I'm complicated, sentimental, honest, loyal, and lonely. My personality's not split, its shredded.

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

Tuesday, December 29th, Day 212
The Dormouse, mid afternoon

I stifle another yawn as Mrs Whitfield and her daughter head out.  So far, it's been a fairly steady day.  Business had dropped off for a bit after the rumors of the Whitchapel incident got around, but Excolo is small and there are only so many places to sit and relax.  Part of me would have been happy to stay closed, to hide away.  Truly, it's not like I expect to have my close friends stop by to visit, do I?  But I am also more than a little bored and being open would give me something to do.  So I opened, and I am pleased that the small talk and gosspi has entertained me well enough and that the morning and beginning of the afternoon flew by.  The door shuts behind the last of the customers to leave and I clear the table and wipe it down, reset it with new china...

then drop into my favorite seat by the window and lay my head down on my arms, closing my eyes.  It is not that I have no been getting enough sleep, it just seems like I am always tired these past few days.  Also, my dreams have been vivid and strange.  Two night ago the teakettles were doing that kick-line in the kitchen, with the teacups singing along as if a child's faerie story had come to life.  Last night was even more bizarre, if just for the fact that it seemed so real.  It was if I was watching myself in a past life.  I was a lady of standing in Victorian England, long before the world tried to end itself.  And Kent was there... and we were taking tea in the garden of his grand estate, laughing merrily and chatting about nothing in particular as the workers built a new fountain.  What was known only to myself and my lover though was that the body of my husband was buried deep underneath where the cement was being laid.  I woke up as Kent winked at me over his teacup and laughed darkly and I joined him in his laughter.  I couldn't get back to sleep after that.

I sigh and look about the shoppe sideways, not inclined to lift my head.  I should get up and wash the dishes, or at least make myself something to eat.  I made scones and tea sandwiches and a thick potato soup for the customers today, and it all smells good, but  I am hungry but not at the same time.  I should at least make myself some mint tea...
but my chair is comfortable and the shoppe is quiet, and maybe I can catch a five minute catnap before anyone else comes in.

(Open) 
(CLOSED)

I'm complicated, sentimental, honest, loyal, and lonely. My personality's not split, its shredded.

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

Tuesday, December 29th, Day 212
The Dormouse, mid afternoon

I stifle another yawn as Mrs Whitfield and her daughter head out.  So far, it's been a fairly steady day.  Business had dropped off for a bit after the rumors of the Whitchapel incident got around, but Excolo is small and there are only so many places to sit and relax.  Part of me would have been happy to stay closed, to hide away.  Truly, it's not like I expect to have my close friends stop by to visit, do I?  But I am also more than a little bored and being open would give me something to do.  So I opened, and I am pleased that the small talk and gosspi has entertained me well enough and that the morning and beginning of the afternoon flew by.  The door shuts behind the last of the customers to leave and I clear the table and wipe it down, reset it with new china...

then drop into my favorite seat by the window and lay my head down on my arms, closing my eyes.  It is not that I have no been getting enough sleep, it just seems like I am always tired these past few days.  Also, my dreams have been vivid and strange.  Two night ago the teakettles were doing that kick-line in the kitchen, with the teacups singing along as if a child's faerie story had come to life.  Last night was even more bizarre, if just for the fact that it seemed so real.  It was if I was watching myself in a past life.  I was a lady of standing in Victorian England, long before the world tried to end itself.  And Kent was there... and we were taking tea in the garden of his grand estate, laughing merrily and chatting about nothing in particular as the workers built a new fountain.  What was known only to myself and my lover though was that the body of my husband was buried deep underneath where the cement was being laid.  I woke up as Kent winked at me over his teacup and laughed darkly and I joined him in his laughter.  I couldn't get back to sleep after that.

I sigh and look about the shoppe sideways, not inclined to lift my head.  I should get up and wash the dishes, or at least make myself something to eat.  I made scones and tea sandwiches and a thick potato soup for the customers today, and it all smells good, but  I am hungry but not at the same time.  I should at least make myself some mint tea...
but my chair is comfortable and the shoppe is quiet, and maybe I can catch a five minute catnap before anyone else comes in.

(Open) 
(CLOSED)