dear_mun | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Well, your achievements for today are taking a shower and writing a few sad paragraphs about my past. Congratulations. Feeling accomplished or what?

No, you do not get to call it a narrative. That's a snippet, missus. Two hundred words of me being miserable in Wicklow. That's all that happens. I get rained on, cheated on, and I'm in Wicklow.

Sure, what about the time I wrestled a piglet. No? Fine. Write about me getting wee baby kittens or going to Glastonbury or that time some ignoramus grabbed my hat right off my head because he thought it'd be funny and then learnt his lesson. I happen to like my life, so don't pick out one miserable little chapter- barely even a chapter- and try to say it's important. That's the magic of moving; I pick what bits of the past are relevant to me now, not anyone else.

Now eat something. Jesus, you think you can live off toast? Chop chop, nice and quick, there we go, you'll feel better for it.

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[Don't mind Sean, he's just going to stand over her with a cigarette between his fingers]

They can be pretty lazy can't they? I tell ya, I don't know how long it took mine to write that one sentence in my profile. I'm not holdin' my breath for more any time soon.

Lazy isn't the word; glacial does a bit better. Still. Hope springs eternal. Tried to convince her to do more?

[Imogen's accent is...a bit of everything, honestly. Most people can pick it out as some variant of down-south Irish, though pinning it to an exact region is nearly impossible, and there are always notes that don't sound quite right.]

Glacial. Yeah, I like it definitely the word to describe the muns. Oh aye, I've tried to convince her more than a hundred times at this point. I mean she's Irish too so how hard could it be to come up with a bit of background for me?

[The accent is a bit different to anything he's heard before, yes but he still recognizes the familiar Irish twang he misses so much.]

And there would be your issue. Irish time-keeping.

[He laughs a little at that and nods] Aye, ye got that right.

The name's Sean, by the way.

[Sorry, Imogen; but unfortunately, you share the face of someone Alisha isn't at all fond of. Still, Nikki isn't from Wicklow, and she's pretty sure she doesn't speak that way either. Best to just double check.]

Do I know you?

You do now. But not before, no. Why d'you ask?

You look just like the slag who shagged my ex-boyfriend.

That's...

[...possible, but 'yep, that's what a lot of people call me!!' doesn't seem wise.]

Sorry to hear that.

I think I'd recognise you. I've got a memory for faces.

It's alright, 'long as you don't go around being a total slut and shagging guys on rooftops. Trust me, you do not want to deal with all the drama afterwards.

[Whew... as strange as it is to see Nikki's face on this girl, it's a relief to know they're different people.]

[Mildly:]

And what am I meant to do with my Tuesday afternoons now?

...You're so funny. Hilarious, really.

[Okay, maybe they're not that different.]

[Imogen- who generally knows when to stop, believe it or not- carries on, her tone perfectly polite.]

Oh, I'm not joking. I take my schedules seriously. It lessens drama more than rooftop celibacy does, swear to God.

Am I allowed to go around being a total slut if I steer clear of rooftops?

I could find a man with a cellar.

I'd like to hear the story about the hat.

The story about the hat.

[Imogen smiles, apparently settling in for a good yarn.]

Alright. So I was telling fortunes in Blackpool at the time- it's a good place to sell tack and get your palm crossed with silver, as it were, but the endless stag nights are a bit wearying. So many people so totally unable to hold their alcohol.

Which is relevant. I was wearing this nice big straw hat I got cheap at Oxfam, bargain, with a pink band and all these feathers... [Imogen's affection for ridiculous hats is fairly obvious already, especially considering that right now she's sporting a lime green beret. It's got a tassel on it!] Funny thing I discovered in Blackpool especially; drunk men are attracted to feathers like moths to a flame.

So, I'm walking by, minding my own business, wearing a hat as one does. And this Neanderthal can't contain himself any longer, detaches himself from his pack and snatches my hat right off my head and then puts it on.

[Eva approves of ridiculous hats, even though her own is just a plain, black, weather-beaten clouche. She also approves of stories, this one in particular, as is evident by her smile]

I'll have to remember that, about drunk men and feathers.

[but more importantly:] How long was it before he began to regret that decision?

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