The Black Pot

"I'm pretty sure my stress habit and bad habit go hand in hand. At least that's what I've been told."

He shrugs.

"Best stress relief I know of is a good drink. Nothin' helps relieve the stress of travelin' around the galaxy like a good mint julep or Saurian brandy. It's probably not a good habit to get into, but there aren't a whole lot of other options on a starship." Dr. McCoy smirks. "That's not to say we're a bunch of drunks cartin' around space. But havin' a drink or two as a means to unwind once in a while isn't unreasonable."

"I've tried other kinds of stress relief. Some people exercise, some meditate, but that just doesn't work for me. I don't have the stamina for exercisin' every time I get stressed out, and I don't have the patience for meditatin'. So alcohol's my vice. I know it's not the best habit to have, but it's better than a sharp stick in the eye."

"I've even heard rumors of some kind of drink bein' invented that simulates the effects of alcohol, but if needed, the effects wear off instantly. But I'm an old fashioned kind of guy. If I want alcohol, I'll drink the real stuff."

OOC: Sorry I've been out of touch lately. Real life has consumed all of my time lately.

"Oh, I don't know about bad habits... you pick up a habit because it does something for you, ne? Something useful, that you need at that time. Maybe it becomes 'bad' if the reasons to stop outweigh those to keep on, but you keep it up anyway.

"I suppose, if I had to point to one, it would be being too open when there's an answer I don't intend to give... and there are so many." A sweet smile. "But is it a bad habit, ne? Surely it must be a better one than lying, as so many do when faced with difficult questions. An amateur trick, I must feel, that, and so exhausting to keep up with the results. And it's been a good habit so often. It's how I was taught, that the mysteries of my Order should stay that way--and why not, when we worked hard to discover them, and some of them could disarrange the minds of the unprepared?"

He laughs. "Well, perhaps some will say I clearly wasn't sufficiently prepared. Saa, who knows, I came to it young, ne." Hands going up in a shrug, "Maa, I don't know about others... I probably keep too busy for most of them these days. That's the best way, I find."

( And if not.... it's a secret! )

I get to catch up with folks... Monday. And this evening. @.@ (zombie walk of end-of-finals)

Dora looks around the cafe, surprised at how many people are there but she doesn't recognize many people at all. Her brows knit when she sees Sirius and then again at the sight of Harry, but she can't sort out the odd feeling in her belly that comes as a result. She wonders if she ate too much jelly.

With a bit of help from Xellos to keep from falling over, she stands on her chair, clutching a large stuffed bear that's nearly as large as she is. She peeks out over the top of his head for a minute until most people are looking at her and a bit less noisy.

( Wotcher! )

If the ship had landed a bit closer or the customers inside the café been a little less chatty, they might have heard the distinctive whirling-wheezing-grinding sound, warning them of Margate’s newest arrival. As it is, the thin man in the brown overcoat bursting into the café and stopping abruptly a few paces into the room comes as a surprise. ( Read more... )

Ianto sits for a long while, listening to the others talk about stress, or the lack thereof, or ways to get rid of it. He should speak, he really should. He's certainly had more than his fair share of stressful situations in his life, but they're not things he wants to talk about with random strangers or casual acquaintances. Alex knows some of it; so does the Doctor. He gives a soft, bitter laugh. The Doctor. Nothing more for him to worry about, now is there? But those are deep, intensely personal matters. He doesn't feel like sharing that in front of everybody. Still, he should say something.

"Stress? Well, I suppose I'm rather similar to Mr. Holmes in that respect. I don't like to feel frazzled, or overworked, but I need to keep myself busy. I just get bored, otherwise. I like having things to do. I need to have something to do.

"Of course, everyone feels like they're about to come apart at the seams sometimes. And anyone who's known me for any length of time knows that my favourite thing to do when I'm feeling like that is make a cup of coffee. Not like the stuff here, I mean a real cup of coffee." He throws a mostly apologetic grin in the direction of the kitchen. "There's a certain sense of ritual about it. It's really quite soothing, grinding the beans, the smell of it, the way the machine hums and whirs. Plus," he smiles, "you get a damn fine cup of coffee at the end."

Caprica looks down at the bowl of wiggling food on her table, unsure of what it is. She's not particularly in the mood to eat anything, anyway. She looks wistfully towards the door of the café, waiting. If there's a clock in here, she hasn't been checking it, not wanting to find herself counting every second down and thus dragging it out longer.

