you be my girlfriend?”

We both giggle, me amused at how serious he’s being about this. “Course.” Then he smiles a giant, dopey smile at me and I realise, with a bit of a start, that he really wants to be with me and for him, this is serious.

I haven’t told my mother who I’m currently dating. She knows he’s called Charles and that he’s so sweet and that I like him rather a lot, but that’s it. They’re not going to approve. I know that as nice and welcoming and jolly as they will be with him, they will be shocked and unhappy with this relationship, however innocent it may be. Although I doubt it’s going to remain innocent for very much longer. It’s getting really difficult to be around him and not touch him. Every kiss shoots through me with a life of its own.

“Darling!”

My mother kisses me enthusiastically and makes to do the same with The Prince, until she recognises him and corrects herself. My whole family are there, my sister eyeing him up, my brother looking as though he’s above all these matters. He gets welcomed into the entire noisy fold and I watch him relax. Relax in a way I’ve never seen before. And although we’re still correct with addresses, he slips into the ease of our familiarity and I watch it cushion him. He’s drawn to my mother from the oft. That doesn’t surprise me. She’s warm and friendly and listens to him in a way that makes him follow her about like a lap dog. He craves my father’s approval more than I would have expected and he’s so respectful towards him. Then, to my siblings, he’s funny. He mimics people from the television as we wait for dinner with a shocking precision and delights my brother by teaching him to swear in Welsh. 

“I’ll make you up a room, Sir. It’s far too late to be driving back to London tonight.”

My mother, ever the hostess, chivvies him into accepting our hospitality without a thought. Out of everyone, she has taken to Charles the most and I can see the feeling is mutual. He basks in her maternal care and she can’t seem to help herself, almost force feeding him extra roast potatoes and fetching a blanket when he shivers slightly in the cool of the evening air. I curl up with him in the blanket and I realise I have never felt him relax before. His body becomes soft and he holds onto me so gently as we sit and listen to my father reading out from The Scarlet Pimpernel, my siblings and I as engrossed with his every word as we were as children. 

Later, I slip into his room, smiling as he starts at the noise of the door and smirking at finding him half dressed. He puts his shirt on but doesn’t fasten it as he walks over to kiss me.

“Get out! Your father will murder me.”

I just shut the door behind me and pull his head down to kiss me before slipping my hands into his shirt, pressing my fingers into the warm skin on his back, feeling his entire body tense before he reaches for me. I’m not expecting the rush which floods through me as his hand pulls up the material of my gown and his fingers trace up the back of my thigh. I didn’t anticipate this relationship, nor that it would be mutual. I can barely breathe as he kisses down my neck and his fingertips trace my skin so softly. He was meant to be a way to make Andrew jealous. He wasn’t meant to feel like this.

“Go before your father shoots me.”

“My father would do nothing of the sort. You’re not the only man I’ve brought back here.” That is an awful thing to say, I realise this, but the words slip from my mouth before I can silence them. He instantly lets go of me.

“Great. I feel really special now.”

“Well don’t. If you treat me badly, I will just replace you.” I want a cigarette. I think I might have just ruined everything.

“I will never treat you badly, Camilla Shand.”

His eyes bore into me earnestly and I want to believe him.

“God, you look so beautiful.”

I chose my outfit carefully. It’s a blue silk nightgown which seems to flow to the floor. I didn’t buy it for him, but his is the better reaction. There’s a knock at the door and I slip behind it with a jolt. I watch him button up his shirt and his eyebrows raise at me in alarm as he leans forwards to answer it. I’m silently gesturing to him not to betray me.

“Goodnight, Sir. I’m just checking that you have everything you need?” I hear my mother’s dulcet tones and roll my eyes. She’s actually checking up on me.

“Goodnight Mrs. Shand. Thank you again for your hospitality.”

“Are you quite set for the night?”

“I am, thank you.”

There’s a pause and it’s slightly awkward and I know she’s wanting to check whether I’m in the room. She knows me too well. “Has Camilla come to say goodnight?”

“Yes, she has…” He lets the sentence drop, not wanting to lie but I know that she’s about to pry for more information.

“I went to say goodnight and she wasn’t in her room. I was wondering if you’ve happened to see her?”

