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londonemergencyplumbers · 1 year

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Solving Plumbing Woes in Mayfair: A Guide to Finding the Perfect Plumber

Introduction:

When it comes to our homes, there's one thing that can bring our daily routines to a screeching halt: plumbing problems. From leaky faucets to burst pipes, plumbing issues can cause inconvenience, damage, and stress. That's when you need the expertise of a reliable plumber who can swiftly and efficiently resolve your plumbing woes. If you reside in the beautiful neighborhood of Mayfair, London, this blog is your go-to guide for finding the perfect plumber to tackle your plumbing needs.

Why Mayfair?

Mayfair, known for its luxurious properties, high-end shopping, and prestigious atmosphere, attracts a discerning clientele who value quality service and professionalism. It's crucial to find a plumber Mayfair who can meet those expectations and deliver exceptional results from plumber Mayfair.

Qualities to Look for in a Mayfair Plumber:

Expertise and Experience: When searching for a plumber in Mayfair, it's vital to prioritize experience and expertise. Look for professionals who have been in the industry for several years and possess extensive knowledge in various plumbing systems and repairs.

Licensing and Insurance: Always opt for a licensed plumber who adheres to the local regulations. Insurance is also essential, as it protects both the plumber and you in case of any accidents or damages during the repair process.

Prompt and Reliable Service: Plumbing emergencies can strike at any time, and a reliable plumber understands the urgency. Look for a professional who offers 24/7 emergency services and can promptly respond to your calls or queries.

Reputation and Reviews: Take the time to research and read customer reviews or testimonials about different plumbing services in Mayfair. A reputable plumber will have positive feedback from satisfied customers, indicating their reliability and quality of work.

Range of Services: Plumbing problems can vary from simple repairs to complex installations. It's beneficial to find a Mayfair plumber who offers a wide range of services, including leak detection, drain cleaning, bathroom installations, boiler repairs, and more. This ensures that you have a one-stop solution for all your plumbing needs.

Transparent Pricing: Plumbing costs can vary depending on the complexity of the issue. A reliable plumber will provide transparent pricing and offer a detailed breakdown of the costs involved before commencing any work. This way, you can avoid surprises or hidden charges.

Finding a Plumber in Mayfair:

Seek Recommendations: Ask friends, family, neighbors, or local community groups for recommendations on reliable plumbers they have worked with in Mayfair. Personal referrals often provide valuable insights and give you a sense of trust.

Online Directories and Platforms: Utilize online directories or platforms that specialize in connecting customers with local service providers. These platforms often have reviews and ratings from previous customers, making it easier to assess a plumber's reputation and reliability.

Local Trade Associations: Check if there are any local trade associations or professional organizations for plumber Mayfair These associations typically have a list of trusted members who adhere to strict standards of service.

Company Websites: Visit the websites of plumbing companies in Mayfair. Look for testimonials, portfolio, and details about their services and expertise. Many websites also provide contact information or online inquiry forms for easy communication.

Conclusion:

Dealing with plumbing issues can be a daunting task, but finding the right plumber Mayfair can make all the difference. By considering factors such as experience, licensing, reliability, and reputation, you can ensure that your plumbing problems are addressed professionally and efficiently. Whether it's a minor repair or a major installation, a dependable plumber Mayfair will have the expertise to keep your plumbing in top shape, allowing you to enjoy your beautiful home without any worries.

#plumber Mayfair

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justforbooks · 3 years

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Anne Rice, who has died aged 80 after a stroke, was one of the foremost writers of supernatural fiction, and the author of more than 30 novels. The best known of them was her debut, Interview With the Vampire, published in 1976, and adapted in 1994 into a film starring Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and Kirsten Dunst.

Her work became synonymous with deep, romantic portrayals of vampires, witches and revenant mummies and she was one of the first authors to turn the trope of supernatural creatures as monsters to be vanquished on its head, and put them in the role of protagonist, paving the way for later writers such as Stephenie Meyer and her Twilight saga.

Interview With the Vampire introduced Rice’s most enduring character, Lestat de Lioncourt, an 18th-century French nobleman whose story formed the basis of what would become known as The Vampire Chronicles, a series of 13 books, with the most recent, Blood Communion, published in 2018.

To borrow the title of Rice’s third Lestat book (filmed, with Aaliyah in the title role), the writer was indeed the Queen of the Damned, not necessarily turning into heroes the characters who had previously been the villains of horror fiction, but rather giving them a voice, and presenting their stories from the viewpoint of a different morality.

