А, ну да, точно. Ждём тебя завтра на экранах наших RSS-агрегаторов.
*почитав предыдущие комменты*
Вообще живо себе представляю. Как только Биг-Бэн бьёт полночь, Реми в третий раз выпрыгивает из окна возлюбленной и повреждает руку (вар.: женится, покупает машину, стрижётся в монастырь). Готишно :).
Ну зачем же вариации? Все это можно обьединить! :)
Чем я не Мэри-Сью. :) Слушай:
'Twas a dark and stormy night...
Occasional flashes of lightning would each illuminate briefly the murky
waters of Thames and fade away. The downpour continued relentlessly. The
weather was, as one says, perfectly foul. But not as foul by a mile as
the string of swearwords just about to be heard in the quite confines of
King Henry Close, one of those posh little streets just off the Embankment.
Here. Now. A new sound, quite unlike the ongoing monotony of
thunderclaps, filled the sky. It was deep and profound, with a nobility to
it that bordered on sanctity. It went off once, reverberating in the sky
above Thames, then twice... thrice...
Big Ben was striking midnight.
But contrary to its famous tune a foot did slid up that hour.
It was a foot of a young man dressed in formal wear who just jumped out of
a window and onto the pavement below. A rather charming looking window. A
rather charming looking young man. Well, as charming at least as one can
manage to look while landing, slipping up and falling face first onto the
wet, muddy pavement.
Remi, for it was he, broke his fall by the means of a timely thrust out
right hand. The fact that this almost broke the hand in question was
responsible for much of the swearing. Third blasted time he was jumping out
of this window - and with each time the experience was getting more
and more traumatic. The same now couldn't be said about the experience on
the other side of the window. That was in fact getting more and more...
But enough! This third time was to be the last. Tonight was the
night. It was about to change everything...
Having gotten up Remi ran towards the entrance to the King Henry Close,
holding awkwardly his wounded hand. He emerged onto the Embankment just
in time to see a man getting in a car. The very thing he needed.
“Excuse me, sir”, he cried out. “You may find this a bit peculiar,
but I would like to purchase your car...”
Fifteen minutes later Remi was driving a newly purchased Ford Mondeo
through the empty, rain-sodden streets of the city centre. His goal was
a small Benedictine priory located in the outskirts of north London.
And despite all the adversity of the weather, in just over an hour
he was turning onto a driveway which led through a small park to
a familiar looking yellow building.
Its huge wooden front gate was, given the hour and the day, tightly
shut and barred.
Remi smiled. It was only to be expected. “Well, here goes nothing”,
he thought and hit the gas. Hard. The engine roared and the car sprang
forward ramming through the gate. The wood gave way pitifully, exploding
in a shower of splinters. “They just don't make them like they used to”,
the young man told himself bringing the car to stop in the inner courtyard.
“It all went nowhere but downhill since the Good King Henry.”
Opening the door, he climbed out of the car and stood facing
the rapidly growing crowd of monks who were rushing out into
the court to see what the racket was all about.
Amongst their numerous faces Remi caught a sight of a familiar head of
golden curls. Curls which once were locks and which even now betrayed
the true identity of their owner to all but the least experienced eyes. But
then his attention switched to the enraged white-haired old man in front.
The prior stood aghast, surveying the scene of destruction and seemingly
at loss for words. The young man, on the other hand, lost no time in
speaking out.
“Forgive me, holy father, but I wish to immediately take the holy vows
at your priory...”
Remi threw another glance at the golden curls and their owner, an
indecently beautiful young monk of a rather effeminate appearance. Far, far
too effeminate. He sighed. This next one was going to be even harder to
explain...
