In tongues... with accents! Which is even more unsettling than the typical rolling about and announcing yourself as the high angel overlord Zauriel before spewing the communion all over the snake handler. There's a couple parked and making out just outside my window. Which I would never know, except that they have the windows down and are playing Bowie's John, I'm Only Dancing astonishingly loud.
You think they'd at least put the lights out. Kids, today! Pff.
Presumably they'll understand when they're sobered up. And understand more if you get sloshied some night and flip the tables on them.
Templechurch seems to be coming into her own nicely. She ever going to get stories of her own, or is she a perpetual assistant? And what does she actually do, besides appear in detective stories and master disguises?
She is, nominally, the front desk clerk of the Peake Hotel; she and my detective, they both had affairs with the same dining room waiter some time before the story starts, so there's tension. Despite the fact that neither of them like him.
He is, as yet, an unseen character and I don't know if he'll be more present in the rewrites or not. But I think they both recognize their mistake in each other, which is where the tension arises.
I sort of envy you the ability to transcribe. I'm half held back by the actual task, half by the urge to redraft immediately.
I'm supposed to retype twenty-two pages tomorrow, for a magazine, and I'm going to havve to force myself to do it. Possibly at gunpoint or by keeping back the good-tasting things until I commit.
