#in for a pence in for a pound at that point.

[lightkrets312]

love this creature

#play strange horticulture i am asking so politely #my post #strange horticulture #love this funny little fucked up 8-ending mystery puzzle game with The Horrors. love these plants. #love going insane at 5 in the morning trying to figure out what 12-3 is (it's down 2 right 3 i am occasionally silly) #love finangling the map controls while holding the shift buttons cause i've turned into jared 19 again #love hoarding all of my plants and staring each one down meticulously and lovingly studying/sorting them #10/10 would feed a cop to a carnivorous plant again. wish the wikis mentioned THAT was an option #'auuuuu you'll get ARRESTED in the epilogue if you-' Hello Yes Officer Would You Like To Meet More Of My Plants #in for a pence in for a pound at that point. #(if you're seeing this in the game's tag: i am so sorry for the word vomit but this is for my followers. i am insane.)

[ghcstao3]

college au where ghost and soap are dating, but no one knows. what’s the point? a relationship is for themselves, not anyone else.

but being that no one knows, they can pull shit they couldn’t get away with if done with a stranger, just for fun.

like ghost taking friends to the restaurant where soap serves if only to make a point of tipping him exactly five pence every time like an asshole (he slipped a twenty pound note in soap’s uniform apron before he left for his shift).

or like soap demanding ghost remake his overly-complicated coffee order at the local shop where ghost is a barista whenever he’s with others (ghost actually knows his preferred—and much simpler—order and will make that instead of whatever bullshit concoction soap comes up with to make him laugh).

the gentle bullying is just fun for them. it’s their form of a secret affection, so what if it’s a little unconventional?

#theyre just silly little guys yknow #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #soap mw2 #ghost x soap #ghoap #soapghost #ghostsoap #alternate universe

[doomsdaybby]

Five Pounds & Sixty Pence (steven grant x female reader)

what to expect/warnings: switch steven (whiny subby/slightly possessive), mutual pining, steven needs to shut his dirty mouth, squirting, fingering, developing relationship.

I slightly blue balls you at the end but don’t worry about it.

word count: 3.8k

!!EXPLICIT!!

You had been on a few dates with Steven Grant over the past couple of months. The shy, charmingly awkward, beautiful man that worked in the museum gift shop encapsulated you like no other had ever done before.

“That’ll be - uhh - five pounds and sixty pence” his warm eyes glimmered, a polite smile graced his kind face, and you just about melted into a puddle on the floor. You had visited the museum for the first time with some friends early February that year, and were stupidly close to veering away from the gift shop, when the alluring man behind the till caused you to almost trip over your own feet.

“Taweret,” he exhaled a jittered chuckle as you fumbled through your purse, pointing to the small statuette of the goddess whilst his other hand twitched as if he wasn’t sure where to put it, to then clumsily settle on the counter. “Excellent choice”.

You paused and lifted your lashes to gaze at him, his expression bright although he was far from comfortable. He always lost the very little nerve he had around divine women. “She’s pretty,” you said after humming in agreement. Truth be told, you didn’t quite care, your only motivation being that you had to buy something, so that you could linger around the shelves and marvel at the enticing gentlemen behind the counter without making it too obvious.

You smiled back at him when his grin grew bigger, his tousled dark locks bouncing as he nodded eagerly, and you could have sworn his pink cheeks deepened in rouge. ‘Pretty’ maybe wasn’t the word Steven would use, but be it that it was coming from your mouth had him blindly agreeing.

You could tell from the praising comment that he was holding back from explaining why he thought you made a good choice, and if you weren’t being beckoned towards the exit by your friends, you would have enthralled him. His eagerness, the excited glimmer that lingered behind his chocolate irises drew you close, and you wished for more time.

“Thankyou-“ glancing at his name tag that sat slightly lopsided on the pocket of his navy button up, “-Steven” you smiled, handing him the array of pound coins and loose change. “With a V,” he stuttered, pointing to his name badge as if you hadn’t already looked at it. The alluring stranger was now a little less strange, and you silently cursed him for turning your legs to putty for doing virtually nothing.

Steven. How could he make such a generic name seem so endearing?

His gaze scanned your flushed face, lids sitting slightly lazy as you witnessed him slip into a visible small daze. “Oh- uh, yeah. You’re welcome” he stood up straight in a rush, stunned and a little embarrassed upon the realisation that he had drifted.

From then on, you made every excuse to visit the museum every so often, spending days off you would usually squander in your one bedroom flat stealing greedy glances at Steven from between the shelves.

In your free time, with no one there to unwillingly drag you away, you would stand head in hands propped up on your elbows on the other side of the till, listening to him with undivided attention rivet spellbindingly on about the Egyptian Gods and Goddesses.

“Starting a collection, are we?” he grinned, and you recognised that same gleeful glint behind his eyes. You had sparked the conversation once another small statuette, of Isis this time, graced his palms over the counter. “Will you tell me about her?” you requested politely, your feet rooting to the ground beneath you when he began gushing about the major Goddess.

Two months passed before you worked up the courage to ask him out, having talked yourself out of asking him sooner too many times. His reaction to the proposal of drinks after his shift made your heartbeat flutter a little faster; his face automatically brightened whilst blinking at you in almost disbelief.

“Is… that a… yes?” you prodded, unable to stifle the schoolgirl-esque giggle that wormed its way out of your chest when he was rendered mute. There he was again, swimming in that ditsy daydream that he would often visit when he was around you, a far off gaze that made his eyes twinkle.

Steven shook his head, coming to his senses quicker than he would if you had drenched him in ice water, “Oh! Yes! -“ he cleared his throat, “Yes. Absolutely! Give me uhhh…,” he glanced at his watch, “Half an hour?”.

The first date was even more wonderful than you could have imagined, never tiring of his over enthusiastic gleeful voice laced with more delight than you had ever witnessed when you prodded him more about his knowledge on ancient Egypt, surprised that he wasn’t already a tour guide.

“You’re wasted at that place, they don’t deserve you” you told him with utmost sincerity, after becoming excessively annoyed by his heavy sigh once you asked why he was still working in the gift shop. Not at him, of course, but at his stupid boss. Why did they not see how wonderful he was?

Though it settled your heart when you practically saw the sunken purple under lethargic eyes bore a healthy glow to match the warm tan of his skin, realising that he probably didn’t have somebody to tell him how great he actually was. His lips curled into a small smile, settling there as his cheeks turned to that familiar rouge.

“Will I… will I be able to see you again?” he asked apprehensively as he helped you with your coat, stumbling slightly almost as if he expected a refusal. You turned to him, enjoying the way he would evidently allow intrusive thoughts to sway his body language and facial expressions, his eyes furiously scanning your face for some sort of cue, praying to every God that the answer wasn’t no.

You straightened the collar of his shirt, resisting the urge to run your hands over his strong shoulders that were hidden underneath the oversized geometric fabric, that you quickly caught on was one of his favourites.

And like a moth to a flame, you couldn’t resist.

So now here you were, two weeks later curled up on Steven’s grey fabric couch in his dingy London flat, chowing down on some noodles from the local Chinese takeaway. It was a battle within itself to wiggle your way into his flat in the first place, stunting the tried and true trusty puppy dog eyes and pouty lip that had him practically melting in front of you.

Glancing beside you, your stomach pooled with an overwhelming warmth. “God, this is amazing!”, the delight coating his words snapped you out of a trance you didn’t realise you were in, watching how his face would twist into gleeful smiles and theatrical gasps. Who knew a movie about hobbits and wizards would have him so enthralled?

He was so innocently sublime, overwhelmingly beguiling to every degree and beyond, and somehow he was interested in you. At least that’s what you would like to think, as every time he made the smallest move he would proceed to hastily back out at the last second.

If your hands touched he would allow his fingers to linger there for a moment, before whisking it away as quickly as it appeared amidst an awkward clear of the throat.

