In which Guy Burgess rants on Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, my taste in liquor, and recent inactivity

[thatmadbastard]

 Ah, hello again, duckie.

So you've noticed.  Bravo!  I was beginning to suspect that in your vehement disregard for all things related to writing you would be terribly blind to the fact that all of us up here have had a bit of a chat regarding you.

It's a nice little flat, your head space, but you've been gathering quite the crowd.  All true lack of space in your head aside, there are a few pressing issues here as you have offended some of your tenants and gotten altogether lax on standards for yourself.

Come now, dearest.  You have no business drinking gin like I do, particularly when your choice in it is arbitrary.  You also have no reason to be bemoaning your age when you've chosen to become the typist for several men who have a decade of years over you.  You've started thinking like soldiers and spies.  Next thing you know I'll have a tailor.  Which--since the man isn't actually a haberdasher and is completely obsessed with this whole fucking circus business--I can't say I approve.  The last thing I need as a flat mate in your head is a man who's spent his career cleaning up the mess I've supposedly made in British Intelligence.  I don't bloody care if he's on the side of the hammer and the dove; he was caught.

Oh, so you've a sway toward the one who, ironically, never smiles.  Aren't you just wonderfully spoiled for choice?

Might I give a casual reminder that you can't manage all your current over-excitements?  There's an aptly dubbed "Most Pompous Milord Snarker" who has itchy palms and won't stop grooming his uniform,  an archangel who has unfinished business about the tightrope he's been treading, the poor law student who you've decided to fluster, and a rather giddily impatient pirate king who is chomping at the bit for marauding and romance.

The Brigadier is more than anxious for you to give him the shove off, though I can't understand why the devil he'd ever have want for a pair of wings.

Strictly speaking, your unabashed dropping of extra sugar in your tea and avoidance of us is something that cannot be ignored.  As for having a sweet tooth and self loathing, I'm afraid there isn't any competition.

I've got you sorely beat.

Which brings me back to that little conference.  There have been threats of physical violence, which I want to make you aware of on their behalf.  One of them including the utilization of a cricket bat, regardless of how unsporting it is.

No one is afraid of bad form, duckie.  Not in here.

Comments

[vor]

Mm. The eternal dilemma of wanting to damage the head you live in.

[thatmadbastard]

While I speak for a collective, I can't say I'm one of the ones advocating for a beating of any sort other than intellectual.

They have their reasons, of course, for why it is they're so quick to brandish a sword or instrument of gentlemanly games in one case. I'm a terrible spokesman, you see.

[vor]

Gentlemanly games are usually anything but. Although the worst ones don't usually involve instruments. [A beat.] Well. Thinking with them, sometimes.

[thatmadbastard]

The way old boys play, "sporting" is relative. Old boys know school boy tricks, after all.

Thinking with them, you say?

[vor]

With their instruments. Yes.

[thatmadbastard]

Bizarre form of sporting, that.

Nothing a good, stiff drink can't fix. The right papers and liquors can fix the world, you know.

[vor]

If that were the case, my own world would've solved all its problems a long time ago.

[thatmadbastard]

Ah, but there are lots of them, aren't there? A whole, bloody world filled with papers. Most of them are useless, and all the important things are pointedly not obvious. The only obvious things are the people, a seething, roaring, shouting mass, waiting to be swept up by the wrong things.

An inglorious challenge, fixing things.

What problems do you have with your lot?