She plumbed the depths of her own grief and terrors to write, saying in a Rolling Stone interview in 1995 that, “I think all my writing has been part of a battle with my fears. When I write I explore my worst fears, and then take my protagonist right into awful situations that I myself am terrified by. And I think that the act of putting all that fear and terror and confusion into an orderly, plotted story has been very therapeutic for me. It definitely helps me to continue through life.”

Rice said that fantasy writing allowed her to talk about her own life whereas writing a “realistic novel” would be too raw. She said, “You can put the most horrible things into a frame, and you can go into that frame safely and talk about those things. You can go into the world of Louis and Lestat and Claudia, and be able to talk about grief or loss or survival, and then come back safely.”

She wrote like a time traveller, layering especially the Lestat novels with astonishingly evocative period detail. And she did not confine herself to vampires. The Mayfair Witches series, beginning with The Witching Hour (1990), set in Rice’s native New Orleans, concerned itself with a trio of occult practitioners and the demon that bedevils them. The two books of the Wolf Gift series are about lycanthropy, while The Mummy (1989) revitalises the classic horror movie staple. A second mummy novel, Ramses the Damned (2017) was written by Rice with her son, Christopher, and a third collaboration– what will be Rice’s last book – is scheduled for 2022.

Born in New Orleans, Rice was the second of five daughters of Kay (nee Allen) and Howard O’Brien. Her father served with the US navy and then for the US postal service, and both parents were of Irish Catholic heritage. She reportedly hated her name, Howard, and changed it to Anne in the first grade at school. Her mother died in 1956, when Anne was 15, from the effects of alcoholism and the family moved into the former home of her maternal grandmother, who had also died with an alcohol problem.

Rice has said that she was inspired to be a writer by her father who, returning from the second world war and realising he barely knew his infant daughters, Anne and her sister, Alice (the novelist Alice Borchardt), wrote a novel, The Impulsive Imp, for them. Anne was educated first at St Joseph’s academy, a private girls’ school in New Orleans, and later at Richardson high school in north Texas, after her father remarried in 1957 and relocated the family.

After completing a year’s higher education at the Texas Women’s University in Denton, and a sophomore year at North Texas State College, Anne dropped out, unable to afford the tuition fees, and moved to San Francisco, where she took night classes and began her nascent writing career.

She had met Stan Rice at Richardson high school and they rekindled their relationship, marrying in 1961. They settled in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, living through the growing hippy counterculture years, though Rice once said she was a “square” who locked herself away to write while everyone around her was “dropping acid and smoking grass”.

Their daughter Michele was born in 1966, and in 1970 was diagnosed with leukaemia – the same year that Rice returned to her studies at San Francisco State University. She graduated with an MA in creative writing in 1972, the year her daughter died. The couple’s second child, Christopher, was born in 1978. Like her mother and grandmother before her, Rice struggled with alcohol and she and her husband made the decision to stop drinking altogether not long after their son was born.

Although she was brought up a Catholic and her books – the Lestat novels especially, as well as two books fictionalising the life of Christ – included strong elements of the Christian mythos, Rice had a complicated relationship with her faith. Not long after her mother died, she disavowed her belief in God, but returned to the Catholic fold in 1998, a decade after going back to New Orleans to live permanently.

However, in 2010 Rice once again renounced Christianity, saying that while she was still a follower of Christ she could not reconcile herself with many of the church’s beliefs – particularly on same-sex marriage, Christopher being a prominent gay rights activist.

Her son said that Rice had always decried fashion and forged her own path. “She always saw herself starkly at odds with whatever the literary trends of the moment were,” he said. “The accomplishment of Interview With the Vampire … was that she had completely flipped the point of view. She had taken what was previously considered to be … the unknowable monster, and she went in to their point of view and she showed us: what does the world look like through the eyes and the heart of the character we have dismissed in these terms?”

Stan died in 2002. Rice is survived by Christopher and by three of her sisters.

🔔 Anne Rice (Howard Allen Frances O’Brien), writer, born 4 October 1941; died 11 December 2021

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Anne Rice #in memoriam

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slippinmickeys · 4 years

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The Countess (2/4)

She did one country dance with the Duke before dinner was called, and she was forced to sit next to him during the meal. Food and spittle came out of his mouth at regular intervals as he spoke, and when she tried to converse with him of books and science in an effort to find a shared interest, he informed her that he thought women had no place reading, much less discussing topics like science.

She grew more and more depressed as the meal wore on, and when Missy tried to catch her eye from across the room, she couldn’t take it anymore and excused herself awkwardly, rushing off down the nearest hallway, just needing to get away from him.

She rounded a corner into an empty corridor and leaned back against the wall, taking large, heaving breaths, her breasts practically spilling out of the top of her dress as she did so. She hated this dress. She hated this place. She hated the Duke and her father and all the choices made in the world that led to her current situation.

