There is a sort of rumbling sound with intermittent gunfire coming down the road. Oh, no, not gunfire, it's just the tour bus backfiring. Grooveyard is home!
As the various band members fall out of the bus and stumble in sundry directions, (and isn't that a different drummer than the one they left with?) a quick inquiry reveals that someone (some *unspecified* one) thought that if modifying the diesel engine to use biofuel was good, modifying it to use octarine was better. And it turns out that making a tour bus run on magical particles surprisingly has the effect of making it, well, unstable through time. Thus extending the tour run rather further than expected.
On the plus side, there are some really nice vintage wines that are going to be available at Milo's shortly. And there are a few muttered apologies; apparently the shoulder pads trend in the eighties is the fault of someone on the bus. Details do not seem to be forthcoming, something to do with Taylor Kitsch wearing nothing but hockey pads.
Anyway, the band is back! And it seems that since the population is low upon their return, the only possible thing to do is to play. Play, and see if they come.
So the band will take a little time to get clean, in more ways than one, and then there will be a concert under the stars. A come home concert.
different drummer than the one they left with
Was there a bizarre gardening accident?
Oh, Grooveyard's back! That's what I hear. Nice to wake up to. I feel like I've slept for more than a winter. Now where's the cat got to?
"Sitt."
Reluctantly I remove the ice pack from my forehead. "Yes, Achmed?"
Achmed the Clever, my faithful houseboy, is standing at the foot of the recliner I've been occupying for I don't know how long. He has a mug in his hand and is frowning. Slowly he tips the mug over to show me the interior. At the bottom of the mug is a dried reddish-brown stain. "He said he would put them in the sink to soak when he was done, sitt. He is not doing that."
I plop the ice pack back on my face. "I'm sorry, Achmed. Has he stopped leaving them under the couch?"
"Yes, sitt, he is at least doing that. Though I didn't find this one until I moved the cat."
"Oh, dear."
"It's not the dirty dishes I mind so much, sitt, but his special coffee-blood blend is very difficult to clean once it's had a chance to--"
"Clot is the word you're looking for."
"Yes, sitt."
"I will start rinsing them out myself, Achmed. It's my fault Bob's here, and you didn't agree to look after him."
"Thank you, sitt. Tetta Fatima reminded me you were a reasonable employer."
I yanked the ice pack off. "You brought your Grandma Fatima into this?"
Achmed was getting too good at evil grins. "Merely for advice, sitt."
I hid behind my ice pack again.
Oh.
Wow, yeah, that's disorienting, popping up in Dogtown, when I was aiming at Tangley Mews.
Ridiculous training conference at the Home Office, went far too long. Something tells me this one went on long enough for the temporal disparity to actually make some serious dimensional lag. Didn't learn anything, really, except that They still can't spell my name for name tags, and that They won't spring for an iPad but if I throw down the cash for it, They will reimburse for apps relevant to the work. Also, there wasn't nearly enough wine at the banquets to make me able to properly appreciate any of the after dinner speeches. Or the sight of D'Hoffryn's father dancing with a small crystal chandelier on his head. It wasn't even during the Fire Ball. The best that can be said, is at least I'm such a petty Petty Vengeance Demon that I was well out of reach of the old grabby hands.
Still, I'm back to Sang Sacre for Spring, and the scents of gentle rain merging with hyacinths and lilies is, you should excuse the expression, heavenly.
Wow, yeah, that's disorienting, popping up in Dogtown, when I was aiming at Tangley Mews.
You should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque.
I try to avoid going down rabbit holes. They don't have much use for me, and I'd rather not tick them off by cussing at the travel delays. But it's worth keeping the lines of communication open, because they are excellent inspiration when one's own imagination runs dry.
The curtains are drawn at Goblin Market. There's a small hand lettered sign in the window written in an elegant hand: "Closed due to a death in the family."
Somebody's left white lillies on the doorstep. Nestled against them are small sachets wrapped in black lace. I pick one up and give it a sniff: catnip.
(brb, crying. Thank you, Hec.)