He doesn’t lie easily. I don’t know him very well but I know that. The tips of his ears are turning pink. “I think she was going out for a cigarette…”

“Oh… She usually just opens her bedroom window, as if I didn’t know. She’s being unusually coy tonight…”

He doesn’t know what to say. The pink has spread from his ears all down his neck and he’s looking so uncomfortable as he glances at me so quickly before looking away. My mother has the instincts of Miss Marple. None of this will pass her by.

“Will you tell her, when she comes back in, that I want to have a word with her.”

She knows full well that I’m here; I can tell by the sarcastic tone of her voice. I can feel her eyes boring through the door. It’s only politeness that is stopping her from barging right inside and dragging me out by the ears.

“I will.” He’s practically muttering now, so embarrassed at lying for me. She bids him goodnight with a much softer tone and he closes the door quietly, his face bright red as he shakes his head. “That was a close one. I thought she had twigged.”

His innocence makes me smile. “Darling, she knew I was here. She was just being polite.”

“Please come here. Let me hold you.”

I walk to him slowly and sink into his arms, my head fitting into his neck like we were made to fit together. I feel his fingers against my shoulders and then his hand trails down my back. I reach up to kiss him and feel him moan into my mouth as his hand traces the tail of my spine and then grasps onto me. That one sensation makes me squeak and immediately he’s pulling away, encasing me into his arms again.

“How dare you check up on me! I’m not a child. Neither is he!”

“You’re the one skulking around, hiding from me. Acting like a child. Why didn’t you just answer the door instead of making the poor boy stutter and lie for you?”

“Because I knew you’d be like this!”

“You don’t do that when Andrew comes. Then, you’re pretending to act like a grownup.”

“This has got nothing to do with Andrew.”

“It’s got everything to do with Andrew.”

“Why? You don’t even like him!”

“I like him. I don’t think he treats you very well, but I like him.”

“Oh, now you like him… Now I bring someone else home, now you decide that you’re going to like him!”

“He’s not ‘someone else’ though, is he, Camilla? He’s The Prince of Wales! What are you playing at?”

“Mother, I’m twenty three years old. I can sleep with whoever the hell I like.”

“Not under my roof, you can’t… Oh please tell me you’re not sleeping with him?”

I want to scream in her face that I am, just to spite her, but I’m not that good at lying. “No.” It’s a sullen ‘no’, laced with spite but her face looks even more worried.

“Camilla, what are you doing?”

“Nothing! For once, I’m doing nothing…”

“Are you trying to get him to marry you?”

“No!”

“Are you trying to make Andrew jealous?”

“Yes.” I stare at her with the same sulky expression I’ve used with her since I was a teenager and it makes me feel even more infantile. 

“You will never get anywhere with Andrew by competing with him. You either have to accept him as he is or move on.”

“What would you know?”

“Are you sure this is about Andrew?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Well what is it to you if it isn’t?”

“Darling… Very, very seriously… Be careful.”

“He’s lovely. It’s not him I have to be careful with.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think you understand what you’re doing.”

“It’s just a bit of fun. Why are you stressing?”

“He’s going to marry a young girl from the right family… who has no history… You’re a subject. You don’t have a title. You have more ex-boyfriends than your great-grandmama...”

“Who says anything about marrying him? Perhaps I just want to be his mistress!”

“Darling, you need to be married for that. You’re making it extremely difficult to be considered a suitable wife. Even for someone like Andrew.”

“Well perhaps I don’t want to be married.”

“Camilla, you haven’t fallen in love with him, have you?”

“No.”

“I thought you had your heart set on Andrew?”

I shrug and am surprised when my mother wraps her arms around me. “I’m sorry. My poor little girl.”

“Why are you sorry?”

She kisses my hair and then my ear, making me squeal. “You deserve better. That’s all… No… Don’t tense up and pull away. Let me give you a big hug. My poor, little, grown-up girl…”

“Have you finished moaning at me?”

“Moans are over, Darling…. No…Don’t pull away yet… He’ll wait for you… Let me hold you for just a little while longer and stroke your hair…”

“I’m not sleeping in a separate room from him.”

“No, I know…”

“I’m not!”

“I know…”

I sigh. “Fine… I won’t have sex with him. Happy?”

“No… But thank you for the consideration.”

