Morningstar Manor

Eurovision Song Contest!

There used to be some serious Gay Cred attached to that, but by now, it was just fun for all, a reason to party, not to be taken serious, but with a drink and some friends to mock the unluckier entrants, their fashion and musical gaffes; a chance to be thoroughly camp, whatever one's actual sexual orientation.

So Andras had gone to the Lamb, just as in the years before, persuadded Molly to find a satellite channel that carried it, and then settled down at the bar with a pint of cider and a bowl of peanuts to watch the silliness.


[[OOC: Party post! Jump in, take a drink, threadhop, relax!]]

Fin got into line, watching Joy serve the customers and wondering, as usual, why nobody socked her one. But then, he guessed she must have her problems like everyone else.

as long as he got his order he didn't care if it came with a side of snark.

Charlie sat at the desk and swung his chair gently in time to the music from the iPod plugged into the dock on the shelf behind him.

Between his fingers was a scrap of paper that had earned him a severe telling off that morning in the Mocha and he was looking forward to sharing the story with someone.

Anyone?

There was a fat chick in the queue before him, and Andras rolled his eyes. She was chatting to the barista -- not Joy --  and ordering her coffee piecemeal -- 'Oh yes, I can just as well have some sprinkles! But who was that old man this morning?'

Andras groaned, and she turned around, grinning all the way up at at him. She had a very impressive pair of boobs, but Andras didn't care.

"You going to keel over next?" she asked, sweetly.

"No, but you are!" Andras said, caffeine crave making him grumpy. "You really shouldn't have sprinkles, you know. Or whipped cream. Or brownies, at that." She already had an ass like a dray horse, for fuck's sake! Why was she making it worse?

"And who are you, the food and body police?" she asked, shaking her head. "Mind your own damn business."

"Who he is," said a somewhat Scottish voice behind Andras, very drily, "is some fluffy hipster between me and my coffee, and that's not a naturally tenable position for anyone."

She giggled, and Andras turned around, and almost felt like keeling over after all.

The man behind him was about fifty, but an inch taller even than Andras, and at least twice as broad. He smiled down at him, his amber eyes, oddly enough for such a warm colour, icy-cold as he did so.

"Cream, sprinkles, brownie, and caramel cookies," the fat girl declared, and when she got it, she turned, flounced past Andras, offered the big Scotsman a cookie (which he accepted, taking a bite right away with very strong and white teeth that looked positively threatening), and took herself off to some table in the corner.

"What are you waiting for, Mr. Hipster?" the Scotsman asked, sweetly.

The library was a good place to work. Better than the apartment in some ways because, while the librarian still gave him the willies, he knew the worse and since she seemed quite cheerful, he could live with it.

Today he was writing about the possibility of solving at least some of the country's problems by devaluing the dollar, recalling John Connally's "our currency but your problem" comment. He had a choice of two markets for the article and if he could finish it by three o'clock was contemplating having a nice little dutch auction for it.

Fin tapped away at the library computer keyboard and hummed as he tapped.

Fin swore as he left the elevator and stalked along the corridor towards his apartment. He knew DAMN well he had picked up the right files, because he had been reading them in the elevator on the way down, but half way across town he had had another look and the papers were a set of old research about axlotls, fercrysake.

so back he had come and he hoped to God he could find the right ones. He was not a happy Fin.

On weekends, the Mocha was always packed with people having a late breakfast all through the morning. The crowd today included:

• Andras, who was talking via Skype with his brother in London, for whom it was already between lunch- and teatime.
• Sibyl and Urquhart, who were sharing a table and a plate of cookies, and discussing a shared problem: - what you could possibly give Ruth for Christmas that she'd really enjoy.
• Chandika and Rahul, with Hanu the hound in tow, who were spoiling themselves with a sweet breakfast made by somebody else, as Bethan was working an early shift at the clinic.
• Cindy, who sat a few tables further on, reading a magazine in Greek and keeping an eye on Axminster and Hanu. At the moment, they were just laying in a heap under her table, but she knew those guys, and they could get boisterous.
• Ricky, usually quite as boisterous, was at the moment curled up in the corner of a sofa being morose into his phone. "No, mom, you really can't do that to me," he complained. "We are having this big concert on the -- what you mean, they can play without me just as well? Do you know what the industry is like? Mom??"

• Urquhart was doing the laundry, but one of the washing machines had gone weird on him. He could try and fix it on his own, but it would be much more interesting to find himself some handyman or maid and that way meet more of the staff. So he went up to the first floor to stick his head into the staff corridor and mildly bleat for help.
• Cindy was in the lobby, waiting for Andras to return with the dog. She was reading a cooking magazine, occasionally looking up from it to still not see the two loping shapes come in through the front door.
• Ricky was in the conservatory, wondering whether some seedlings of his mum's illicit crop might be grown here, hidden beneath and behind the regular plants.
• Chandika was sitting in the Mocha, having a Mocha mocha with whipped cream, syrup and sprinkles. She was texting on her phone, and giggling as she was doing so.
• Andras was outside, just around the corner, taking pictures of Axminster who was busy meeting a small pink female poodle.
• Sibyl was in the garden, walking around and looking up at the sky, while obviously deep in thought.

While the rest of the staff had been taking care of lunch, the chef of La Fee Verte had been working on her own getting everything ready for a photo shoot. As planned, Emily had called up the photographer Andras Toth, who had readily promised to take the photos for the book she was writing. When it was almost time for him to show up, Emily ordered everyone in the kitchen to go one by one and change to clean jackets and comb their hair. She was the last one to do so, but before she went to the locker room, she told Thomas Avery supervising the dining room to recieve the photographer should he appear.