“What?” he laughed when he noticed you staring, cheeks stuffed full of noodles and eyes glittering with wonder. You clocked the steal of a glance at your lips, which only made your smile grow wider and your cheeks flush a deeper pink. “Nothing,” you replied, returning your attention to the film, relishing in the sensation of his gaze raking across your face.

You would kill to know what he was thinking at that moment. Hoping that he shared in your desire; as if he were to give you the green light, that god awful geometric shirt would be ripped from his torso and cast to the floor quicker than he could say ‘Hathor’.

But you wanted Steven to be the one to take it further, as you already felt that you had to step on his throat to even get past the first date, let alone hold grapple him in a chokehold to get through his front door.

You couldn’t be the one to hold the reins forever, and if either of you wanted there to be a forever, he would have to pluck up the courage to take it that one step forward.

There was a kindling fire behind those dark chocolate eyes that screamed for a spark; a match, a fan to the flame, anything, to transform into a raging inferno. You savoured the anticipation, relishing in the fact that at any moment, the embers would ignite.

You could cut the thick tense blanket that swallowed the atmosphere with a knife, the longer Steven stared the quicker your heart would beat, spiralling exponentially towards concaving in your chest. “You’re not watching,” you told him, pretending that you didn’t just want to pounce on him there and then.

“Yeah… yeah” he nodded dizzily, admiring the curve of your lips and the slither of collar bone that peaked out from under your cotton t-shirt. He audibly swallowed, a small shake of his head as he too returned even a morsel of attention back to the screen, having to unbutton the collar of his shirt.

And for the next two hours you sat in near complete silence, a comfortable silence at that, eventually sitting parallel knee against knee, two spoons shovelling into one bowl of raspberry ripple ice cream. You both shared the odd glance and smirk when the other gasped at the tv screen, cannily drinking in the look on Steven’s face when he was consumed with laughter.

Becoming slightly tired of dangling on the edge of expectation, you shuffled over towards Steven’s side of the couch and rested your head on his shoulder. You could call it a bold move, as his bicep clenched under your touch, but would soon relax when your arm snaked through his to curl into a comfortable link.

He smelled so good. Like coffee beans and that generic cedarwood aftershave every man on the planet would wear. But it was like new when it came from him. You found yourself leaning into him, heart fluttering and head promising sin. If your eyes could take the shape of hearts, then they would have done at this moment. It was almost too much to bear.

“This was fun,” Steven said sheepishly whilst leaning against the doorframe of his front door, another perfect example of the fact that he never knew how to place himself, always appearing so self-conscious and fuelled by unease. “I like spending time with you,” you admitted, the first time either of you had explicitly informed the other that you actually valued when you were together.

Another bashful grin, both rows of teeth on full display as he glanced at the floor. You had half expected him to lift a leg up behind him like the lead female role would do in a rom-com. “We should do something again soon, yeah?” his eyes connected with yours, and your ribcage splintered. You didn’t want to leave. Not right now.

But it was obvious he didn’t want you to stay, and you lingered there for what felt like an eternity, screaming at him in your head to let you stay with him a little while longer.

“See you soon, Steven with a V” you turned to begin your walk to the uber waiting outside of the flat block, the lack of offer to, at the very least, walk with you resonating a painful sting.

But you barely even took a step, having only turned your back before you felt a strong grip of calloused fingers along the nook of your elbow. Spinning around, you didn’t have a chance to utter a single syllable before his lips were on yours. You leant forward towards him again, hands flying to his curls whilst his glide over your sides, mesmerising every curve and dip of your padded flesh, twisting around your back.

One hand settles on the small of your back, the other pressing frightenglingy harshly between your shoulder blades. He held you there, rooting you to the ground and suddenly feeling fragile and small in his grasp, waiting to be consumed and devoured. If he pressed any harder you would surely combust under the pressure.

Every shared glance, every hover of delicate fingers on skin, and every heartfelt compliment shattered and swelled all at once within this kiss. You had wanted it from the moment you saw him, with his lopsided name tag and dishevelled brooding appearance.

Your stomach flipped, lungs knotting themselves together amongst the sheer disbelief that you finally got to touch him, possessively and obediently. From your shoulder blades his large palm skates to hook around the back of your neck, forcing you closer as your teeth chattered against one another.

As much as you could stand here forever with him, consuming his taste and touch in every way possible, you couldn’t fuck him out in the corridor. So mustering up the might to push him back, he whimpered as your lips disconnected, his pink tongue chasing your mouth in a desperate attempt to keep you sealed together.

With the fabric of his shirt wadded in the palm of your hand and his shaking breath brushing your nose, you walked him back and shut the front door, not wasting another second before tugging on his shirt to pull him right back in. Steven jolted against you, swiftly lunging himself forward as your tongues twisted together before your lips even had the chance to reconnect.

He tasted of raspberry ice cream, so sweet, and you felt the stretch of his lips as he smiled into you. His large hands found your hips, digging fingertips into the soft flesh underneath the sheer fabric of your dress to quickly smooth over the hurt when you winced.

The awkward, sunken-so-far-down-in-his-chair-he-near-folded-in-on-himself, unimpeachable Steven had been flung out of the nearest window. This new form of himself that held you with such ferocity was uncharted territory, and you liked it.

He was desperate. And so were you.

“Oh god… is this okay?” he questioned against your lips as his fingers fumble with the hem of your dress, returning to those stuttering words and unsure wandering hands that were crying out to explore your body.

“Fuck, Steven, of course it’s okay” your voice dripped with arousal, a twinge of annoyance simmering behind your tone at his apprehensiveness. “Do whatever you want. It’s okay. This-“ you seized his hands and brought them up to harshly squeeze the tissue of your breasts, “-is okay”.

His eyes widened in a spectacular fashion as soon as his clammy palms kneaded the tender flesh, again frantic when they flickered between your chest and your face, unsure of where to look but knowing exactly what to do next.

Green light.

“‘Do whatever you want’, yeah?” his lips curled into a blood curdling grin, every cell in your body crystallising when you physically witnessed his eyes transcend darker. “Oh, darling. I will” and your heartbeat skyrocketed, much did the second one south of your hips that thumped with wicked urgent intent.

His kiss-bruised lips latched to your throat, and you felt yourself titling your head back against the door to give him easier access. As he nipped at the sensitive skin of your throat, one hand suctioned to your breast, resonating an ache that paired with the brutish force of his palming.

He wasted no time to send the other prowling up underneath your dress; nimble quick fingertips ghosting over the skin of your belly, sparking an array of goosebumps in their wake, tracing over the rolls of your sides along your ribs, settling against the cushion of your naked bosom.

Steven groaned against your neck, the rumbling adding to the multitude of sensations that had your breathing latch and heartbeat frantic. The only thing you could do was to hang onto him for dear life, your hands grasping to the roots of his curls as he had you pinned against the doorway, belligerently sucking welts of blue and purple against your skin.

“Fuck, Steven…” his name rolled off your tongue with an embarrassing simplicity, ready to fall to your knees if he commanded you to do so. You tightened your grip on his tousled curls, enough so that you winced at the mere thought of how it felt, but Steven only omitted a delighted groan in return.

He wedged himself against you, rolling his hips against your thigh where you quickly became aware of his own arousal, cock straining deliciously in his jeans. “Poor baby…” you cooed, reaching down to glide your hand over his clothed erection. He whimpered, a needy sound you had never quite heard before, fingers digging into your skin again so harshly you were bound to be bruised.

He melts against you, dragging a hand down to tease the waistband of your panties as your palm flattens along his apparent bulge. His head is buried into the crook of your neck, hot trembling moaning breaths fanning along your collarbone and chest. From this angle you could kiss along his glistening hairline, travelling towards his temple as you allowed him to drift again, savouring every little touch and squeeze in between.

“That’s it, darling” he drawled in response when you opened your legs for him, right on cue for his fingers to dip below the cloth concealing your modesty. Drawing him closer, ragged breaths seared the back of your throat as thick fingers discover how soaked you are for him. Ready and waiting, utterly dripping, for him.