Unfulfillment is a curious sort of pain. As sweet as falling asleep in his arms felt, I didn’t take into consideration the temptation in the dim light of the morning. When all I can hear is his breathing and my skin is alight from the feeling of him against me. When we wake up and we’re already kissing, because, half conscious, we reach for each other and then I can’t seem to stop, my hands covetous against the bare skin of his back. The kiss is fire. I feel him grasping onto my nightdress, trying to pull me closer and I find his hand and guide it into my dress, up my thigh, hearing him groan and then he sits up abruptly and turns away from me slightly. “Not here, Milla.”

I feel him shaking and realise that he’s scared and I stop. 

“I want you more than anything, but not here.”

I allow him to pull me to his chest, my body encased by him and I listen to his heart beating frantically and his heavy breathing until he relaxes again and it steadies, soothing me, lulling me, but he’s not asleep. I look up at him, gazing at me with an impossible softness and stay, transfixed as the light gradually introduces more nuances of colour into those beautiful eyes.

1970, Buckingham Palace

“Shush! We’re not meant to be down here!”

“It’s your house, why ever not?” I giggle as he clamps his hand over my mouth and then pulls me against him.

“These are the staff quarters.”

“Am I only fit to be seen in the staff quarters?”

“You’re such an idiot. Shush!”

I comply, letting him drag me down another cramped staircase, our feet clattering on the stone steps. “It’s a rubbish palace, this.”

“Shush!” He pushes me against the wall and kisses me, stopping my complaints, making me laugh into his mouth. “You’ve got to be absolutely silent along this corridor. I don’t want to disturb anyone.”

“Who’s still here at this time?”

“Plenty of people. Please be quiet.”

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

He lets me go with one extra strong kiss and takes my hand to pull me down the corridor. He’s acting like such a fugitive, I’m desperate to laugh but I keep it in and sculk down another passageway, through a heavy wooden door and down another staircase. Finally, we reach the room he was looking for and he pushes me inside and switches on one dim light. It’s a box room, filled with what looks like canisters of film and plenty of odd machines.

“Don’t touch anything.”

I pull a packet of cigarettes from my bag and proceed to make a meal of lighting one. I see his nose flicker upwards, almost imperceptibly showing distaste and then he retains control of it again.

There’s a loud boom and the sound of a motor before the crackling of film tells me this is a projector room. I watch him fiddle about with the controls before he opens up a hatch in the floor and scales down a ladder. “Come on Gladys.”

“I’m wearing a skirt.”

“I make no promises not to look.”

That makes me smile. I take one last drag of my cigarette and then scale down the ladder, tripping up on my skirt and sliding down like it’s a fireman’s pole. He catches me but his face is contorted with amusement and I laugh, watching him splutter at me. When he recovers, he grasps my hand again and pulls me to the centre of the room, in front of the benches, where there’s a small blanket and several cushions strewn on the floor.

“I think you’ll like this film. It’s my all time favourite. So funny.”

“No pressure. Do you usually hang out in the dirt on the floor?” I watch his face fall in the glare from the start of the film and smile at him to let him know I’m joking.

“It’s not really for the family. More for the staff but nobody was using it tonight so I thought I’d utilise the facilities.”

“What’s the film?”

“His Girl Friday.”

“That’s your favourite film?”

“Well…”

“No, have strength in your convictions. If it’s your favourite film, state the case. Don’t waver, waiting for my opinion. I’ve not seen it. What do I know?”

“I think you’ll find it funny.”

I sit myself down on the floor, making myself comfortable and throw a cushion at him as he hovers over me. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

“It’s not really the done thing to frolic on the floor.”

“Shut up. Sit down here. If the film’s any good, I might let you slip your hand into my shirt!”

He sits down so suddenly, I hear the clunk, and his soft yelp which makes me laugh. “Now you’re being reticent. You weren’t like that last night.”

“Last night you needed encouragement.”

“I just need more practise. We could practise now?”

“No. I want to watch your favourite film. We can practise afterwards.”

“I’m not so sure I can keep my hands off you for so long.”

“I never said you had to keep your hands off me.”

“So can I slip my hands in your shirt right away?”

“Shush, I need to read the screen… Oh it’s already started… I missed it!”

“It’s something to do with the press doing anything short of murder to get a story.”

“Oh, sounds about right.” I listen to the clicking of the typewriters on the screen and feel him pawing me, trying to get my attention.

