|Duchesse du Labarre. (laduchesse) wrote in toujoursliberer,|
@ 2008-06-12 18:03:00
|Entry tags:||charlot_abraham, thérèse_du_labarre|
Subject: Hair of the dog, anyone?
Who: Thérèse du Labarre.
Where: Living area - Christopher's estate.
Warnings: Perhaps a scantily-clad woman. Shock horror.
Open to: Charlot Abraham, Christopher Blake, perhaps the other Blake siblings later on.
Perhaps all that wine had been a bad idea. Terrible idea, come to think of it. Really awful. On the list of terrible ideas, drinking all that wine was probably somewhere between JFK's 'let's go to Texas!' idea and Mr Hitler's 'come on, Mrs Hitler, time for some rumpy pumpy' idea. At least, that's what she would've thought, had she been able to predict the future.
Thérèse had made a pact to never drink again.
Never had sunshine been so obnoxious. The light streamed through the windows of the living area where Thérèse was curled on the chaise, upside down, a cup of tea on the floor beside her and her legs over the arm, and had she had the inclination, she would've gotten up and shut the shutters. But she just couldn't be bothered to get up. It was too early to be awake, anyway.
It was this idea that had led to her deciding not to bother dressing. She was simply in her sheer, too-big nightgown, her dark curls splayed over her shoulders and the velvet of the chaise. She was sure no one else would be awake yet, so she hadn't bothered with decency, deciding comfort was more important this morning.
Her head was pounding and her vision was blurry, and once again, she cursed the sunlight. And wine. Wine be damned. God, she hated hangovers.