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Uhh... yeah, so, Muse got a little carried away by that WisCon experience and spent some time trying to cram everything she'd learnt in all at the same time, which I had to dissuade her from with extreme prejudice. (And I'm still not sure what the part where she yelled "I can't go to jail again!" had to do with anything...) But. Here is what appears to be The Next Bit, at any rate.
Also, if the Reader would prefer to follow along without the DVD commentary track of these notes and the rest of my petty bloglife cluttering up the Trevor And Jason Experience, I've started mirroring the story-text to![[community profile]](https://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hiraeth. (Which you will note is a DW comm, just in case of... well, y'know. Just In Case. Not planning to go anywhere, but back-up the backups, I always say.)
***
I've already thought of at least six things I'd rather be doing on a fine afternoon out of the city than shopping, even if my flatmate and I have been putting off this errand for the want of a car with a proper boot more or less literally since we moved into the flat. "I think I've seen this movie, the black guy always dies first," Jason remarks, looking out across a crowded expanse of car-park.
Jill seems taken aback by the scene herself. "I appreciate this," she murmurs to me, hand slipping into mine. I'm not sure which of us is in need of the comfort.
(This isn't a date. We're agreed on that point.)
Inside the shop Jason bucks the flow of traffic to gravitate straight to the kitchenwares, immediately latching onto a device that I fancy has something to do with lutefisk when it's at home. He seems to feel more secure with the slotted spoon in his hands, whether from an ill-defined desire to arm himself against the threat of angry villagers or simply because he's Jason and now he has a food-related implement to play with I can't make out. "-- Jerked meatballs, would that just confuse the hell out of both sides of my family?"
"Not to mention David's." Although it's not certain yet how many of them will turn up to be confused -- his Mum will come up, as if anyone could stop her he says, but I gather that David's been somewhat estranged from his father's side since the remarriage, much less asking them all to bear the bother of the trip. Jason's going mental trying to work out schemes that could accommodate a last-minute run on the guest-list if need be.
Jill has been listening to our discussions of the wedding-planning saga with a sort of rapt disquiet all the way here. "You're making me feel like I'm getting off easy just buying Trish some tacky pillows or something," she says.
I think I prefer Sandra and David's idea of it -- they've been keeping house together for long enough already that they're asking instead for donations to be made to the charity that fronts for the weres' equivalent of the Girl Guides. "He's not big on stuff," Jason explains to Jill when I mention this. "I'm kind of surprised we got him out here at all."
"I'm as tired as you are of mending those chairs," I say. The fourth-hand dinette-set is a disgrace by now, more silver tape than metal. Past time to accept the inevitable and release it all back into the wild to be picked over by the next scavengers on the urban food-chain.
We have to pass through a frightening kaleidoscope of allegedly decorative objects on the way to the furniture. Jill lights up thoughtfully at one array of vases; "What do you think, do any of these not scream 'I'm only buying this because you're my boss' to you guys?"
My flatmate begins doing his best impression of a bloke trying not to admit that he's completely out of his depth, hemming and hawing and attempting (badly) to invoke the scientific method in his arguments for and against. A little boy is looking round-eyed from a mirror to me and back again: Mommy, mommy -- "Just get the red one," I say, trying to keep my voice level and rather missing.
Jason gives me a look of shrewd appraisal, and says, "Listen, y'know, if you need to drag somebody off into a stockroom before we get out of here I can watch the door for you."
As if I hadn't made sure to see to that before we ventured out into such crowds. "I think we'll stick with the plan to do lunch at Mitsuwa's food-court," Jill says, trying to stifle a grin, and picks up the red vase.
(I wonder if sashimi would satisfy some of a wendigo's rawer urges.)
Once we've finally fought our way upstream through the press of humanity to the spawning-grounds of the kitchen furniture Jason starts trying out every single make of chair remotely within our price-range, and waffling about a few choices that aren't. "We could paint these red, and maybe get that table --"
I consider the model he means, and shake my head; "Only if you want to have another go at getting the piano out, I don't think it would fit otherwise."
"Won't it?" He goes rummaging through his pockets for the kitchen's measurements. "Yeah, probably not, I guess. What about the square one?"