“Even ten minutes is a long time to be away from ya.”

I look at him confused at the American accent until I hear the line repeated on the screen and I smile, kissing him before wriggling to make myself more comfortable, propped up against what appears to be a large box, sat on a cushion, my legs entwined with his, my hand helping his to reach into my shirt and then I rest my head on his shoulder. “Hildy is beautiful.”

“She’s smart and beautiful. Dangerous combination. Like you.”

“I’m not smart. Walter is quite attractive.”

“He’s a bastard.”

“Yes… I can see. Strangely attracted to that.”

“You should like Bruce.”

“The ‘even ten minutes is a long time to be away from ya’ guy?”

“Yes, him.”

“I’ll decide later. Let me swoon over Walter for now.” 

The film is hilarious, I’ll give him that and so modern it’s like it could have been written today. I’m also enjoying those puppy dog eyes which check over me, anxious to see if I’m enjoying the movie.

“You really do remind me of Hildy.”

“Hmmm…I’m not so sure.”

“She’s skatty. And talks all the time. And at a hundred miles per hour. She’s so dramatic and she has every man around her desperate for her good opinion, wrapped around her little finger. Except one.”

“One we don’t talk about.”

“I still don’t understand how you let Andrew treat you so badly.”

“He didn’t treat me badly.” I don’t know why I’m arguing with him. I know I deserve better than Andrew, but there’s something about him I can’t shake off. He’s still there in my skin, tormenting me. Perhaps it irks me not to get my own way. Perhaps that’s what I like about him; I can’t control him.

“Didn’t he, sorry, doesn’t he sleep with everyone you know?”

“Well… Yes…” Reality is such a cold place to return to. Every woman I know, plenty I do not. Practically all of my friends…

“And then comes crawling back to you?”

“No. Never crawling…”

“Darling, that’s worse. Perhaps you’re not Hildy, at least she knew Walter’s flaws.”

“There’s no need to be cruel.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” He kisses my neck in apology. “You can be my Girl Friday, anyway. Only, I abhor the press, don’t become a journalist.”

“Promise.”

He kisses me again and it’s surprisingly easy to melt against him. Listening to the staccato delivery of the lines of the film, he makes me want to forget about everyone other than him.

[jbaileyfansite]

GQ Hype Interview (2022)

Jonathan Bailey felt lost and didn’t know what to do with himself. It was March 2020, and for nearly a year, the British actor had been immersed on the set of Bridgerton, Netflix’s horny and ornate period drama set in a fictional and fantastical 19th-century London. The show’s debut was months away, but working on it was consuming just about every conscious moment of Bailey’s life; his usually modern, slicked-back hair had been permed into the style of his character, Lord Anthony Bridgerton, a lothario of landed gentry, with two sharp muttonchops stroked against his cheek. “It was like being a part of some social experiment,” he thought. A wonderful abduction in which he’d be lifted from his normal life and sent tumbling like a stray astronaut into space, crashing into a new planet. 

Here, on planet Bridgerton, gracious ringlet-haired women danced in ballgowns to string quartet covers of Billie Eilish, charming potential suitors who were fucking and flirting their way through the city, while an anonymous columnist would chronicle everybody’s secrets and stir up drama for London’s aristocracy. Until Bridgerton, Bailey’s own modest fame had stemmed from nearly three decades in theatre and television: popular prime-time detective drama Broadchurch, programmes from prestige talents, including Michaela Coel’s Chewing Gum and Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Crashing, as well as prolific spells on West End stages, most notably in a  gender-swapped reimagining of Stephen Sondheim’s classic Company, for which he won a best supporting actor Olivier Award.

“When you do a play, you share it with the audience every night,” says Bailey of his fondness for the stage. But then you’re done. Working on a period set such as Bridgerton was all-enveloping. After season one wrapped, Bailey should have been able to rest and recharge. But weeks later, the pandemic shut down the UK and, like everyone else, he found himself stuck in that gloomy malaise.