After a few deep breaths, she began to calm a bit and felt cool air on her face coming from further down the corridor.

She knew she shouldn’t be on her own anywhere in the house without a chaperone -- the very last thing she needed was to ruin her reputation and thereby her chances of an advantageous marriage if she were discovered. In London Society all it took was a word in one person’s ear and any woman’s prospects could be shattered. Her family would be ruined and so would she. Nevertheless, she welcomed the feeling of the cool air on her hot skin, and rather thought a breath of fresh air might help her to center herself so she could return to the party.

She rounded the corner and found a door that led to the garden. She stepped through it gratefully.

The garden smelled of roses and jasmine and was blessedly deserted. She stepped under an arbor dripping with wisteria and found a bench in front of a small fountain. She sat.

She wanted nothing more than to loosen her corset and fling it away, but she leaned back instead, trying to take as deep breaths as she could. It was hopeless. Everything was hopeless. She felt the sharp sting of tears at the corner of her eyes and finally let them fall.

She wept for what felt like an hour but was probably only a matter of minutes, before she heard what she thought was a footfall from the doorway through which she’d come. If her mother found her out here, she’d be furious, and Dana had no doubts that she’d noticed the empty chair next to the Duke and would come looking for her. She needed to get back to the dinner -- and the Duke. There had to be another way back into the house.

She stepped around the fountain and under another arbor, and when she turned the corner, there sat the Earl of Wexford, sitting on a twin of the bench she had just been occupying.

They both started at the presence of the other and then the Earl shook himself and stood politely.

“Lady Dana,” he said, squinting at her, no doubt seeing the tracks of tears on her cheeks, “are you all right?”

Dana quickly wiped at her cheeks then smoothed her dress. Finally she raised her eyes back to the Earl.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

He nodded once and reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a crisp white handkerchief that he handed her without a word.

She looked at it for a long moment before accepting it with all the dignity she could muster, wiping it delicately under her eyes and nose. She handed it back with a small smile.

“Can I escort you back inside?” he asked kindly, “it wouldn’t do to be caught out here alone together. I’m afraid I do have a bit of a reputation -- earned or otherwise -- and being out here with me is sure to get you one, too.”

She knew he was right but didn’t want to go inside just yet. The open sky and the fresh air lent her a feeling of freedom she knew she should revel in while she still could. She sat on the bench. He looked at her for a long minute then sat gingerly down beside her, giving her as much room as was possible on the small seat.

“Your reputation isn’t earned?” she asked him boldly. He leaned back and smiled at the ground in front of him.

“I suppose that depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“On what you’ve heard,” he looked back at her and she hoped he couldn’t see the blush she could feel blooming on her cheeks in the dark.

“I’ve heard you keep a fallen woman in a luxurious apartment in Mayfair,” she said, surprising both of them with her boldness. “Is it not true?”

He looked at her -- his eyebrows still up -- and then back to the ground.

“It is true,” he finally said.

Dana was shocked. She barely knew him, but he seemed a decent man and had treated her with dignity and respect. He didn’t seem the kind of man who would keep a whore.

“And you keep her there for your…” she wasn’t sure how to demurely ask it, but something inside of her really wanted to know, “...personal use?”

He threw his head back and laughed once, mirthlessly.

“That part is not true.”

“It’s… not?”

“She is a friend,” he said simply.

Dana didn’t want to pry further, but couldn’t keep the interest from her face.

He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the flowers surrounding them.

“She is an old friend,” he went on, “who was met with an unfortunate series of events in her life. We were childhood friends. When I found out what became of her, I… did what I could for her.”

“So she now lives comfortably in Mayfair?” Dana asked, realising only after she said it how rude it sounded.

“Yes, and she no longer has to prostitute herself to do so,” he said curtly.

Dana felt the sharpness of the words in her chest.

“What is her name?” she asked quietly, and his posture softened. He turned to look at her.

“I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that,” he said. “It’s kind of you.”

She waited for an answer and finally he gave it.

“Her name is Marita.”

“Then I shall tell all who will listen that your reputation is unearned,” she said, sitting up smartly. “When I’m a Duchess, they’ll have to listen.”

“I pity the person who doesn’t listen to you,” he said softly. “Duchess or no.”

She felt tears well in her eyes for his kindness.

“I do hope we can be friends,” she said, standing and then holding out her hand for a shake, “after I’m married.”

He stood as well and clasped her hand warmly, giving it a firm shake. The hair on her arms stood on end from the contact. He let go after a moment.

“It is my hope as well,” he said, “though it would require your Narcissus of a future husband to permit you.”