“Fuck,” he runs his fingertips over the mound of your clit, breathing out a laugh of almost disbelief when you squeak. He must have felt your heart skip a beat; pulling his head back now to peer at you with a new wanderlust daze of sheer awestruck and admiration, a smirk painting his stupidly perfect face when those same fingers slid down to your slick entrance.

As if your state of arousal wasn’t obvious enough, as Steven teased your folds over and over again, the sound of it was a dead giveaway. “So fucking wet for me…” that familiar delight lingered behind his words, as if he had been presented with a professionally wrapped gift on christmas morning, satin bow and all.

“All for you…” you made sure he knew it. How devoted you were to him, how you would do anything he said at the drop of a hat. You had been hooked since the beginning. His thumb pad finally began to circle your clit, clumsily at first but he soon found his rhythm.

Now it was your turn to melt against him, fighting clawing urges to both hold his gaze and also throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut amongst the pleasure. Just as you thought you were as close to heaven as you could get, Steven pushed a thick ring finger into your aching heat, catapulting you to a place otherworldly.

“Jesus! Steven!”, although you were more than prepared for him, the sudden sensation of becoming so full by just a finger was a jolting surprise within itself. He stared at you slack jawed, running his tongue absentmindedly over his bottom lip, watching you spurred with sacrilegious intent.

You ground down against him in a stupor, silently begging for more. Of course, Steven wouldn’t leave you hanging, as much as the thought of you pleading for him danced in his head, he wasn’t about to deprive this sweet sweet Goddess of the pleasure she deserved. There was plenty of time to practice those fantasies he pushed to the back of his mind.

He slips in another finger with ease, the initial shock of his presence within you settling, the familiar warmth pooling at the pit of your stomach. “That’s it, angel. Such a good girl” he cooed in your ear, returning his lips that glimmered with saliva to your reddened throat, purring buttery sweet nothings against your skin.

“Oh my fucking god,” you squirmed away from his touch, the firecrackers rippling along your spine teetering on the edge of too much to bear. But in this position, trapped between a wooden door and a man that was built as if chiselled from polished marble, you had nowhere to go.

And jesus fuck, you were glad to be caged.

Steven pulled his fingers back out of you again, and this time you whimpered in the same desperate tone he adorned only minutes ago. But with a shift of his posture and a curve of his wrist, he curled his fingers up into you at a new unrelenting angle that had you chanting with no cohesion.

He suckled at your flesh, the bulging arteries that pumped mercilessly with hot blood beckoning him like a siren call. “Oh god, Steven. Steven!” your whimpers became cries, cries became muffled screams that were stunted by the weight of his free hand that clasped rapidly over your mouth. The last thing he needed was a noise complaint from his shitty neighbours.

“Are you going to cum for me, angel? Such a pretty baby, falling apart all because of my fingers? You have no idea what my cock can do to you” the filth that stringed from his lips were enough to tip you over that edge, his voice as sweet as honey yet cold as ice. You never imagined such vulgarity to bubble from the throat of someone so… well, someone like Steven.

Your throat splintered under the weight of your cries, moan after moan ripping from your chest as you flooded the palm of his hands. You faintly heard what can only be described as rain in a thunderstorm hammering down south of your hips, head fuzzy and brain buzzing.

You noticed Steven’s bewildered and exhilterated expression as his focus dipped to his fingers that ploughed you through your high, slowing to a steady pace as your cries dwindled into soft moans. “Bloody hell, can you do that again?!“ his boyish pitch had returned, and it was when you fully came to your senses that you realised what had happened.

Titling your head down to follow his wide eyes, your chest began to cave in once again through the panic of realisation. You saw the front of Steven’s jeans first, splashed with the result of your orgasm, then; the tips of his fingers still aligned with your entrance, his palm and wrist dripping with your cum.

And the floor. God. The floor had become puddled with more arousal than you had ever seen. You knew you were capable, but goddamn, you had never squirted this much before.

“Oh jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t-“ but you were cut off by his lips sealing with yours in a flurry, quickly shutting you up and snuffing out any doubt that has risen in your head. “Don’t you dare apologise,” he warned, tone so buttery and genuine as he kissed away any shame or uncertainty.

“I'm going to make you do that again”.

—————————————————————————

woohoo! my first moon knight fic.

feedback is always appreciated! 💖

should I do a second part? I think that’s fair lmao.

#steven grant #steven grant x reader #steven grant smut #steven grant fanfiction #moon knight #unapologetic oscar isaac content #oscar isaac #marvel #marvel fan fiction #mcu imagine #moon knight imagine #steven grant imagine #slight follow of canon #but also not really #fanfiction writer #doomsdaybby

[tokyogirl07]

Watson’s Army Pension and Baker Street Rent

In A Study in Scarlet (Which I think is supposed to take place in 1881?), Watson’s Army pension is 11 shillings and 6 pence a day. 1 Shilling is 12 Pence, thus Watson’s daily pay is 11.5 shillings. 1 Pound is 20 Shillings. 11.5 x 30 days (Average days in a month) is 345 Shillings a month. Divided by 20 is 17.25 Pounds a month. Times that by 12 months means that Watson met Holmes, his annual salary was about 207 Pounds. In today’s money, that’d be about 32,202 Pounds a year, about 619 Pounds a week, or 2,683.5 Pounds a month. Or about $38,470 a year, about $740 a week, and about $3,206 a month. Bonus: Both Holmes and Watson were in their twenties when they met. Hell, Holmes was still taking college classes. According to Murray's Handbook to London As It is, 1879, "’Elegantly furnished rooms’ in [the] West End” (Which is where Baker Street was) were between 4 to 15 Guineas a week. 207 Pounds a year is a little over 4 Pounds a week. 1 Guinea is 1 Pound and 1 Shilling. 11.5 Shillings x 7 days is 80.5 Shillings a week (Or 4 Pounds and a Sixpence a week), which is 3 Guineas, 19 Shillings,  and a Sixpence a week. At minimum, Watson would probably spend about 2 Guineas on rent a week (If we go with the modern 33% of pay on rent rule of thumb). Going halves with Holmes would bring them right at the low end of the average West End weekly rent. Other factors would include how much Watson was actually willing to pay for rent vs his weekly salary, his increase in salary with the books sales and medical consultations, and if he and Holmes shared the money they got for solving cases. (We haven’t gotten there yet, but if the Granada series is to be believed, at one point Holmes is paid the Victorian equivalent of a little over a million dollars before it got doubled to about 2.5 million.) In later books, it sort of seems like Holmes takes over paying the whole rent (he was able to live in Baker Street alone when Watson got married, Watson sold his medical practice when he moved back in and he never had one when he lived at Baker Street). *Shrugs* If you ever wanted to know how much Holmes and Watson payed for rent it’d be about 2 - 7.5 Guineas or 1.05 - 7.88 Pounds a week a piece, which would be 163.34 - 1,225.85 Pounds or $195.13 - $1,464.46 a week a piece today.  Most likely, their rent would be closer to the lower range. So, at minimum in today’s money, 163.34 Pounds a piece ($195.13 a week, $845.56 a month, and $10,146.76 a year) and 326.68 Pounds together per week. ($390.27 a week, $1,691.17 a month, $20,294.04 a year) In other words, at the least, in total they pay more than I do. Historically, the West End is not cheap. Go, Mrs. Hudson.

EDIT: Upon rechecking my figures, I was off on Doctor Watson’s annual income by about 2-3 pounds. Doesn’t really change much though. Also, in today’s money, Watson was making a little over $106 daily. Or almost 88 Pounds.