And then Bridgerton landed like a confetti bomb posted through his front door when it hit Netflix on Christmas morning. Suddenly, Bailey was on video calls with breakfast television and E! News from his bedroom. The first season of the Shonda Rhimes production went massive: some 82 million households watched the show over the festive season and into January 2021, a chart-topping figure only recently surpassed by Squid Game. The show’s second season, out in March, will be loaded with the expectation of a large and attentive audience, and for Bailey, there’s an added layer of pressure: Anthony will take the centre as the season’s main character. “The idea that [Bridgerton] is coming out again is a bit of a rug pull,” he says. “It’s quite scary.”

Bailey and I meet in Hyde Park during that strange limbo week between Christmas and New Year. He blends in well with his surroundings, wearing a black Gore-Tex jacket and green corduroy trousers. The signature muttonchops, which he grew himself for the show’s first season, are dialled down this time around – “a glow-up” for the character, he says with a laugh. Bailey had just returned to London after a holiday in Switzerland, though he’s spent much of his free time recently at a quiet spot in Sussex. It shielded him somewhat from the hysteria of the show’s success, which propelled its last two leads into new spheres of fame: Phoebe Dynevor, who plays Bailey’s onscreen sister, Daphne Bridgerton, will executive produce and star in the buzzy Amazon series Exciting Times. And the man who played her onscreen lover Simon Basset, Regé-Jean Page, will appear in 2023’s Dungeons & Dragons reboot.

We sit with our coffees on a bench by the Italian Gardens. At 33, Bailey doesn’t seem eager to get noticed on the street. Dispositionally, he’s one of those actors who’d rather work than be famous, who is more comfortable reciting Dickens for a small audience than he is wearing designer clothes on the red carpet. That he’s in this position at all feels both like a fluke and completely serendipitous.

Bailey grew up in Benson, a South Oxfordshire village of fewer than 5,000 people. When he was a child, his parents sent him to dance classes after he was inspired by a stage version of Oliver! he’d seen age four. He won his first part three years later, playing Tiny Tim in a Royal Shakespeare Company production of A Christmas Carol. (When reached for comment, the show’s director, Ian Judge, admired his success but couldn’t really remember him. “Humbling! Put that in there,” Bailey says.) Around the same time, his older sisters, who’d left home for university, would return for odd weekends, armed with stories of city nightlife. They would play Bailey pop and disco classics from a compilation CD called Dance to the Max – “queer anthems” – by artists such as Freddie Mercury and Frankie Goes to Hollywood. “I’d have to go up to my room and perfect the performance,” he says, before coming downstairs to sing and dance for his family.

Historically, he’s played valuable supporting roles that bolster a show’s narrative but has rarely occupied the main spotlight. Until this season of Bridgerton, one of his only other lead television roles was in a BBC children’s show based on the life of Leonardo da Vinci. “I’ve never gone into a screen test and had the ‘That’s him!’ reaction,” says Bailey. “I’ve always crept round through the back door.”

It was during his teen years that Bailey learned how to perform as someone he wasn’t, as many queer people do growing up outside big cities. He attended Magdalen College School in Oxford, a nearly 550-year-old institution that counts saints, sirs, and the composer Ivor Novello as past alumni. Bailey came out to family and friends in his early 20s and is, today, one of the few gay British actors working onscreen whose roles don’t seem defined wholly by their sexuality. Bridgerton has made him a sex symbol to many men and women, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. “Any actor who thinks they’re a sex symbol? Cringe,” he says. 

I wonder whether his career decisions and his sexuality have stood in direct opposition to each other; if he ever felt the need to suppress that side of himself to get ahead. He recalls a story concerning a callous word of advice that someone once gave an actor friend during pilot season. “At the time he was told, ‘There’s two things we don’t want to know: if you’re an alcoholic or if you’re gay.’” The words stuck with Bailey. “All it takes is for one of those people in that position of power to say that, and it ripples through,” he says. “So, yeah, of course I thought that. Of course I thought that in order to be happy I needed to be straight.” The thing that’s always led Bailey’s decision-making in his career has been his own happiness, which is why it took so long for him to talk publicly about his own sexuality: “I reached a point where I thought, ‘Fuck this’, I’d much prefer to hold my boyfriend’s hand in public or be able to put my own face picture on Tinder and not be so concerned about that, than get a part.” 

That instinct to stay true to himself is part of what makes him good at his job. “Jonny operates at a different voltage,” says Phoebe Waller-Bridge, his Crashing co-star. “He’s a meteorite of fun with an incredible amount of energy and playfulness. Smouldering at one turn and then utterly innocent at the next, but all the time playing with this sense of untapped danger. That is the quality I love most about Jonny as a person and as a performer: his danger.”