“He had better,” Dana said, laughing a bit now with gallows humor, “for it sounds like he won’t permit me to discuss anything more exciting than the weather... I shall need someone to discuss Evanston with.”

Lord Wexford’s eyebrows rose.

“You read Evanston?”

“Evanston and a good deal more,” she said, proudly.

He smiled at her, impressed.

“I look forward to discussing his newest prose with you -- I admit I have a hard time picturing those elegant words emitting from the Duke’s flexuous lips.”

“Ugh,” Dana shuddered, thinking of the food that had flown out of the Duke’s mouth not an hour ago, “do not speak to me of his lips! And to think -- my first kiss will be to those.”

A look came over his face with her words.

“You have never been kissed?” he said, his voice taking on a rough quality. His eyes drifted from her eyes to settle on her lips and then flitted briefly, for the first time, to her bosom.

“I have not,” she said primly, for the first time feeling a bit nervous about being alone with a man in an empty garden.

He seemed to sense her change in comfort and put his hands behind his back as if to reassure her.

“Would you like to be?” he asked quietly.

“Would I like to be what?” she said dumbly, both hoping and not hoping that he meant what she thought he did.

“Kissed,” he said simply, and unconsciously licked his lips slowly, drawing her attention to his mouth, to his plump lower lip.

She felt something low in her gut, and before she realized she had said it, the word sat there in the air between them:

“Yes.”

He said nothing but took a slow step toward her, allowing her time to turn and run away if she had any second thoughts.

She was surprised to find that she didn’t. Not one. In fact the only thing she wanted in the world right now was to feel this man’s lips upon her own.

When he got close, as close as he had been when they had been waltzing, he reached his hands up to lightly touch her face, and her breath hitched in her throat.

“You will permit me?” he said as he leaned down slowly to bring his lips level with her own. She nodded once and her eyes slid closed.

She felt the light fan of his breath on her face, smelling a hint of honey and something else more sharply masculine. And then his lips were upon her own.

His first touch was gentle and light, the briefest whisper, like the touch of a butterfly’s wings. His second was more firm, the press of him becoming more insistent. She found herself kissing him back, leaning into his lips as he pressed into her. She felt one arm come around her waist to pull her body into his own, and she felt a thrill -- a frisson of energy running from her toes up to the top of her head and then settling, like the fizz of champagne, where their lips met.

When her body pressed into his further, she heard the lightest of moans from him and her heart thrilled at the power she felt -- like Aphrodite holding the golden apple. She tentatively put a hand around his waist and pressed gently.

It was all the encouragement he seemed to need, and she suddenly felt his tongue gently insisting on entry passed her lips. Surprised, she opened her mouth, and his tongue plunged inside, rubbing against her own. She felt her womb contract up into her body and a heavy feeling she’d never felt before settle between her legs.

She released a moan of her own and he moved his head slightly more to the side so that he could more thoroughly plumb the depths of her mouth with his tongue. Feeling a bit like a fencer, she parried with her own and he breathed in once deeply through his nose, moving his other hand into her hair.

She had never felt anything like this. Not once in all of her 20 years. All she wanted was to kiss this man for the rest of her life and never stop, not for sustenance, not for air.

Then in the haze of her desire and the ringing in her ears, she heard a noise and a sharp intake of breath from behind her.

She pulled her lips from the Earl’s as if in slow motion and turned just in time to see both her brother and her mother standing behind them, shocked looks upon their faces. Her brother’s face slowly turned to outrage.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he shouted, and took a menacing step forward.

#the x-files #AU #MSR #fanfic #my fic #The Countess

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ineffablegame · 5 years

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I imagine you'll get a few of these, but may I request Ineffable Husbands for either 1. a sweet kiss or 17. a love bite? Thank you!

Heads up, this gets a little naughty. ;) Also published on my Ao3.

Taste

Crowley has never been one for eating.

Oh, he’s tried a number of times over the millennia, but no amount of effort can make him derive joy from the act. He can’t quite tap into the endorphin rush Aziraphale so relishes, and the thought of a lump of mashed-up organic matter sitting in his belly, slowly chewed into pulp by acidic juices before moving down to the plumbing, as it were… well, it all makes him get a bit queasy. Drinking is one thing, mostly made tolerable by alcohol, but eating is quite another.

No, Crowley is not a one for eating. But he does love tasting.

“This is absolutely delectable,” Aziraphale murmurs, licking a dollop of tiramisu off his fork. Sitting on the other side of the table, chin propped on the heel of his hand, Crowley watches intently. The angel cuts off another piece of the dessert and pops it into his mouth with an appreciative hum. “Utterly divine.”