#Sherlock Holmes #Dr John Watson #Doctor John Watson #John Watson #Baker Street #ACD Holmes #ACD Watson #Books #A Study in Scarlet #Early Holmes and Watson are Young Adults #Money Talk #Mrs. Hudson #The London West End #Fun with Maths #221b Baker Street #Mrs Hudson also pays for a live-in-maid and a pageboy #Plus she cooks and cleans for these two #Lady makes a good living #At most she was making over 200 pounds a year at the minimum rent #That's nearly 5x that of your average highly paid housekeeper #Victorian Era #Letters From Watson #1881 #Victorian Era Middle Class #Is Holmes paying for all those dates? #Opera is expensive #So are those restaurants #HolmesIsTheCanonicalBreadwinner

[voidscreamintheories]

HtP Theory: Blue Man in a Pound Land 1 of 2

Spoilers for Hunter the Parenting This is part 2 of a series exploring the potential identity of Big D, and what we can do with that information. Part 1 here

The Blue Man. Who is he? Well, obviously HE IS THE BLUE MAN. And also an allegory for capitalism. As I understand it there are organizations in WoD who are big capitalist nightmare companies that are either ran by demons/devils or they try to shove demons into their products to get demons into the heads of their customers (maybe both at the same time!). So it would not be out of the realm of possibility for “Line must go up” Blue Man to be a demon of some variety. The whole interaction about GROWTH and inevitability is obvious capitalism satire, yes, but I think also points towards the Blue Man as being only part of a greater whole. Perhaps similar to a branch of a chain. Though in this case the corporation is some evil cabal of demons from hell. The suggestion to “invest” may have been a classic “join us and experience great power” villain trope. Similarly “We are coming soon” implies that this group of demons is planning to break out of hell soon.

“If he’s a demon doesn’t that mean he is a fallen angel like D? How come D needs to inhabit some frail old guy to be on earth? Didn’t you say that demons might need a bunch of magic users to call them up?” Great questions all, and ones that I think actually help the idea of him being some kind of fiendish being. If he is the same type of demon as what I theorize Big D is, a fallen angel, then he doesn’t have to be a good one like D. Some of the fallen decide to roll with the punches and just lean into being evil bastards, perhaps the Blue Man is one such high torment being. Or perhaps he’s another kind of malevolent entity that my unawakened mind calls “demon” because he fits a lot of criteria that I associate with those creatures, even if he is something else. One example here is the possession of a frail body/soul: On one hand, maybe the old, oxygen deprived body we see IS the host of the Blue Man, an aged and hypoxic man. On the other hand, and what I believe to be the case, maybe the Blue Man doesn’t need to be fully over the threshold and on earth to do whatever it is he wants to do, and that leads into who might be calling him. At the end of the audiolog we see the manager call up the Tremere regent and she informs her that D found the pit, which she calls the “entrance”. So if the Blue Man was called by a group of magic users, I think I know a certain bunch who would fit. However, let’s discuss that at the end of this theory.

I think it’s made clear to us by the end of D’s part in the audiolog that the encounter we witnessed was not happening in the flesh and blood real world. The distorted sound during the encounter, and the evidence D himself notes indicate it was some kind of mental/spiritual encounter. BUT D does get a physical blender, and a very nice one at that, so what does this mean? I think the Blue Man and the 99 pound shop represent a classic Faustian bargain. A deal with the devil where you get precisely what you want, and it might even seem like a good deal on the surface (a very expensive blender for only 99p!), but the REAL price is more than you thought you were bargaining for. In this case that may have been literal, D’s horror at being in a 99 POUND store instead of 99 pence, but I also suspect figuratively. There is no way D just gets that blender and walks away, there will likely be some devil-deal cost somewhere down the line. HOWEVER, D didn’t pay the full cost of the item. Giles spotted him a pence because he was one short. I don’t think this moment was put in as a throwaway. Either this means D has a way to wiggle out of the deal and associated cost on a technicality: He didn’t pay the full price and thus the deal didn’t actually happen. This would fit with some of D’s behaviour around legal dealings, such as not TECHNICALLY being divorced from Occam since D never signed the papers. Back to Giles though, there is also the potential that him chipping in to paying for the blender means he is now roped into whatever punishment is coming D’s way.

Have to split this post up again, too many words, second half here

#fan theory #h:tp #htp #hunter the parenting #hunter: the parenting #htp big d #htp the blue man #htp giles

[mysticalspiders]

How much did Art’s telegram cost?

I hate to disagree with someone in the dracula daily community but I have been mulling over @jonathomas-harker’s post about the cost of Arthur’s telegram to Quincy for months. As someone fascinated with the value of money in different time periods 75 dollars in todays money to send a telegram just seemed a bit to high. For sure, telegrams were fairly new and not used by the average person to the extent as letters (as that post lays out very well!) but telegrams were still accessible to the average person in the case of an emergency and 75 dollars to send a quick message just felt too high. And by the 1890s the cost to send a telegram was dropping as the technology was improved. 

So I went on an investigative mission myself. 

Small caveat to say that the idea of inflation breaks down the father from modern times you are. However, dracula daily has shown that the 1890s are relatively modern (S.P.C.A.? Cameras?) and since we are only looking for a ballpark and this is well into the industrial era inflation is fairly good for an estimate. 

I ended up with Art’s telegram costing around 10 pounds in todays money. 

Here is how I broke it down:

1. I first started by figuring out how much a telegram would cost in the 1890s (an exact date wouldn’t actually be useful given how little information there is on this and the fact that the exact year dracula is set is relatively unclear). Thank you to @jonathomas-harker for pointing me toward this site which said that in 1885 (that is as close as we are going to get) 12 words costs 6 pence and each additional word is a 1/2 pence. Art’s telegram was 15 words so 7 1/2 pence in 1885. 

2. For context in 1890 pre decimilization there are 240 pence in a pound. (thanks to @silenthunteruk for this correction!)

3. To make sure that I had the most accurate math possible I then tried to figure out what 1 pound in 1890 (for connivance) would be in pounds in 2022. 

I used this website but I checked a few others and all gave me around the same number. 

1 pound in 1890 is 142 pounds in 2022. 

4. 1 pound (1890) is 142 pounds (2022) so 1 pence is 0.59 pounds today.

5. So if 1 pence is 0.59 pounds 7.5 pence would be 

4.5 pounds for Art’s telegram.

This is still fairly expensive for sending the modern equivalent of a thumbs up (with unnecessary words no less!) but not ridiculous especially if you are the only son Lord Godalming.

6. For context a letter would have cost around 1 pence or 1/2 a pound so this still costs about 10 times as much as a letter would have cost!

(7. for those of us who want this in dollars 4.5 pounds is around 5.5 dollars.)

#dracula daily #arthur holmwood #no hate towards anyone elses calculations! #the math can be very complicated and information hard to find and relatively dubious #there is so much guesstimating here #i just have had this saved as a project for months and finally wanted to come up with my own estimate!

[trealamh]

Copper

Day 2 of ScotEng week:

Drama // family, consequences, worth // “Do you really believe that?”

[What is it with the wedding themes in all of these prompts you might ask? The answer is ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I’m just happy to be writing again do not question my life choices’. This takes place in an AU where Arthur has been half in love with Alasdair all of his life. He runs off after introducing him to Francis and watching them fall in love. Francis doesn’t let go of him so easily and so he and Arthur stay in touch, but Alasdair hasn’t heard from Arthur in years. Alasdair and Francis are walking down the aisle in two days; Arthur loves them both and cannot fathom that they could love him back.

Ask me about the coins and the salt in the piss pot and I will tell you a wee bit about Scottish wedding traditions.]

-------

His eyes find Arthur across the room at every turn and he does not lie to himself. He is seeking him out of the corner of his eye, drawn to the sound of his voice and the familiar shape of him in a crowd. He keeps to himself, lingering near windows and walls, his back never turned to the door. Alasdair looks at him and sees negative space; sees five years into the past. He thinks that Arthur’s hair might be a little longer, his posture a little better. His clothes lived in but well-fitted. He looks well.

Alasdair should not be looking.

Just across from him, Francis looks happy; is happy. He looks beautiful backlit by the warm light of the faux sconces on the homely walls of the pub. And Arthur loves him, Alasdair knows he does. He would not be here, if he didn’t. Not when… He would not be here.