Ничего ты не понимаешь в колбасных обрезках. :)) Изящные спортивные машинки японского производства они конечно хороши - но на них дохни, и они уже дрожат. Они для красования. А вот проламывать монастырские ворота нужно большими кандовыми семейными тачками британского производства, типа Форда Мондэо. :)
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В смысле, нет, нет, не угадала. :)
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*почитав предыдущие комменты*
Вообще живо себе представляю. Как только Биг-Бэн бьёт полночь, Реми в третий раз выпрыгивает из окна возлюбленной и повреждает руку (вар.: женится, покупает машину, стрижётся в монастырь). Готишно :).
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Ну зачем же вариации? Все это можно обьединить! :)
Чем я не Мэри-Сью. :) Слушай:
'Twas a dark and stormy night...
Occasional flashes of lightning would each illuminate briefly the murky waters of Thames and fade away. The downpour continued relentlessly. The weather was, as one says, perfectly foul. But not as foul by a mile as the string of swearwords just about to be heard in the quite confines of King Henry Close, one of those posh little streets just off the Embankment.
Here. Now. A new sound, quite unlike the ongoing monotony of thunderclaps, filled the sky. It was deep and profound, with a nobility to it that bordered on sanctity. It went off once, reverberating in the sky above Thames, then twice... thrice...
Big Ben was striking midnight.
But contrary to its famous tune a foot did slid up that hour. It was a foot of a young man dressed in formal wear who just jumped out of a window and onto the pavement below. A rather charming looking window. A rather charming looking young man. Well, as charming at least as one can manage to look while landing, slipping up and falling face first onto the wet, muddy pavement.
Remi, for it was he, broke his fall by the means of a timely thrust out right hand. The fact that this almost broke the hand in question was responsible for much of the swearing. Third blasted time he was jumping out of this window - and with each time the experience was getting more and more traumatic. The same now couldn't be said about the experience on the other side of the window. That was in fact getting more and more...
But enough! This third time was to be the last. Tonight was the night. It was about to change everything...
Having gotten up Remi ran towards the entrance to the King Henry Close, holding awkwardly his wounded hand. He emerged onto the Embankment just in time to see a man getting in a car. The very thing he needed.
“Excuse me, sir”, he cried out. “You may find this a bit peculiar, but I would like to purchase your car...”
Fifteen minutes later Remi was driving a newly purchased Ford Mondeo through the empty, rain-sodden streets of the city centre. His goal was a small Benedictine priory located in the outskirts of north London. And despite all the adversity of the weather, in just over an hour he was turning onto a driveway which led through a small park to a familiar looking yellow building.
Its huge wooden front gate was, given the hour and the day, tightly shut and barred.
Remi smiled. It was only to be expected. “Well, here goes nothing”, he thought and hit the gas. Hard. The engine roared and the car sprang forward ramming through the gate. The wood gave way pitifully, exploding in a shower of splinters. “They just don't make them like they used to”, the young man told himself bringing the car to stop in the inner courtyard. “It all went nowhere but downhill since the Good King Henry.” Opening the door, he climbed out of the car and stood facing the rapidly growing crowd of monks who were rushing out into the court to see what the racket was all about.
Amongst their numerous faces Remi caught a sight of a familiar head of golden curls. Curls which once were locks and which even now betrayed the true identity of their owner to all but the least experienced eyes. But then his attention switched to the enraged white-haired old man in front. The prior stood aghast, surveying the scene of destruction and seemingly at loss for words. The young man, on the other hand, lost no time in speaking out.
“Forgive me, holy father, but I wish to immediately take the holy vows at your priory...”
Remi threw another glance at the golden curls and their owner, an indecently beautiful young monk of a rather effeminate appearance. Far, far too effeminate. He sighed. This next one was going to be even harder to explain...
“...and then I wish to be married.”
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Изящные спортивные машинки японского производства они конечно хороши - но на них дохни, и они уже дрожат. Они для красования.
А вот проламывать монастырские ворота нужно большими кандовыми семейными тачками британского производства, типа Форда Мондэо. :)
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и откуда такие познания о моём опыте ЭТОГО?:)
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А то знаю тебя - напустишь таинственности полные штаны :)
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