It’s obscene, really, the way Aziraphale eats. The little sighs and moans, the pink flicker of his tongue, the rapture that toes sacrilegiously close to religious ecstasy. It should be classified as public indecency. The angel should be locked up.

Crowley can’t stop staring.

“Give it here, then,” he says, pleased when his voice emerges in a convincing charade of insouciance.

Aziraphale sets down his fork, eyebrows arched. “Really? I thought you didn’t care for… well, this sort of thing.”

“I don’t,” Crowley says. “But you seem to be having a grand old time with that tiramisu, so…” He trails off, hand outstretched. Aziraphale hesitates and he smirks. “What? Scared about swapping a little saliva, angel?”

Aziraphale hands over the fork and nudges the plate across the table. The tips of his ears have gone strawberry shortbread-pink. “Of course not.”

Crowley laves his tongue over the tines. He is glad for the concealment of his sunglasses, for as he licks up traces of dusky coffee and feather-froth mascarpone, he keeps his gaze fixed on Aziraphale. And when he tastes it at last – a trace of fresh apple and unsullied desert air, the angel’s taste, a six-thousand-year-old savor of Eden – his eyes slip shut.

It becomes something of a game, chasing Aziraphale’s taste. Crowley tells himself it’s because he’s got nothing better to do, now that Armageddon has been cancelled and Adam Young has decreed that Messing People About should be kept to a minimum. It’s boredom, it’s Hellish mischief, it’s the latest sally in Crowley’s eternal battle against his Adversary.

Most of all, it’s a pity, because Crowley has learned enough self-awareness to see a list of denials when he’s the one writing it. Fortunately, he also has just enough of a sense of self-preservation left to keep on denying. Peter the Apostle could have learned a thing or two from Crowley.

He starts small. Crowley might prefer to terrify his houseplants into verdant beauty, but he does know gardening. For a temptation to truly work, you must plant the seed, tend the soil. With patience, care, and just the tiniest infernal nudge, you can reap a bountiful harvest.

“Funny, how humans worked that out,” Crowley remarks one day, as they sit in a posh little café in Mayfair.

Aziraphale licks a smudge of crème brûlée off his spoon and sets it down, cocking his head. “What do you mean?”

Crowley waves a hand at the dish. “Well, how, way back when, some brilliant bugger thought, ‘huh, what happens when I add heavy cream and sugar and egg yolks together and torch the top?’ It’s clever, that’s all.”

Aziraphale considers the cracked crust of his dessert. “Well. I suppose I never considered it.”

Crowley says nothing more on the subject, but he doesn’t need to. He can see the light of curiosity burning in the angel’s gaze long after they leave the café. Seed planted.

Later, giddy with his own sense of spontaneity, Aziraphale invites Crowley to the little flat above the bookshop. They walk into the kitchenette, Aziraphale bubbling with excitement, Crowley feigning confusion. The angel gestures to the ingredient-laden table with a flourish.

“What’s all this?” Crowley asks, perfectly aware of what it is.

“Ingredients!” Aziraphale exclaims. “We’re going to try baking!”

Crowley affects a long-suffering groan. “This is pointless. We can just miracle biscuits onto your plate, and besides, I don’t even like—”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale says, “but this is more fun!”

It’s a simple recipe for chocolate biscuits. Well, it’s simple in theory, at least. Aziraphale and Crowley have never bothered to learn how to bake, not with the power of Heaven and Hell at their fingertips. They soon discover the trials of eggshell in the batter, whisking too quickly, and goodness, Crowley, are you certain you greased the pan? The first batch looks more like charred lumps than biscuits, exiting the oven in a putrid cloud of smoke, but Aziraphale will not be deterred. They start a second batch with infinite care. Crowley is so preoccupied learning how to break an egg without getting shell shards in the bowl that he almost misses Aziraphale raising the spatula to his lips for a languorous lick.

Almost. But not quite.

“These will be better,” Aziraphale says, certain in a way that means the biscuits will be delicious even if they mucked up every direction in the cookbook. As he turns to put the pan in the oven, Crowley snatches up the spatula, still smeared with chocolate batter, and steals a taste.

And there it is again – hidden beneath sugar, butter, flour, chocolate – the faintest trace of apple and garden air. His eyes close and a sigh gusts out of his chest.

“Crowley? What on Earth are you doing?”

Crowley startles, the spatula slipping from his fingers. The utensil tumbles to the floor in a spatter of chocolate. “Ngk—nothing.”

Aziraphale slants him a dubious look. “Were you tasting the batter?”

“Maybe,” Crowley mumbles.

The angel’s lips stretch in a grin. “You’re becoming fonder of food than you let on, dear boy. Don’t worry, I shan’t tell a soul.”