Someone (Sean, probably) has put a piss pot full of salt in Francis’ hands and he is making the round around the pub trading in kisses for copper. Francis’ friends from abroad throw in two pound coins and kiss him so hard that they nearly bowl Francis over. If he keeps his feet on the ground it is only because they hold him up, arms held firm at his waist, hands amiable and familiar on his body. Alasdair could no more resent the easy way Francis loves and is loved than he would his smiles or the sound of his laughter. There is something in him that aches though, watching now as he makes his way to Arthur to earn his due. Arthur’s tight lips quirk in what is almost a smile and he drops two pence into the pot. He turns his face when Francis leans in and Francis does not chase his mouth, content to press a lingering kiss to the soft swell of Arthur’s cheek like a brother.

Alasdair’s fingers itch to curl into a fist. He goes to find another pint instead.

At some point in the night half their party heads off down the street to the next pub over and the rest split ways. Francis does not try to coax Alasdair away but leaves him behind with a quick embrace and a whispered promise. Alasdair will not keep him to it and takes the damned piss pot to put aside. Fuck knows where Sean’s been off to; he hasn’t seen Daffyd all night. Alasdair should call him in the morning and ask why, why? Did Arthur say...?

 Or he could ask Arthur himself, it seems.

He cuts a lonely figure, the sole person left behind, half-sitting on a table top with his hands held loosely between his thighs. There is no device in his presence here, no gambit or intent. This place felt like it was theirs once, back when Alasdair had first put down the anchor to rebuild the family business from the ground up. Every hour he had spent sanding the floors and thatching the sunken benches had been worth Arthur’s evenings spent pouring over ledgers and faded receipts. He never took a cent for any of it, shrugging off Alasdair’s offers coarsely and claiming ownership to nothing more than the black ink on the records that first fiscal year they broke even. Alasdair knows now that it was more than pride that kept Arthur one step removed but he struggles to follow the logic of his actions. He cannot guess at the storms that brew behind the green of Arthur’s eyes unless he puts them into words. All he knows is that for all that he is difficult Arthur is also honest. For a while he belonged to these rooms as much as the furniture, and so if anyone has the right to beg off from the revelry of a wedding that isn’t his and spend the night letting his eyes get lost in the woodgrain instead, it is him.

“You were right.” Arthur breaks the silence and Alasdair is caught short, unsure of what he means.

“The sconces,” he clarifies, and makes eye contact with Alasdair only briefly before looking away again. “It was worth wiring them. The room does not need any more light than this.”

Alasdair hums, and thinks back to the arguments that had very little heat at heart.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Arthur shrugs.

“I don’t suppose it’s cold enough to warrant a fire.” He is thinking out loud and doing a fine job of ignoring Alasdair, eyes on the ash stains that frame the fire place.

So, Alasdair does what he’s always done best. He puts himself right where Arthur cannot ignore him.

Arthur keeps his weight resting on the table behind him but straightens up from his slump when Alasdair comes close enough. He looks at the enamel piss pot he is still holding by the handles first and then, finally, his face.

“I’m short on change,” he deadpans.

Alasdair huffs his amusement without smiling and sets it to the side. The salt and coins resettle with the movement, scratching the bottom of the pan.

“Will you stay?” Alasdair has never known how to keep from sounding angry when he speaks low like this.

Arthur opens his mouth to speak and he interrupts him before he can argue.

“For the wedding,” he clarifies, and thinks in numbers. Two nights and three days. Arthur must have arrived earlier in the day, and he will be staying the night. Alasdair does not know where he might be staying but he’ll have dropped his bags there, some spare clothing and formalwear, for the ceremony. Another pair of shoes.

Arthur looks at him silently, his expression blank but softened by the lax set of his lips. He nods, barely there but he nods, and Alasdair feels at one like he can breathe and like one of his ribs had popped out of place to dig painfully into the soft tissue of his lungs.

“There’s a spare room—”

“Upstairs.” Arthur finishes for him with finality and for the first time there is something like anger in his eyes. “Across from yours.”

What Arthur means and does not have to say outright is that it would be cruel at best to have him stay. Alasdair knows that and offered anyways because somehow it feels worse not to have Arthur under his roof. Francis would be glad to have him. He would come out of the bedroom in the morning to find Arthur tucked into their kitchen nook and smile wide enough to hurt. He would kiss Alasdair’s neck to thank him silently for whatever bargain he’d made to bring Arthur home. Even if he told him so, and tried to explain, Arthur would not believe him.

“Aye.” He will try anyways. “Across from ours.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches and he breathes an angry huff, looking like he is of a mind to storm off. The only thing that stays him might very well be that Alasdair is standing so close that he’d have to shove him aside to leave.

“Where are you staying?” Alasdair asks, though he’s starting to suspect he already knows the answer.

“I’m not.” Arthur snaps.

Alasdair holds his ground, scowling right back until Arthur’s temper begins to flag.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he laments, bringing up a hand to press against his forehead and dragging it down to his eyes.

“Why did you?” Alasdair presses.

Arthur shakes his head lightly and for once Alasdair lets it be.

“You can’t be driving.” He tries for reason. “And you’ll not find a room this late, the inn’s booked full. You could call—” he tries to think of anyone Arthur would trust enough to impose on and comes up short. “—someone. I’ll call someone for you if you’re set on being stubborn.”

Arthur’s hand is still covering his eyes, but he is very obviously grinding his jaw.

“Or you could stay.” Alasdair finishes brusquely. “And come upstairs to sleep in the spare room.” Your room, he wishes he could say still.

Arthur exhales and drags his hand down roughly to cover his mouth instead. He looks up at Alasdair through the mess of his fringe for a long moment before he speaks.

“I haven’t been drinking,” he says and sounds like he is only trying to himself not to stay.

“If you stay, you’ll want to.”

That at least makes Arthur snort.

“Sure,” he agrees, and Alasdair can suddenly picture him years younger and curled into the sunken couch upstairs, a hot toddy held in his hands.

But this isn’t the Arthur he remembers. He looks tired, suddenly, and speaks with a gravity that begs no argument.

“I left for a reason.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Arthur raises his chin in a challenge.

They will have to have it out. If not now, then later. They will have to talk and figure things out if they have any hope of keeping the peace long enough to see the wedding out. For Francis’ sake he would rather it be now. For Arthur, he can be patient.

“Why, then?”

Arthur searches his face, chewing on his lower lip like he is struggling to find the words to parry along the confrontation he wanted.

“Because I couldn’t…” he tries, and sighs like he is frustrated with himself. “I don’t want this. I don’t know if I can want this. And I do not know who I am to you and what my place in your life is if we’re not fucking.”

Alasdair swallows back his anger and counts to ten in his mind.

This is the effect of having taken all that Arthur offered before he knew any better and questioned his motives. It is all so clear in hindsight that it chaffs against his pride that he could be so blind, once. There is equal blame to place on Arthur for his silence— for running away— and every opportunity he let pass without making himself known. Alasdair could have loved him better, would have if only Arthur had told him how. Never fucked him at all, for all that matters. Has never even kissed him like he deserved to be. And now there is another person to consider and half a decade of missed opportunities to work through.

Every word they speak now will carry the consequences of their past omissions, so Alasdair does not stop to consider his words and says what he wishes he has told Arthur years ago instead.

“You are family,” he declares and shakes his head roughly once before Arthur can interrupt him. “Whether you stay or leave. This place is yours, a third of it, a half. Whatever you will claim of it is yours to keep. And you are family. To Francis, to me. As much as Sean and Dai could ever be; more, for who you are to us. To both of us.”

Arthur’s eyes on him are intent.

“Do you really believe that?” he asks, and Alasdair has always known deep down that before he is anything else, Arthur is a cynic that wants to be proven wrong.

“Is it so hard to believe?”

The question hangs in the air for a beat too long. Arthur drops his gaze.

“What will you tell Francis?”

Alasdair grunts.

“That if he had time enough to orchestrate this while running me ragged he could have spared a moment to wash the bedding in the guest room.”

That startles a huff of laughter out of Arthur, but it sounds a little wet. One of his hands is back, hovering near his lips in an old nervous gesture.