Her own mission here more or less sorted, Jill is fidgeting, eyeing the neverending river of shoppers as if she's unconsciously starting to size up which are the sickest and weakest members of the herd. She catches my furtive glance and gives me a strained smile. No, I'm okay.
For now.
Also, if the Reader would prefer to follow along without the DVD commentary track of these notes and the rest of my petty bloglife cluttering up the Trevor And Jason Experience, I've started mirroring the story-text to
hiraeth. (Which you will note is a DW comm, just in case of... well, y'know. Just In Case. Not planning to go anywhere, but back-up the backups, I always say.)***
I've already thought of at least six things I'd rather be doing on a fine afternoon out of the city than shopping, even if my flatmate and I have been putting off this errand for the want of a car with a proper boot more or less literally since we moved into the flat. "I think I've seen this movie, the black guy always dies first," Jason remarks, looking out across a crowded expanse of car-park.
Jill seems taken aback by the scene herself. "I appreciate this," she murmurs to me, hand slipping into mine. I'm not sure which of us is in need of the comfort.
(This isn't a date. We're agreed on that point.)
Inside the shop Jason bucks the flow of traffic to gravitate straight to the kitchenwares, immediately latching onto a device that I fancy has something to do with lutefisk when it's at home. He seems to feel more secure with the slotted spoon in his hands, whether from an ill-defined desire to arm himself against the threat of angry villagers or simply because he's Jason and now he has a food-related implement to play with I can't make out. "-- Jerked meatballs, would that just confuse the hell out of both sides of my family?"
"Not to mention David's." Although it's not certain yet how many of them will turn up to be confused -- his Mum will come up, as if anyone could stop her he says, but I gather that David's been somewhat estranged from his father's side since the remarriage, much less asking them all to bear the bother of the trip. Jason's going mental trying to work out schemes that could accommodate a last-minute run on the guest-list if need be.
Jill has been listening to our discussions of the wedding-planning saga with a sort of rapt disquiet all the way here. "You're making me feel like I'm getting off easy just buying Trish some tacky pillows or something," she says.
I think I prefer Sandra and David's idea of it -- they've been keeping house together for long enough already that they're asking instead for donations to be made to the charity that fronts for the weres' equivalent of the Girl Guides. "He's not big on stuff," Jason explains to Jill when I mention this. "I'm kind of surprised we got him out here at all."
"I'm as tired as you are of mending those chairs," I say. The fourth-hand dinette-set is a disgrace by now, more silver tape than metal. Past time to accept the inevitable and release it all back into the wild to be picked over by the next scavengers on the urban food-chain.
We have to pass through a frightening kaleidoscope of allegedly decorative objects on the way to the furniture. Jill lights up thoughtfully at one array of vases; "What do you think, do any of these not scream 'I'm only buying this because you're my boss' to you guys?"
My flatmate begins doing his best impression of a bloke trying not to admit that he's completely out of his depth, hemming and hawing and attempting (badly) to invoke the scientific method in his arguments for and against. A little boy is looking round-eyed from a mirror to me and back again: Mommy, mommy -- "Just get the red one," I say, trying to keep my voice level and rather missing.
Jason gives me a look of shrewd appraisal, and says, "Listen, y'know, if you need to drag somebody off into a stockroom before we get out of here I can watch the door for you."
As if I hadn't made sure to see to that before we ventured out into such crowds. "I think we'll stick with the plan to do lunch at Mitsuwa's food-court," Jill says, trying to stifle a grin, and picks up the red vase.
(I wonder if sashimi would satisfy some of a wendigo's rawer urges.)
Once we've finally fought our way upstream through the press of humanity to the spawning-grounds of the kitchen furniture Jason starts trying out every single make of chair remotely within our price-range, and waffling about a few choices that aren't. "We could paint these red, and maybe get that table --"
I consider the model he means, and shake my head; "Only if you want to have another go at getting the piano out, I don't think it would fit otherwise."
"Won't it?" He goes rummaging through his pockets for the kitchen's measurements. "Yeah, probably not, I guess. What about the square one?"
Her own mission here more or less sorted, Jill is fidgeting, eyeing the neverending river of shoppers as if she's unconsciously starting to size up which are the sickest and weakest members of the herd. She catches my furtive glance and gives me a strained smile. No, I'm okay.
For now.
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