“Shut it,” Crowley grumbles, stooping to pick up the spatula.

When the biscuits are done, Aziraphale takes a bite and declares them to be scrumptious. Crowley wouldn’t know. Compared to the taste of angel, they are dirt in his mouth.

It becomes a ritual for them, the baking. Aziraphale claims it calms him after a long day at the shop, that he likes making things with his hands. They actually become not-rubbish at it, churning out batch after batch of increasingly complex biscuits before graduating to other sweets. Bars follow the biscuits, and are in turn trailed by tarts and pies and cakes. Despite Aziraphale’s insistence on doing things the proper way, miracles join the mix as often as not, a spice no kitchen in the world could replicate.

Crowley becomes adept at stealing tastes of Aziraphale. He hoards them, pilfering used spatulas, bowls, and stray spoons.

Time passes. When you are immortal, time does that – slips through your fingers like flour through a sifter, each dust-fine speck a day, a week, a month. And then, years later, Aziraphale invites Crowley over to work on a lemon curd cake.

“Curd’s almost done chilling,” Aziraphale says. “How’s the batter coming along, my dear?”

“Nearly there,” Crowley says, preoccupied with folding in the whites. “Oven up to temperature?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. He snaps his fingers and the oven chimes in agreement, a whoosh of hot air filling its belly.

Crowley lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s cheating, angel.”

“Oh, hush. I’m only speeding the process along.” As Crowley slides the pans into the oven, Aziraphale opens the refrigerator and lifts out the dish of chilled curd. Crowley turns to watch, frozen, as the angel dips a finger in and lifts a yellow dollop to his lips. Pink lips, pink tongue. A divine sigh. “Perfect.”

“Stop that,” Crowley says, voice thin in his ears. “You’ll eat it all and we won’t have any for the cake.”

“Oh, tosh,” Aziraphale says. He dips his spit-slick finger into the curd, and Crowley should be mortified, he should be disgusted – but instead he’s striding forward, body leagues ahead of his mind. His hand shoots out to close around the angel’s wrist. Aziraphale makes a noise of protest. And falls silent.

Crowley lurches back, the tang of lemon curd and angel skin leaping on his tongue. Aziraphale is staring at him with wide eyes. “Angel, I’m, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, already reaching for him. “Oh, Crowley.”

Aziraphale is still trembling, still panting like he truly needs his lungs when Crowley lifts his head. He crawls across the angel’s naked body, smearing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the way – the crease of his thigh, the mound of his belly, the center of his chest, the column of his neck. Aziraphale shivers out a laugh at the brush of Crowley’s tongue on his skin. “Stop—stop that, you rogue.”

“Nah,” Crowley murmurs, rasping his teeth to redden the skin, memorizing the savor of his sweat. “Never. Love how you taste.”

Aziraphale’s fingers thread through his hair, soothing and inciting at once. “Come here, then. Let me taste myself on you.”

Crowley shudders and tilts his head up for a kiss. He has never been one for eating, but this is a hunger he will never sate.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfic #lemon #good omens word prompt #long post

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plumberadelaide3-blog · 4 years

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Mayfair Plumbing & Gasfitting Adelaide

Mayfair Plumbing & Gasfitting is based in Adelaide, South Australia and provides a range of plumbing services for both commercial and domestic customers throughout the city and surrounding suburbs, including the Adelaide Hills. With over 22 years experience in the industry, and many 5 star reviews, the team have proven they provide expert plumbing services. Services include hot water repair and installations, gas plumbing, emergencies, blocked drains, hydrojet cleaning, pump repairs, water damage, fire protection services, 24 7 call outs, new home builds and more. Mayfair Plumbing & Gasfitting 10 Jervois St, Hawthorn, South Australia 0429361819 https://mayfairplumbing.com.au Facebook Linkedin Youtube Google Maps

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edwardplumbers · 5 years

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Areas we cover: emergency plumber Mayfair, emergency plumbing ealing, plumber catford, plumber earlsfield, chelsea plumbers, fulham plumber, plumber Putney, battersea plumber, gas cooker installation london, plumber southfield.

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adamplumberlondon-blog · 5 years

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Fireplace Installation

We solve your emergency plumbing needs from a burst pipe to a broken tap. Our plumbing services starts from £42.99.