Alasdair has never been good with words. He resorts to his hands instead and buries one deep into the roots of Arthur’s hair. It feels thicker than it looks and is coarser than Francis’; a shade closer to sand than gold.

He would not be surprised to find the bedsheets in the guest bedroom washed and pressed, all the edges tucked neatly under the corners of the mattress the way Francis never makes their own bed. There is no hurry, though. He’ll wash them himself if he needs to and keep Arthur company while the washing machine makes a racket in the kitchen, spinning through the dry cycle. If the sheets come out damp he’ll spare Arthur half of theirs and the thick, woollen blanket they only pull down from the cupboard in the winter. For now, he lets himself relearn Arthur’s warmth with his nose buried in his temple and thinks in numbers. Six more hours until morning. Three cups of coffee over breakfast in three mismatched mugs. One more night before his wedding and ahead of that a lifetime worth its weight in copper.

#something a little longer for day 2! #scoteng #scoteng week 2023 #scotfra #hws england #hws scotland #aph england #aph scotland #i would imagine that Alasdair is the kind of mind to value copper over gold #someone prompted me to write infidelity a while back and it morphed into polyamory #scotfruk #Francis is in fact extremely pleased that his gambit played off and he does kiss Alasdair in the morning #it'll be a while longer until he can kiss Arthur too but they'll get there #i should continue this one day

[myemuisemo]

In a spirit of vexation after missing out on Dracula Daily, I whimsically signed up for every "feed you a bit of classic story a day" email on offer, which turns out kind of awesome.

It has just started giving me Sherlock Holmes with fresh eyes. I first read Sherlock Holmes at age 8, guiltily checking out The Boy's Sherlock Holmes from the kiddie room at the library (I was not a boy). I have no idea now what, if anything, was redacted to make the stories boy-friendly, nor why Sherlock Holmes was not considered appropriate for girls (but I grew up in an era when math wasn't considered appropriate for girls, so maybe it was the reliance on logic).

The first fan fic I ever tried to write was about two young women living upstairs from Sherlock Holmes and Watson. I have no doubt it was going to be absolute drivel (because I was eight!), but Mom found it and forbade me to write fan fic. (Spoiler: as an adult, I write fan fic.)

Anyway, being an adult with access to online inflation calculators, I took Watson's "11 shillings sixpence" in daily income circa 1881 and worked out how much it would be today in USD.

There are 20 shillings to a pound and 6 pence to a shilling, so Watson's daily bread is almost 3/5 of a pound. One pound in 1881 is estimated at just short of 150 GBP today, though the calculator straight-lines inflation rather than using actual numbers. Three-fifths of 150 is 90 GBP a day, or about $115 USD at the current exchange rate. The Strand was an important location, close to political power, back then, so Watson is not being sarcastic about the niceness of his lodgings. We can gather that hotels cost less in relation to income then, though not enough less to allow a man to comfortably afford suits, cigars, and entertainment on Watson's income.

His annual income of about 33,000 GBP in current money would put him on the edge of middle class in northern England but be about half of what he needs to be middle class in London. Thus the choice of rusticating or finding someone to split lodging costs!

Meanwhile, it is striking how Holmes, in his character-establishing (well, hinting) introduction uses the language of children's adventure stories. He would fit into Louisa May Alcott's Little Men without altering a word! Alcott is not a fan of moodiness and would insist he learn character-building lessons, but he is, at this point, a good sort of chap, just a bit intense about his interests.

#sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes daily #daily sherlock holmes

[rgbcym]

needed some sweet paprika and some peppermint tea so went to my local zero waste shop and i had some points on my account so even including a donation to a food bank my organic paprika and organic tea cost me a whopping one pound (£1) and zero pence (0p)

#lets ignore the fact that the last time i was there i spent £44 #on spices and seeds

[remolupini]

Contract lent

This fic was supposed to be for the buck moon moonchaser event yesterday (started by @mkaugust ) but I couldn't write yesterday, so I'm 9 hours late to this. Let's ignore it. Also it ends sad I'm sorry

Around two months into living in this new town (Remus didn't catch its name and didn't care to ask Lyall to repeat himself, given that by Christmas they'll most probably be living somewhere else anyway), the rules changed for no reason at all. Whereas they used to be softer (avoid people if you do go into town, no more than thirty minutes on the front lawn, etc...) and the harsher ones where reserved for the days right before and right after the moon, they became just a series of don't do that's Lyall didn't care to explain.

Remus said nothing, but he truly didn't understand. He really thought he was doing everything right. He'd sat both his Os and his OWLs that year, the first at the local school, the second ones at home presieded by the Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress.

He knew his father had cast the glamour right, because she didn't even bother with a second glance at his face to check if she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. The questions had been easy, and given Lyall had managed to schedule them on the new moon, Remus was feeling quite well during the actual exams, so much there really would have been no other possible reason for mistakes but being underprepared, which was good given he hadn't made any errors.

His father even told him that he deserved the summer off, which hadn't happened since Lyall managed to get a waiver for his trace when he was eleven to homeschool him.

And yet, he wasn't even allowed to open the front door. Great fucking summer vacation.

-

The Potters were very proud of their new summer home. It wasn't exactly new, as it had been in the family for decades, but it was newly Euphemia's, as her aunt (one she didn't even like all that much) had died during the school year and left it to her.

Apparently Fleamont had bragged about it to everyone he so much as ran into at the ministry, to the point there probably wasn't one person in the wizarding word that didn't know about it.

James also loved it. It wasn't as big as Potter Manor, but very little things were. The main problem, though, was the town nearby. It was lovely, picturesque, with women chatting with the butcher while doing their shopping. However, it absolutely lacked teenagers.

James would go in town for a walk and see no one. A blonde woman stopped him twice to ask if he was lost (she had a welsh accent), and at this point, he might have been.

In Godric's Hollow at least he would see Marlene and Pete. Here it was nothing at all.

-

The rules changed again when Hope fell. It was nothing too bad, just a broken leg, but she couldn't exactly go to the shops like that.

Given that Lyall a)worked most of the day and b)could not distinguish a two-pence from a pound, it became Remus's job to do the shopping. He had to cast a glamour, and only stay out as much as necessary, coming back home as soon as possible.

Remus loved to see himself with the glamour casted. It couldn't do much for some of the physical attributes of being a werewolf (how tall and gangly he was, for example) but he could spend hours looking at the things it could modify, and imagine that boy at Hogwarts.

It hurt too, to see the mirror project the image of the smooth skinned, darker hazel eyed teen he would never actually be.

But for now, he could go to the shops.

-

It took two weeks of being at the summer home for James to finally see another teenager, but once he saw him, he really couldn't complain.

He had known he was into blokes for a while (it's hard not to when you're training with 5-6 twice a week since you're 12) but there really was something else about this one guy.

He was not dressed for summer, covered head to toe with a sweater and jeans. He walked to the butcher's, then the grocer's, then he stopped by the book seller, and bought something at each stop, and then, finally, he sat in the square James was in.

There was something slightly off about his face, in the way his feautures blended into each other, like they were giving space to something that wasn't there. And his eyes. His eyes confused him. They felt wrong, in colour, and dull.

He was one of the most handsome people James had come across, still.

It took him a while to place where he'd seen a similar effect. In fourth year, Mary had started practicing her glamours, hoping to hide any hickey she might receive, and one day she'd decided to try and change her eye colour has well.

Lily had said there were muggle things that could do that too, and they also worked a bit like the temporary eye sight spells his father used on James when going swimming. If only he could remember the name she said. Contract lent?

-

So maybe he shouldn't have bought a book, and he really shouldn't have sat in the square to read it, but it was his first day allowed out of the house since the june moon.

And also there was a cute guy also sitting in the square.

Remus knew he was gay. There's only so many times you can agree wholeheartedly to a Robert Redford movie marathon with your mom before you realise why you're so looking foward to them. It certainly wasn't to spend more time with Hope, given that they were both basically on house arrest in the same house.