Now the children were back in school the gallery was back to normal and Charlie was splitting his time between the office [paperwork] and the desk [being nice to people] and the studio at home.

But drawing was fun and so he sometimes took the opportunity to do a bit while he was waiting for customers or was bored with poking the computer.

Today he was drawing his favourite subject - Deacon - from all kids of angles. He'd need to hide the drawings from anyone other than D - or possibly Seth. Seth might enjoy them.

On a Saturday night, the Lamb usually did brisk business, with many of the usual staff on duty at once, and perhaps a few extra hands here and there. Drink was flowing, food flying from the kitchen, and the noise level of talk and laughter and music was like a warm wall when you came walking in through the front door, out of the crisp early autumn evening air.

Among the many patrons, there were:

• Andras Toth, at the bar with a pint of cider and a basket of fries, watching people and chatting briefly to anybody he knew.
• Cindy Papadopoulos, in a booth in an out-of-the-way corner, drinking a nice red wine and reading a book that she was glaring at quite angrily. She didn't have her wheelchair, just crutches. This had been a good day, and she'd decided to dare going down the pub without wheels.
• Ricky Sands, with a pint of Guiness, monopolising the jukebox even though hardly anybody paid much attention to the music.
• Chandika Malhortra, at a little table in the middle of the bustle, drinking malibu lemonades with a friend, resting high-heeled feet after an afternoon's and early evening's shopping.
• Urquhart, with a half-empty glass of really good single malt (and there had, of course, only ever been the customary finger's breadth), throwing darts at the dartboard near the door. He wasn't playing against anybody, but kept score in his head.
• Sibyl Gray, with a pint of shandy, leaning against a pillar and wondering what her room-mate's 'boyfriend' (if you could apply that word to a well-weathered man in his mid-fifties) was up to, now in particularly, and ultimately as well.

Andras had slipped out of bed fairly early -- for him, and for a Sunday, at least -- and was now busying himself in Fin's kitchen with the usual breakfast things, plus a basket of this or that that he'd sneaked down from his own place upstairs.

As Fin had so nicely come along to the general 'do' last night, he deserved some proper attention now, Andras had decided, with some proper sumptuous birthday breakfast.

Andras hoped he hadn't included anything that Fin was allergic to. He was really allergic to some things, in addition to the old stuff telling him unwanted stories that he was 'allergic' to.

At the moment, Andras was making coffee, in a small metal espresso maker you put on the stove. That at least would work all right.

Nia was in day care so Deacon was hanging out in the Mocha and Charlie had the afternoon off now that Glen Morgan had arrived at the gallery so had joined him for a bite of lunch. Getting a call via Skype from their good friend Andy was just the cherry on the danish.

"I could murder a Mocha danish," now she said. "I could eat a whole sheep. Erik's gone into Monmouth for groceries because I've eaten everything in the village shop. It would be scary if it wasn't such fun."

She grinned at them, her face rounded as her belly, showing nice and clearly on the webcam with the familiar fixtures of the Norton Wood farm kitychen in the background.

"You're looking well," Charlie sid. "Isn't she Deacon? Isn't she looking well."

The line was long, but Fin didn't mind.

He just stood in it and thought beautiful thoughts - mostly about cookies.

Nia was playing with a bucket of water and a child sized watering can, 'helping' by watering the tomato plants she and Charlie had planted in their tenant's plot. And while she was occupied Charlie was taking the opportunity to splash some paint around on a board and asemble a rough sketch of whatever happened to be in his head today.

The painting had started off being of the flowers in the border but the face of a red haired woman kept intruding and he couldn't make up his mind whether it was Ceri or Samantha, Nia's mother. He shook his head and splashed on more paint, wondering what he was trying to tell himself.

Andras was sitting outside the Auberge, with his iPad and a large café au lait, making lists.

He's planning possible classes for the urban teenagers, and thinking of who else he could ask.


[[OOC: For everybody who wanted in on the classes at the community centre: This is the opportunity to join up!]]

Leo had tea and Jimmy had coffee.
Charlie chose a muffin,
Vanilla or banoffee.
Allan, all bruised,
And Vincenzo, off duty,
sighed as they glimpsed
Ms Vale's passing booty.
Nick scowled at Scruffy,
Scruffy wagged his tail.
Fin pieced together
some dog-spitty mail.
And finally Ruth, with her nose in a book,
didn't spare any of the above one look.
There in the Mocha, one girl and seven boys,
Trying to give Maru's pups a bit of choice.

It was a wonderful sunny afternoon, and the Square was full of people. Among them:

• Urquhart, who was sitting by his red door with a bottle of beer, watching football on a little portable TV set.
• Cindy, who was wheeling herself across the entire Square, followed by Axminster, who was slouching along lazily.
• Ricky, who was sitting on the steps of the angel statue and smoking a cigarette. Or something.
• Chandika, who was standing at the window of the new vintage clothes shop, looking eagerly at everything.
• Andras, who was sitting in the Auberge, drinking an iced coffee and watching football on his iPad.
• Sibyl, who was taking a wheelbarrow full of what looked like old horse-blankets from the disreputable antiques shop towards the Manor.

Fin had had to get up early to take a call from a friend in Zurich - silly bastard could never remember whether to add or subtract the hours for the City's time zone - so he'd left Andras to sleep and took himself out for a calming walk while he chatted to Gunther.

Call done, he decided to have breakfast in the Mocha. Savoury muffins, a slice of apple and cinnamon cake and a large pot of coffee. He also had the Sunday paper. Just about perfect.