Bridgerton is based on a series of New York Times best-selling romance novels by American author Julia Quinn, and Bailey treats the source material with the same level of tact and seriousness as he would King Lear. What might seem like a straightforward, frothy show about scandal and romance in Regency-era England harbours a deeper meaning to Bailey, specifically in playing a philanderer such as Anthony. As a teenager, period dramas were a Bailey household staple, but “you never really got behind the men,” Bailey observed, “or know why they’re avoidant and toxic.” This season, Bailey gets to dig into the show’s narrative, exploring exactly why the show’s men are avoidant and toxic. Anthony yearns to settle down, but struggles to find a woman deserving of the title of Lady Bridgerton. The shots of Anthony’s post-coital buttocks and his flippant remarks about women’s inadequacies could be seen as signs of a crass and shallow character. But Bailey sees them as symptoms of a man grieving the loss of his father, and who is struggling to assume the patriarchal position. “Going into the first season, I wanted to fully break Anthony,” the show’s creator Chris Van Dusen says, “so that we could put him back together in the second.”

Bailey, meanwhile, says that he “started to think about [Anthony’s] charm,” and specifically “what it means to be a rake, and how his anxiety and self-hatred plays into that.” Anthony also forced Bailey to, in his words, “think about love a lot.” It’s one of the few allusions to his personal life that Bailey seems to drop, almost by accident: “You put your life experiences into [the work]. What’s most interesting is not necessarily having to talk about what that is, and keeping a sense of privacy.” He’s navigated that carefully, the balance between being affable and guarded when the circumstances call for it. His Company costar, Broadway legend Patti LuPone, remembers the former most fondly. “He’s quite open as a human being,” she tells me. “I love him.”

After Bridgerton’s release, an old friend, Marianne Elliott, Company’s Tony Award-winning director, reached out and gave Bailey what he considers one of the greatest holy-shit moments of his career: an opportunity for them to work together again. “We’d read many scripts with the specific task of finding something for Jonny Bailey,” she tells me. Eventually, they settled on Cock, premiering this spring, a scintillating, dialogue-heavy and stage-directionless Mike Bartlett play about a man named John, his ex-boyfriend (played by Taron Egerton), and the woman that he’s fallen for.

That side of things, the award-winning work, has helped catalyse Bailey’s other holy-shit moments, which seem to be happening with more frequency. These days, producers approach him to offer roles: the days of creeping through the back door are over. Often, these projects clash with Bailey’s Bridgerton schedule, and some producers will say, “No, don’t worry. We’ll wait”. I joke that it must be strange to have people waiting for him now, and Bailey retreats inside himself. Hands in his pockets, a little embarrassed. But smiling. “Yeah…I mean…that sounds…I can say that now but, you always think they’re going to move on – and it’s only for a moment,” he says sheepishly. Bridgerton is wonderful, he adds, “but in 20 years, you don’t want to be famous. You want a sustained career.”

SOURCE

[skippyv20]

Times Hilary Rose re Harry

Today at 12:20 P

  From The Times…Hilary RoseHarry came, talked to no one and left. Was it worth it?​