So he knew that handsome men would have an effect on him. And he read enough to know what the effect would be: his heart would speed up, his face would be hotter, his stomach would feel like it was trying to digest itself (you can use all kinds of cutesy names for this, like butterflies, but that's how it feels).

And yet knowing is different from experiencing it, isn't it?

And the bloke was handsome. He had the built of a sportsman (but Remus didn't know enough about sports to say which) covered by deep brown skin. His face was covered in a normal and youthful amount of zits and the small circular scars they left behind, but somehow it didn't detract at all.

He was mesmerising.

Remus read as much as he could, trying to ignore the wonderful presence nearby, but eventually the boy talked and any pretence of not being completely enraptured by him was abandoned.

"Do you have eyesight problems?"

Well that was a weird ice breaker. Was Remus squinting too hard, trying to focus on the book and the book alone?

"Uh, no?"

"Oh, so what are the-" the boy raised his hand to his own glasses"- for?"

Like an idiot, Remus went to pat his head to check if he was wearing glasses. He wasn't and he knew that, but he was too confused to remember that.

"The coloured, uhm, lents"

Oh, fuck. He knew his glamous was a bit worse than his father's (okay maybe a lot worse, but he had only known the spell for a year and a half, and how to cast any spell for five) but he didn't think it'd look visibly fake. Confusing maybe, but not fake.

"Just... vanity."

The boy smiled and Remus felt himself turn into a puddle. "Well I don't think you need it. Brown eyes are lovely too." he added, pointing to himself eith a chuckle.

Remus laughed too, but he could in no way describe the other boy's eyes as just brown. They were dark and deep and sweet. Weirdly they reminded him of the wood of his wand, of how much a single object gave him hope.

"I'll think about it." He couldn't, but he said it anyway. "I should head home now, though."

The boy watched him as he took his things, and started walking, then called after him. "I'm in town 'til a week to September!"

Remus didn't have the heart to tell him that they would probably have to move once Lyall found out about this afternoon. So he just said "See you around, then."

#buck moon 2022 #moonchaser #marauders fanfiction #remus x james #james potter #remus lupin #remus lupin/james potter

[anything-but-predictable]

For the past few months my level of anxiety had been sky rocketing high.

Received the result of my cervical biopsy today which thank God came back negative for CA. Apparently, abnormal cell growth was detected during my cervical screening on November last year and my GP referred me to a Gyne specialist for further review and got diagnosed with CIN 3 or high Grade 0 cervical dysplasia which if left untreated can eventually lead to cancer.

Fuck me, I was overwhelmed with fear right at that moment when I was told by my Gyne specialist. God knows how much I am praying na sana even at my late 30s I could still conceive. Right there and then, on my own, I was told that I have to undergo LLETZ (large loop electrical excision) procedure where a large loop wire has to be inserted in the cervix to remove the abnormal cells and I’m not kidding when I tell you that it was bloody painful despite of 4 shots of regional anesthesia. I fainted and literally felt my heart pounding. But if I won’t be able to tolerate the procedure then I will be booked for OR table which I really don’t want as it would make me feel that it’s officially major. I remember biting my lips so hard during the whole procedure. I told the Dr that I wanna do it right away coz there’s no point on delaying if it needs to be done anyway and I just want to get over it. So it was done and the excised specimen was sent to lab for biopsy, which took painstakingly looong.

Three things na iniisip isip ko after that. First, my main concern is kung papaano ko sasabihin sa parents and sister ko if say I have cancer, I feel like I could easily process and accept it than them. It will break their hearts and that I’m not really sure if I can handle. We have lost one of our sister when I was a teenager and I don’t even want to relive what we went through after we lost her. My parent’s just don’t deserve to go through that pain and agony again in their life.

Second is, I feel bad for myself coz I am praying so hard na sana I would still be capable of conceiving in the future, honestly I don’t know when. I try to remind myself na di pwedeng just because I’m kind of desperate to have a baby is kung sino sino na lang. My children cannot choose their father but I can, not that Im saying Im perfect but hell no Im not nor nowhere near that but, I know what I deserve and as well as for my future children. I want to experience motherhood and seeing my children grow up and be a hands-on mum.

Third and last is Im grateful that Im insured, and that healthcare in the UK is free. Like literally you go in the hospital penniless but no worries at all dahil ni pence wala kang babayaran maski chemo, radiation or whatever therapies or even surgery that you have to undergo. How I wish na ganito din tayo sa Pinas. ☹️ Also, Grabe pala yung feeling pag insured ka, I didn’t realize how important it is not until I was almost get diagnose with Cancer. I mean if anything happens, the least among all the worries my family have to think about is money because I’m covered. It’s literally a security blanket considering that I am the 🥖 winner in the family.

I cant help not to overthink during that time. Ikaw ba naman kaya ang nearly diagnose to have CA. Inisip ko na ayoko magalit kay Lord because, as cliché as it sounds, I believed that everything happens for a reason, whatever it may be, hindi man natin maintindihan right at that moment, but eventually along the way, life unfolds itself. And I always tell sa lahat ng prayers ko na kahit ano pa man yun will ni Lord no matter how painful it could be, I know He knows better than I do, kaya dun ako. Let thy will be done. 🙏🏻

Quite a long read but yeah, my heart is full. ✨

[lorinlondon]

Reflection 5: Thoughts After A Week in London

Today has been a bit harder than the other days, which were full of excitement and wonder. Granted, the walking has been tough, and especially tough the first couple days, but the excitement trumped the pain. For some reason, the heat compounded with missing my kids made today hit differently. Or maybe it was just that hill we walked up to get to Highgate Cemetery while the sun glared down, and I do mean glared. It doesn’t help that our flat feels about 100 all day thanks to our being on the sun side of the building all day long. But enough of that.

Things I love: it’s London. I love the fast pace of the city, the fact that there’s always something to do, the idea that I’m standing in a city that is built on so much history. I love the little sayings as we enter and exit the Tube; who writes those quaint comments? They really do make a person’s day. I also love the literary elements we see everywhere, as well as the artistic vibe. The city just seems to be alive. And today, as we walked through the park to get to the cemetery, so many families were gathered, setting up picnics and enjoying the weekend. I commented to my group about the diversity, because it just felt so much more inviting than the parks I see at home.

What’s easier: Transportation. I’m still apprehensive at times, but riding the Tube has certainly become easier as the week has gone on. I understand the different lines and the maps, and I understand the etiquette involved in riding the Tube. At this point I get annoyed when people don’t walk on the left or when people talk too loudly on the reasons. I’m beginning to understand more about the buses, and we had to resort to the bus thanks to our primary Tube station being closed this weekend. However, I’d still choose the Tube over the bus any day.

As for challenges, I’d say that working with cash is a bit of an issue for me. I used cash and coins twice today. It’s easy to hand someone a 20 pound note or a 10 pound note (if you have smaller change), but figuring out the coins is a different story. A restaurant owner became impatient with me today as I tried to figure out which coins equaled 62 pence, and he reached over and just took the coins from me. I actually wasn’t taking that long, so I found his behavior a bit rude and impatient, but the coins, with their rubbed off writing, are a bit hard to maneuver for someone who has only been here a week and isn’t used to the currency. I felt like an admonished child. I was thankful for the nicer man–Walter–at the snack truck at Highgate Cemetery; he not only came to my aid when my sugar dropped with his croissant and bananas, but he took the time to wait while I figured out the appropriate change. I plan to focus on this in the coming weeks, because I feel the need to overcome this challenge.

[unhingedwomandiaries]

I've been interested in the idea of attending one of those sketchy "mystery" kilo clothing sales for years. You know the ones - they pack random piles of used junk into plastic barrels, then charge you pennies per pound to dig through the wreckage like a raccoon foraging from a dumpster behind Wendy's. Well, someone finally dragged one of these sartorial dumpster fires to my municipality, so I jumped aboard the textile trash train. Early bird tickets were a whopping three quid, which is basically like paying to breathe air at that point.

