Mae’swatching the one when Lady Mary finds Sybil speaking with Branson. At least she asked for permission before playing my DVD, and I didn’t fuss so long as I handled the disc. Downton Abbey is my absolute favourite: the fashion, the castles, the proper, fluid, romantic English accent. One of the ladies from Caroline’s office mentioned the show, and she automatically thought of me. I know the girl probably went by protocol and watched the series beforehand, worrying about the more emotional or overwhelming episodes. But there really isn’t much in there that I can’t handle.
I’m tempted to watch it again, but Mae looks the type to interrupt and ask questions. That one’s always talking with a smile plastered on her round, giddy face. To top it all off, she’s sitting on Caroline’s side of the sofa. I mean, she’s aware that I don’t want her even fluffing a pillow from my section, but it doesn’t mean she should make herself comfortable in Caroline’s spot, either. Oh, I know. These things wouldn’t matter to that girl, but still, it irks me. Caroline doesn’t think sometimes. I’m the one having to look at Angel Mae sitting there, and it makes things feel out of place. I can’t stand when things are out of place. Why didn’t that child write that in the notebook for Mae! But I bet she remembered to write about those disgusting fish oils she wants me to take. I’m sorry, but there’s a definite aftertaste with those capsules. I don’t digest them well, and whatever that girl thinks they’re good for is absolute nonsense. All I’m left with is a fishy taste at the back of my throat. Honestly, that organic place is just robbing her blind.
Now Mae’s at the part when Lady Edith tells Lady Mary that Matthew’s missing. Caroline isn’t fond of Mary because she’s all Team Edith. It’s one of the things I don’t mind chatting about with her. Caroline did sound quite cheerful on the phone. Sofie sounded on cloud nine as usual, but Caroline was tranquilly happy. Nathaniel thinks so, too.
Oh, that beautiful man. I love him for not acting like I put him through too much. Now he can definitely have Caroline’s seat on the sofa. It doesn’t throw things off around here when he comes by. He’s supposed to return in the morning, and I’m to call him if I don’t want the company, which I do—and I don’t. That’s always the conundrum. I’ve always preferred to be alone. I guess I can talk about that in group this week. He said he’ll drive me to Catherine’s House on Saturday, and it’s a satisfying plan, but you know me… we’ll see then.
Nathaniel: Sandrine left out three pieces of uncooked, marinated beef filets for us tonight—because she knows one doesn’t usually cut it for me. They were soaked in steak spice, a splash of oil, chopped mint and garlic, and had a trace of whiskey and Worcestershire sauce. We’ve dressed up our steaks that way forever, and a Zinfandel was by the stainless steel tray—corked, sitting by two ridiculously fat, long-stemmed glasses. I tried ignoring the note on the table. It was stretched out like a house of cards before I got to it. I unfastened my cufflinks first and placed them on the island, rolling up the sleeves to a white shirt. I thought about changing altogether and putting on some shorts or jeans, doing away with these grey slacks, but the AC in here is too penetrating. Sandrine likes it really cool when Amalia always preferred a natural draft or ceiling fans. I suppose she got me used to that, too.
I’ve seen her in that dress before today. It’s very 50’s—a tea dress she’d call them when we were married. This one was white with black and blue butterflies rising at the hem. The skirt reached her knees, and the exposed skin below it was disturbingly flawless. Amalia can be quite the minx when she’s free and forward, causing damn trouble in my head. Then again, any of her moods are irresistible to me for different reasons.
I have
I’m tempted to watch it again, but Mae looks the type to interrupt and ask questions. That one’s always talking with a smile plastered on her round, giddy face. To top it all off, she’s sitting on Caroline’s side of the sofa. I mean, she’s aware that I don’t want her even fluffing a pillow from my section, but it doesn’t mean she should make herself comfortable in Caroline’s spot, either. Oh, I know. These things wouldn’t matter to that girl, but still, it irks me. Caroline doesn’t think sometimes. I’m the one having to look at Angel Mae sitting there, and it makes things feel out of place. I can’t stand when things are out of place. Why didn’t that child write that in the notebook for Mae! But I bet she remembered to write about those disgusting fish oils she wants me to take. I’m sorry, but there’s a definite aftertaste with those capsules. I don’t digest them well, and whatever that girl thinks they’re good for is absolute nonsense. All I’m left with is a fishy taste at the back of my throat. Honestly, that organic place is just robbing her blind.
Now Mae’s at the part when Lady Edith tells Lady Mary that Matthew’s missing. Caroline isn’t fond of Mary because she’s all Team Edith. It’s one of the things I don’t mind chatting about with her. Caroline did sound quite cheerful on the phone. Sofie sounded on cloud nine as usual, but Caroline was tranquilly happy. Nathaniel thinks so, too.
Oh, that beautiful man. I love him for not acting like I put him through too much. Now he can definitely have Caroline’s seat on the sofa. It doesn’t throw things off around here when he comes by. He’s supposed to return in the morning, and I’m to call him if I don’t want the company, which I do—and I don’t. That’s always the conundrum. I’ve always preferred to be alone. I guess I can talk about that in group this week. He said he’ll drive me to Catherine’s House on Saturday, and it’s a satisfying plan, but you know me… we’ll see then.
Nathaniel: Sandrine left out three pieces of uncooked, marinated beef filets for us tonight—because she knows one doesn’t usually cut it for me. They were soaked in steak spice, a splash of oil, chopped mint and garlic, and had a trace of whiskey and Worcestershire sauce. We’ve dressed up our steaks that way forever, and a Zinfandel was by the stainless steel tray—corked, sitting by two ridiculously fat, long-stemmed glasses. I tried ignoring the note on the table. It was stretched out like a house of cards before I got to it. I unfastened my cufflinks first and placed them on the island, rolling up the sleeves to a white shirt. I thought about changing altogether and putting on some shorts or jeans, doing away with these grey slacks, but the AC in here is too penetrating. Sandrine likes it really cool when Amalia always preferred a natural draft or ceiling fans. I suppose she got me used to that, too.
I’ve seen her in that dress before today. It’s very 50’s—a tea dress she’d call them when we were married. This one was white with black and blue butterflies rising at the hem. The skirt reached her knees, and the exposed skin below it was disturbingly flawless. Amalia can be quite the minx when she’s free and forward, causing damn trouble in my head. Then again, any of her moods are irresistible to me for different reasons.
I have
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