"Stress relief." Talking will help to fill the time. She turns her head to look around at people. "I could get philosophical about the purpose of stress, or the biological functioning of it. I'm not in the mood. I'll be frank with you instead. When I feel stressed, I put my mind into a more soothing environment. A beautiful forest full of trees and life, with the sun shining through the canopy. If that doesn't work, and there's a person or people around who are involved with me, sex is a great release. Works for boredom, works for stress, works for a lot of things. The culture here seems to have strange ideas about dealing with stress. Chemicals and mental exercises, trinkets and activities. Sex can incorporate plenty of that. A release of relaxing chemicals, if nothing else."

She looks to the door again. A little more time passed, but not enough yet. "Of course, this culture has very different ideas about sex compared to my people, so maybe that's why these alternatives are looked to instead."

Poking the contents of the bowl, she watches it wiggle again. "What is this? Some sort of comfort food?"

*Harry sits slouched in his chair with his arms crossed across his chest. He's not up for giving a speech this time.

He didn't think it was too self-pitying to say that he'd lived through more than his fair share of stressful times, but that was true for a lot of people in the cafe. Most of them, in fact.

He'd come to Margate specifically to make his life less stressful. For the most part, it had worked.

Then Malfoy had shown up and life was just a big ball of tension once more.

At least that was over with now. Really, suddenly Apparating away right in the middle... just when they were finally about to... Well. It was pretty damn final, wasn't it?

Harry realises that he's grinding his teeth together.

He'd been an idiot to think he and Malfoy could ever have anything together. There was just way too much history there.

Playing Quidditch together would have been fun, though.

Harry shakes his head, thinking about his broom, thinking about going flying. He'll go out during the night when most of the Muggles are asleep. Fly out over the sea. Even if it doesn't make the stress go away, it will leave him so exhausted that he won't care anymore.*

Finally out of the hospital, Quirinus Quirrell sauntered with what he hoped was nonchalance along the sidewalk until he found the café. He looked at it curiously. He had no idea why the strange man at the hospital had told him to come here, but as he’d no place else to go, he decided to give it a go. He hunched his shoulders, touched the back of his head gingerly, and opened the door. Warmth and voices tumbled out, enveloping him. He took a deep breath and went in.

Look around you all you see are sympathetic eyes. Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home.

So he did. He kept to the shadows along the wall and slowly surveyed the café. From the outside, it looked like a million others. From the inside too, until he looked closer. Some of the faces he thought he recognised. Some faces looked hauntingly familiar. Others just looked haunted. Quirrell leaned against the wall and listened to the conversations going on around him. Occasionally, someone would get up to speak and he realised that is was like some sort of club. Everyone here was from someplace else and this was how they connected with each other. By talking. Interesting. He’d never been particularly comfortable in a group but it had never really bothered him. Throwing caution to the winds (he didn’t have anything to lose) Quirrell decided to take a turn.

( “My name is Q.” he grinned around. “How do you do?” )

Stress, you say? Oh, I have all these dainty stress-relievers just at hand.

*puts spears, 19th century revolvers, swords, machine-guns, phasers, magical wands and even screwdrivers on her table*

Fell free to use them, please!
Pretty please?

“Stress isn’t a hard thing to deal with, if you know the best way to relax.” Abby says, taking a final sip of a concoction she’d made up in Dahlia’s kitchen, which was just littered with the melted remains of the kettle anymore. One part cola, one part coffee, lots of crushed ice and summer fruit juice. It wasn’t quiet there, but it was much better than her previous attempts.

“Everyone gets stressed at different things, and different things help different people to relax.” She tries not to look over at Krycek, “It’s just finding what works best for you. Like sleeping, or watchin’ TV or a drink or two or five. I like to play Valley of the Zombies, or Shoot To Kill IV” She offers a broad grin to the other patrons. “But I’ve found almost everyone responds best to a nice, quiet room. With the lights off, or dimmed or whatever. And some scented candles. Vanilla or something like that. Nothing powerful. And some very soft music. Classical stuff. Or some of that Zen music.”

She settles down again, and then gets back up. “I forgot, bashin’ things also helps.”

And then she sits. Hopefully Tyler would be along in a moment or two, she still had his mp3 player.