I recruited my two wing-people for this safari because misery loves company (and splitting train fares). We pre-gamed by lurching around town at 10 a.m., haunting all the usual morning hipster dives - the chocolate shop, the candy shop that's clearly circling the drain, and the obligatory artisanal bakery that nobody really needs. When we finally sidled up to the kilo-plex, the line of fellow ragamuffins already stretched toward the cosmos. Dudes were straight-up strategizing on obtaining all the best Nike swag first so they could book it for the parking lot fencelike (ashamed) trapped raccoons. There was even a crazed blonde just strolling the queue, waving a crumpled tenner, and begging to cut to the front for money. The local rag had paparazzi stalking the congregation too, snapping pixels of these huddled apparel junkies for their big take-down exposé (as if anyone reads small town newsprint anymore).

Once the doors finally cracked, it was every tatter for themselves in a pushing stampede usually reserved for American families lunging at discounted flat screens on Black Friday. I'm talking body-on-body violence erupting over ratty 22-year-old Little League Baseball souveneers. Like some dude was straight-up fisticuffing another human because he wanted to own a dri-fit tank proclaiming "Shakopee Sno-Devils, 2001 Finalists!" Why? Do you even remotely care about 10-year-olds playing baseball in Shakopee, Minnesota in 2001? No, you absolutely do not. Nor do I believe you've ever been to that place.

While the peasants bludgeoned each other over silk rags, I beelined toward the handbag aisle where the day's true fortunes would be uncovered. I glimpsed a shipping crate emblazoned with those beloved Hermès boxes we've been conditioned to lust over since birth. My palms literally perspired as I cracked the seal, only to find the actual purse had already been hijacked from its cardboard shelter. Raptured. I briefly held a pink Prada bag in my hands before it was forcibly yoinked away by some more wanton pilferer. That was the trough's high-dollar ceramic penguin, now just a fleeting memory.

By checkout, my haul looked pretty measly - two skirts, two shirts, two scarves, all for a grand maximum of 43 measly pence. One scarf did happen to be low-key designer Gucci, which is kind of sad when you think about it. Like I literally paid pennies for an accessory some rich idiot once spent a monthly Dillard's wage on. We all have our checkered Buddhist moments of realizing all material goods are empty vessels waiting to be discarded after a few years of trophy ownership, I guess.

The clowns just kept flooding out of the car too - people were aggressively documenting their stupid clothing scores on social media like they'd unlocked the cover of Life magazine or something. Then we stopped for sustenance at this random "Bento" vegan place, which is a curious name since nothing they offered remotely resembled a Japanese bento box. My mate somehow ended up ordering "Sexy Mock Legs," which arrived looking like the vegan autopsy of a non-Brown Fraggle. Just a plate of creepy, smooth faux-frog appendages that nobody would want to ingest. We are a very bizarre species, are we not? Hunter-gatherers turned haul-uploaders, caping for the same singularly trite delusions with no collective awareness. Such is the fabric of modernity, I suppose. No pun truly intended.

#diary #worth the weight #haul

[systemtek]

BT Revamps Price Increase Approach in Anticipation of Upcoming Regulations

BT is revamping its policy on mid-contract price hikes in anticipation of impending stringent regulations from the UK's communications regulator Ofcom. The company has declared its intention to cease tying price increases to inflation and, instead, articulate in clear monetary terms the precise increments customers can anticipate. This strategic shift comes in the wake of Ofcom's discovery last year that the existing practices of telecoms companies regarding price adjustments lack transparency and are potentially bewildering for consumers. Currently, BT's tariff adjustments are synchronized annually with the Consumer Price Index (CPI) rate of inflation. However, customers find it challenging to gauge the impact due to the fluctuating nature of inflation. Ofcom's proposed remedy involves requiring operators to conspicuously state any price hikes in pounds and pence during the point of sale, along with indicating when these changes will take effect. The final decision is anticipated in the coming months, with the implementation of new pricing models expected four months thereafter. Marc Allera, the BT Consumer chief, acknowledged in a blog post that initiating discussions about price changes is never easy with customers, especially amidst a cost-of-living crisis. Nonetheless, he asserted that such rises are imperative for BT to offset its escalating costs. The company plans to introduce a "clear and simple" pricing approach this summer, moving away from percentage figures and CPI. Allera disclosed that new mobile customers can anticipate price increases of approximately £1.50, while broadband customers are likely to face hikes of about £3. Ofcom's intervention is a response to concerns that opaque price hike policies make it challenging for consumers to budget effectively. BT's current system involves tariff increases every March, aligned with the inflation data from the previous December, resulting in a 14.4 percent increase for customers last year. The regulator's new rules aim to provide customers with certainty about their bills throughout the contract period, contributing to the broader goal of enhancing consumer protections in the telecoms market. BT has confirmed that it will still implement a planned 3.9 percent rise at the end of March, reflecting the latest CPI figure. However, this is likely to be the final increase tied to the inflation rate before the new regulatory regime takes effect. This announcement coincides with BT and other providers preparing to disclose their annual price increases for 2024, following a 4 percent inflation spike last month. Recent research indicates that nearly three-quarters of consumers would contemplate switching providers if faced with another increase in their mobile or broadband bills this year. Read the full article

[afactaday]

#aFactADay2021

#316: decimalisation was decided in 1966 but it still took them several years to get going. in 1968, the five pence and ten pence coins were minted. they had exactly the same value as a shilling and a florin respectively. see, when they decimalised the pound, it retained its same value, but was worth 100 new pence instead of 240 old pence. so a 10 new pence coin was 1/10th of a pound, just like a florin. in 1969 they introduced the 50 pence coin to replace the 10 shilling note, which was withdrawn in 1970. on decimal day, the 10th of february 1971, they officially began swapping out the coins. they made a new penny, which weighed 3.56g. the two new pence coin was double that, and the half new penny weighed half that. that is why the two pence coin is so crazily big. full crowns, sixpences, shillings and florins remained in circulation and are still technically legal to buy things with, altho theyre made of silver so theyve become worth more than their denomination.

it took them 11 years to change the "new pence" to "pence"

you can also use scottish pound note nowadays, although it was withdrawn from england and wales

and apparently a £5 coin was a thing at one point....

#afactaday #aFactADay2021 #fact of the day #fotd316 #this post was auto-posted by flanbot

[desn512-2023-ash-jones]

Tapapakanga Regional Park holds a special place in my heart, encompassing both my ancestral home and the family beach that we have cherished for generations. This picture was taken during a memorable visit in Christmas 2017, my family and I spent the day visiting the park and reflecting on its profound significance. tracing back to the moment our ancestors first set foot on this sacred land. Their courage, resilience, and unwavering love for this place have been passed down through the generations, shaping our family's identity.

In 1862, James Ashby, my Great-Great-Grandfather (Im not sure how many greats) accompanied by his family, arrived in this enchanting place from Australia. They settled in Kawakawa Bay, establishing their roots and embarking on a journey that would forever intertwine our family name with Tapapakanga Regional Park. The purchase of 737 acres of land for a mere 7 pounds and 6 pence per acre marked the beginning of a legacy that would span generations.

My family's connection to the land grew as they cultivated our farms, raised cattle, grew crops, and nurtured the landscape that surrounded them. The Homestead they built stood proudly as a testament to our resilience and determination, becoming a central gathering place for family and community.

Tapapakanga Regional Park bore witness to the joys and hardships of My family. It was here that 14 children were raised, nurtured by the values of hard work, unity, and deep respect for the land. The post office and school established within the Homestead's walls served as a hub of education and communication, nurturing a sense of community and learning.

Throughout the years, Tapapakanga Regional Park evolved alongside My family. The installation of a telephone line, the building of a tennis court, and the division of the original farm into smaller dairy farms mirrored the family's growth and adaptation to changing times. Each development further solidified Our family's connection to the land and our commitment to its preservation.

As Tapapakanga Regional Park transitioned into a regional treasure, the Ashby Homestead cradled and sheltered three generations of Ashbys, becoming a focal point for the community. The stories shared within its walls echoed my family's strength, love, and unwavering dedication to our ancestral home.