The Duke of Sussex seemed to have flown 5,000 miles to look at his lap​

On the plus side, Prince Harry could reflect, nobody thumped him. Nobody mentioned the dog bowl, nobody argued about uniforms and, if Netflix were there, well, at least they got wet. In a parallel universe the King’s son would have been at the coronation with his wife, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother. Instead Harry ambled in to Westminster Abbey with a property developer and a former tequila salesman, Edo Mapelli Mozzi and Jack Brooksbank. Their wives, Princess Beatrice and Princess Eugenie, are the only members of the family who still talk to him. He walked up the nave on his own, nodding hopefully at people in the congregation, who didn’t nod back, and took a seat in Siberia.Well, not quite Siberia. He wasn’t on the other side of the nave from his family, as he was at the Platinum Jubilee. But he was seated with the also-rans in the third row, behind the Princess Royal, next to Brooksbank, along from Prince Andrew and up the nave from Ant and Dec. He chatted a bit to Brooksbank, and even cracked a smile at one point, but the depth of the family froideur was obvious. Nobody in front turned to say hello or tapped him on the shoulder from behind. Scarcely anyone even looked at him — although Princess Anne seems to have made a point of smiling at him.Was it an accident that there were more shots of Tom Parker Bowles, the King’s stepson, than there were of Harry? Was it a coincidence that in so many of the shots Harry was cropped just out of sight? The Palace controls the footage with an iron fist, but I gave them the benefit of the doubt right until the end. But then, as the King and Queen processed out of Westminster Abbey, the chosen shot had Harry right in the middle, his face hidden by the big red feather on Anne’s hat. At that point, I decided, the Palace was having a laugh.He arrived on Friday morning from California and flew commercial, which was good of him. He spent the night at Frogmore Cottage, his last before his father repossesses it. Did he feel a pang when he saw the other members of his family in their gowns and uniforms? He was dressed like any other civilian in a morning suit and medals and seems essentially to have flown 5,000 miles to look at his lap.When the sceptre was put into his father’s hand, he looked at his order of service. When the crown was put on his father’s head, he was looking the other way. When the choir launched into Zadok the Priest, fit to raise the dead, he was gazing idly up the nave towards the door. He peered round the side of Tim Laurence to see his father standing at the altar, and glanced at William as he walked back to his seat, but then it was straight back to his lap.He didn’t look up when the Archbishop of Canterbury shouted “God save the King” and he definitely didn’t look up when his supposedly wicked stepmother — in a Garrard diamond necklace and with two small Jack Russells embroidered in gold thread on the hem of her gown — was crowned. He muttered “God save the King” and the national anthem. He looked at his feet. If Charles glanced at Harry, I didn’t see it. William and Kate definitely didn’t, because if they had, he would have turned to stone.As is customary with the couple who left London for a quiet life, the run-up to the coronation came with an awful lot of noise. Would they be invited? Would they come? Harry, reliably vocal in his hatred of the press and publicity, began negotiations through the press, in a blaze of publicity.Going on television in January to flog his autobiography, which threw his family under the bus and reversed over them several times, he was asked if he’d be joining them at the coronation. He replied with consummate passive aggression that the ball was in their court. He wanted an apology, a sit-down peace summit and an explicit acknowledgment of the Sussexes’ terrible suffering, which no amount of money, marital happiness and California sunshine has done anything to abate. The royals effectively replied that they’d love to talk, but they’d be very busy washing their hair for the next five months.There were rumours that the King and Prince William disagreed over whether to invite them at all. The King thought yes, whereas William worried they would pull a stunt: a freelance royal walkabout in a deprived London borough, perhaps, posing as the duke and duchess of the downtrodden and dispossessed. A source told Valentine Low, The Times’s royal correspondent, that their invitation would not be “wrapped in an apologetic bow. It will be, ‘Here is an invitation, let us know if you are coming.’ ”Email negotiations went on long after the deadline for RSVPs had expired, with reports that Harry was being “advised” to “play it long right up to the last minute”. One frustrated source described it to The Mail on Sunday as “like trying to communicate with Mars. It was easier to deal with Sinn Fein.”To chivvy them along, Harry told The Daily Telegraph that he had more than enough material for another 400-page book, and went on TV to say, with a straight face: “There needs to be a constructive conversation, one that can happen in private, that doesn’t get leaked.” He also said that writing 400 pages of nasty things about his family felt like “an act of service”, although he did not clarify to whom.In the end, the King is said to have been “pleased” that Harry was there, while the Queen was in “a forgiving mood”. One courtier said carefully of Meghan’s absence: “The outcome chosen is one that suits all.” Another was more direct: there were “audible sighs of relief”, although if they’d only listened to Meghan’s podcasts last year they would know that, actually, she is not difficult and her presence is in fact a balm to the soul. She was apparently worried that she might be booed, or as they put it in California, she had a desire “to avoid attracting negative attention”.For the Montecito Two, it’s back to playing the long game. Peace talks could happen in the future, The Sunday Times reported. Harry will be back. This time he came on his own, sat on his own, talked to pretty much no one and left. By the time the golden coach was back at Buckingham Palace, he was at Heathrow. He had been in England for 29 hours. Was it worth it? I guess it depends how much you’re paying

Thank you…..🐼