The Doctor leans against the wall, arms crossed, listening to the discussion.

"So, stress..." he begins, voice booming. Then he grins suddenly. "Well, seeing that I’m 900 years old, I think you can pretty safely assume that I cope with stress well. ( Read more... )

Regulus opens the fridge and smiles.
( stress relief? )

Strange thing is, Anotsu hasn't been this relaxed in a long time.

( Years, perhaps. )

She resettles her tea on the table, and lets the usual dryness in her tone increase from drought level to Sahara level.

"Stress. Yes. I know all about stress. I have heard a great deal about stress in my career. My response has always been that life is difficult. It's not unhealthy to be under pressure. If the tension is unendurable, you act to change the situation, possibly by making a mental note not to be stupid enough to inflict the situation upon yourself in future."

She could give some examples, but her personal life is not to be trotted out for the amusement of the expatriates, so she simply concludes, "I've had three generations whinge to me that they are stressed. On rare and widely spaced occasions I even sympathized."

Rusty'd been leaning on the bar, elbows on the countertop and facing the rest of the room. Listening, mostly. The last couple of conversations had given him some whopping headaches. One from the hangover - all that talk of men having babies had just made Rusty want to drink, drink, eat greasy fish and chips from the joint down the street, and then drink some more. And then the one about in-laws - well, somehow it had occurred to Rusty that the closest thing he probably had to an in-law was Tess, and that was wrong in a whole lot of ways that Rusty didn't care to think about, which in turn led to drinking again, but without the fish and chips. So that hangover had actually been worse. But stress...now, this was something Rusty could cope with.

( Stress, huh? )

Elric has watched and listened. He had no clear concept of what ‘stress’ was supposed to be from the start, and after he has heard some of the other's opinions he is more confused than ever. But if he’ll have to say something it might as well be now – maybe it’ll help. After all it’s not this place, or these people, and least of all the question what ‘stress’ is that bothers – stresses? – him most. At first he just enjoyed what he thought to be a short respite from his inevitable fate, but by now he has grown restless. He wants know why he is here, and do what has to be done. Inactivity, especially in an in-between place like this, does not suit him. It leaves to much room for thoughts and dreams.

“Stress... What is this ‘stress’ exactly? It is all about being tired and desperate and hectic, as far as I can see? A feeling of constant harassment not caused by any kind of real life-threatening danger? By no really desperate need or predicament? If that is what one does call ‘stress’ than there is only one remedy for it – to find out what is really important and to do it.”

Stress?

*laughs*

I spent twelve years locked in a prison where happiness was taken from me, sadness was lethal, and my anger was the only thing that kept me alive.

Compared to that, stress is... *changes what he was going to say to something more polite* Stress is for other people.

*looks over to where Regulus is, and smiles crookedly*

Of course, back in my young and foolish days, I used to handle stress by hex- By annoying my younger brother. I've no doubt it would work just as well today.

( There really is only one thing: )

Holmes sits back in his chair an intense look on his face. “My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I cannot live without brain-work. What else is there to live for? My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. My mind is like a racing engine that tears itself to pieces if it is not connected up with the work for which it was built.
For what is the use of having powers if one has no field upon which to exert them? Stress? Hardly. It saves me from ennui.”

"Deus misericors." Cesare grimaces, then composes his face into a slow smile dripping contempt. "This age will never cease to amaze me. Not in a good way, alas. What next, the sheer burden of living will be recognized as a disease that merits medication, and we will be asked to feel compassion for those sadly afflicted? There's a term for every little ague and the whims of the mind, isn't there, and a handful of pillules to go with it."

It's ridiculous. People around these parts have more time on their hands than ever, more money than they can rightly spend, they've freed themselves from vengeful deities, don't need to look over their shoulders for fear of brigands and bravi, there are no rampaging armies to mow them down and burn their fields, and they dare to speak of stress... Choosing a TV channel... very stressful indeed.

What sort of word is that, anyway.

"And before you ask, yes, I can think of more than a few situations where I've felt what you'd dub stress. Let me tell you that the trick to survive - not only to come out on the other side, but to come out on top - is sprezzatura. Project effortless grace while your back is breaking. Wear your best doublet, smile and joke, look carefree. Don't let them see you are falling apart at the seams: that is the way to proceed. In nuce, don't come whining to me about stress."