Why People Like SouthStar Plumbers

100% service satisfaction guaranteed

Trained and Certified Plumbers and other staff

Background verified staff

Guaranteed best-in-class services

Insurance against damages

Our Services:

Plumber London

Gas Hob Fitting

Commercial Gas Safety Certificate

Boiler Installation London

Fireplace Installation

Call Us Now! 020 8877 3363 For more information visit us: https://southstarplumbers.com/

#Plumber london Gas Hob Fitting commercial gas safety certificate Boiler Installation London Fireplace Installation

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adamplumbers-blog · 5 years

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Plumber London

Our team of qualified plumbers who believe firmly in outstanding levels of customer service. You can call us at any point of time as we provide 24 hours emergency plumbing services. With over 25 years of experience, you can trust us to take care of all your plumbing related needs.

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We only employ Gas-Safe registered Gas Engineers for Emergency plumbers and gas engineers, London . Our aim is on improving and maintaining gas safety to the highest standards.

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Looking for an expert’s assistance in Fireplace Installation, renovation or fitting of fireplaces, stoves & flue liners. Just let us know and we have experts who know the industry like no other.

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#plumber london #gas hob fitting #commercial gas safety certificate #boiler installation london #fireplace installation

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#adelaide #mayfair #plumbing #mayfair plumbing and gasfitting #bore #pump #mclaren vale #winery #red wine #Youtube

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When you hire us for property upkeep in Mayfair, we give the best quality services. We have a dedicated building and building administration team that provides a flexible variety of repairs, installments as well as maintenance solutions. From rain gutter cleansing, to plumbing repairs and boiler servicing, and also electric works, we are the professionals that can look after whatever. We have earned a credibility for high quality services supplied by an insured group of professionals. We provide reliable, effective, as well as economical home maintenance services as well as develop remedies that benefit our clients. http://www.flowpropertyservices.co.uk/property-maintenance-in-mayfair/

#Property maintenance in Mayfair

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#Plumber in MAYFAIR W1 #london plumbers #plumbers london #plumbers in london #plumbing services london #emergency services london

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1962dude420-blog · 3 years

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Today we remember the passing of "Mama" Cass Elliot who Died: July 29, 1974 in Mayfair, London

Cass Elliot (born Ellen Naomi Cohen; September 19, 1941 – July 29, 1974), better known as Mama Cass, was an American singer and actress who is best known for having been a member of the Mamas and the Papas. After the group broke up, she released five solo albums. In 1998, she was posthumously inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for her work with the Mamas and the Papas.

Ellen Naomi Cohen was born in Baltimore, Maryland, on September 19, 1941, the daughter of Bess (née Levine; 1915–1994) and Philip Cohen (died 1962). All four of her grandparents were Russian Jewish immigrants. Her family was subject to significant financial stresses and uncertainties during her childhood years. Her father, involved in several business ventures throughout his life, ultimately succeeded through the development of a lunch wagon business in Baltimore that provided meals to construction workers. Her mother was a trained nurse. Elliot had a brother, Joseph, and a younger sister, Leah, who also became a singer and recording artist. Elliot's early life was spent with her family in Alexandria, Virginia, before the family moved to Baltimore when Elliot was 15, and where they had briefly lived at the time of Elliot's birth.

Elliot adopted the name "Cass" in high school, possibly borrowing it from actress Peggy Cass, according to Denny Doherty. She assumed the surname "Elliot" some time later, in memory of a friend who had died. While in Alexandria, she attended George Washington High School. When Elliot's family returned to Baltimore, she attended Forest Park High School. While attending Forest Park High School, Elliot became interested in acting. She won a small part in the play The Boy Friend, a summer stock production at the Hilltop Theatre in Owings Mills, Maryland. She left high school shortly before graduation and moved to New York City to further her acting career.

After leaving high school to pursue an entertainment career in New York, Elliot toured in the musical The Music Man in 1962, but lost the part of Miss Marmelstein in I Can Get It for You Wholesale to Barbra Streisand. Elliot would sometimes sing while working as a cloakroom attendant at The Showplace in Greenwich Village, but she did not pursue a singing career until she moved to the Washington, D.C. area to attend American University.

America's folk music scene was on the rise when Elliot met banjoist and singer Tim Rose and singer John Brown, and the three began performing as "The Triumvirate". In 1963, James Hendricks replaced Brown, and the trio was renamed the Big 3. Elliot's first recording with the Big 3 was "Winken, Blinken, and Nod", released by FM Records in 1963. In 1964, the group appeared on an "open mic" night at The Bitter End in Greenwich Village, billed as "Cass Elliot and the Big 3", followed onstage by folk singer Jim Fosso and bluegrass banjoist Eric Weissberg.

