Well, bollocks.

[xp_daytripper]

Change of Christmas plans. Big change of Christmas plans. Instead of heading over to Muir, or visiting Rom or even going over to the mansion for free food, I get to spend my Christmas in the brownstone. With all the people I work with. In quarantine.

Excuse me for a minute while I go swear a lot. Wouldn't want to earn a post-it of my own.

Okay, back. Urge to strangle that bloody Infectia woman still there, but at least I won't offend anyone with bad language. Unless 'bloody' counts. And 'bollocks'. Oh, bugger it - I'm English, swearing colourfully is what we do.

But yeah. We're all locked in the brownstone for the forseeable, we're getting tests and the rest done every day to make sure our DNA isn't re-writing itself or something, and no-one's allowed in or out.

Merry fucking Christmas.

Comments

[x-emplate.livejournal.com]

I should get in touch with the ravishing Dr. Bartlet just for the sake of old times. I far prefer her brand of physio to the officially sanctioned beating that is an examination by Dr. Voght. In fact, now that I come to think on it that was quite the little Shakespearian drama: her, the unattainable one promised to another, and I, the star-crossed suitor suffering in noble silence, struck down by the fateful package meant for her lover. And now, as you have so kindly pointed out, we have further common ground in the woman we both have the equally strong desire to see choked upon her own entrails.

It is an exclusive club, after all. But growing.