Tim Rose left the Big 3 in 1964, and Elliot and Hendricks teamed with Canadians Zal Yanovsky and Denny Doherty to form the Mugwumps. This group lasted eight months, after which Cass performed as a solo act for a while. In the meantime, Yanovsky and John Sebastian co-founded the Lovin' Spoonful, while Doherty joined the New Journeymen, a group that also included John Phillips and his wife Michelle. In 1965, Doherty persuaded Phillips that Elliot should join the group, which she did while she and the group members were vacationing in the Virgin Islands.

A popular legend about Elliot is that her vocal range was improved by three notes after she was hit on the head by some copper tubing while walking through a construction site behind the bar where the New Journeymen were playing in the Virgin Islands. Elliot confirmed the story in a 1968 interview with Rolling Stone magazine, saying,

It's true, I did get hit on the head by a pipe that fell down and my range was increased by three notes. They were tearing this club apart in the islands, revamping it, putting in a dance floor. Workmen dropped a thin metal plumbing pipe and it hit me on the head and knocked me to the ground. I had a concussion and went to the hospital. I had a bad headache for about two weeks and all of a sudden I was singing higher. It's true. Honest to God.

However, friends later said that the pipe story was a less embarrassing explanation for why John Phillips had kept her out of the group for so long, the real reason being that he considered her too fat.

Elliot was known for her sense of humor and optimism, and was considered by many to be the most charismatic member of the group. Her powerful, distinctive voice was a major factor in their string of hits including: "California Dreamin'", "Monday, Monday", "Words of Love". She also performed the solo "Dream a Little Dream of Me" (credited on the label of the single as 'Featuring Mama Cass with the Mamas and the Papas'), which the group recorded in 1968 after learning about the death of Fabian Andre, one of the men who co-wrote it, whom Michelle Phillips had met years earlier. Elliot's version is noteworthy for its contemplative pace, whereas many earlier recordings of "Dream a Little Dream of Me" (including one by Nat King Cole and another by Ozzie Nelson) had been up-tempo versions—the song having been written in 1931 as a dance tune.

Elliot was married twice, the first time in 1963 to James Hendricks, her group mate in the Big 3 and the Mugwumps. This was reportedly a platonic arrangement to assist him in avoiding being drafted during the Vietnam War; the marriage reportedly was never consummated and was annulled in 1968. In 1971, Elliot married journalist Donald von Wiedenman, heir to a Bavarian barony. Their marriage ended in divorce after a few months.

Elliot gave birth to a daughter, Owen Vanessa Elliot, on April 26, 1967. Owen too grew up to become a singer and toured with Beach Boys member Al Jardine. Elliot never publicly identified the father, but many years later Michelle Phillips helped Owen locate her biological father, Chuck Day. His paternity was not publicly revealed until his 2008 death. After Elliot's death, her younger sister, Leah Kunkel (then married to Los Angeles-based session drummer Russ Kunkel), received custody of Owen, then seven years old, and raised her along with her own son, Nathaniel.

On April 22, 1974, Elliot collapsed in the Burbank, California, television studio of The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson immediately before her scheduled appearance on the show. She was treated at a hospital and released, then dismissed the incident as simple exhaustion in interviews such as her May 7 appearance on The Tonight Show and the American television talk show The Mike Douglas Show. Her appearance on that episode of The Mike Douglas Show turned out to be her last for television.

In July 1974, Elliot performed a fortnight of concerts as a solo performer at the London Palladium. Many claimed that all of these shows were sold out, but she was often playing to a less-than-full house after the earliest dates.

After her appearance at the Palladium, Elliot went on a 48-hour celebration. She first attended a birthday party for Mick Jagger at his home at Tite Street in Chelsea. Debbie Reynolds claimed in her 2013 book Unsinkable: A Memoir that she and her children, Carrie Fisher and Todd Fisher, saw Elliot at the birthday party. Reynolds noted that Elliot was alone when she left. After the party, Elliot went to a "breakfast-lunch" in her honor presented by Georgia Brown. From there she attended a cocktail party hosted by American journalist Jack Martin. Cass left at 8:00pm stating she was tired and needed to get some sleep.

That night, Elliot, age 32, died in her sleep at the London flat where she was staying. According to forensic pathologist Keith Simpson, who conducted her autopsy, her death was due to heart failure. "There was left-sided heart failure," he wrote, "she had a heart attack which developed rapidly." A drug screen that was part of the forensic autopsy revealed there were no drugs in her system. Elliot died in Flat 12, 9 Curzon Place, Shepherd Market, Mayfair, London. Four years later, The Who's drummer Keith Moon died in the same room, also aged 32 years.

Elliot's body was cremated at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery in Los Angeles, California. Her ashes were later buried in Mount Sinai Memorial Park Cemetery in Los Angeles.

#July 29 #1974 #R.I.P.#Cass Elliot #Mama Cass #Mamas and the Papas

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