About Me: Elinor (she/her) |Twenty-something | Pre-med | coffee addict | Slytherin/Thunderbird | I like to tell stories
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Library - not written by me, but definitely something you should read
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Dividers from @saradika-graphics - the last of us set
Previously: @bluewillowchina. @chinablueplates.@silverandbone, I've had a lot of blogs over the years and I don't remember most of them anymore
summary; How each member of the Dagger Squad found out Jake's been married for over a decade.
word count; 3.6k
warnings: nothing. established relationship, secret/private marriage, found family, fluff, all good stuff.
a/n; i am a SUCKER for a secret relationship trope. this concept is so cute i want to write a hundred different pieces about it. also, if you're reading my jake series, next part should be up tomorrow :))
masterlist
A year after the Uranium mission, the aviators once known as the Dagger Squad were summoned back to Miramar. Expecting another top-secret assignment, they were instead offered something unexpected: a chance to stay on at Top Gun indefinitely. Their answer was almost immediate—a resounding yes, with an enthusiastic "hell yes" from Fanboy.
But when they arrived, one thing was clear: Jake hadn't accepted the offer yet.
"Can't believe Hangman's playing hard to get with Admiral Simpson," Phoenix muttered, eyeing the empty spot where he should’ve been.
"Bet that promotion to Lieutenant Commander already went to his head," Rooster quipped.
"If you’re talking about Jake, he’s coming," Maverick said. "He just asked to report in on Monday."
He left the room without another word. The Daggers exchanged looks, then shrugged. It was Jake, after all—he probably just wanted to make an entrance, with nothing but his damn ego walking through the door first.
When Monday rolled around, he strolled in with that trademark smirk and a swagger only he could pull off. Annoying? Absolutely. Eye-roll inducing? Without question. Missed? More than anyone was willing to admit.
“Be honest—did you tear up a little when you thought I wasn’t coming back?”
Bob and Phoenix.
Bob had a thing for those absurdly healthy smoothies from a place called Erewhon. Overpriced, organic, and influencer-approved—it was his guilty pleasure. Naturally, it wasn’t long before he dragged his favorite front-seater into it.
“What the hell is a Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, and why does it cost twenty bucks?”
The line was a nightmare—packed with people who all looked like they drove Teslas, had just come from Pilates, or were on their way to pitch a startup to their fiancée’s hedge fund bros.
Phoenix couldn’t quite figure out what Bob saw in these overpriced green sludge drinks, but she was usually down to try something new, even if her wallet cried a little every time.
“I don’t really get the hype either, but my husband’s obsessed,” You said with a shrug. “If it’s your first time, I’d go with something simple—maybe the pitaya, or the post-workout one is solid too. You look like you work out.”
They startled slightly when you turned around, smiling and introducing yourself after your unsolicited smoothie rant.
“I’ll take your advice—I’m Natasha,” Phoenix said, shaking your hand. It was only then that you noticed the massive emerald-cut ring on her finger, catching the light like it knew it was expensive. Bob followed with a shy introduction, a soft blush creeping into his cheeks.
Sticking to your word, you went ahead and ordered the absurdly named Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie, along with a few other things. Once you paid, you turned back to them with a grin.
“If you’re free, my husband’s just parking the car—want to sit and chat for a bit?”
“Oh, we’d love to,” Phoenix said, “but we’re running late for a few apartment showings—this line took forever. But we should exchange numbers, maybe grab lunch sometime?”
“I’d love that! We actually just moved here, so it’d be nice to make some friends.” Your smile didn’t waver; wide, bright, and straight out of a movie scene.
After saying your goodbyes, you grabbed your order and stepped out of the line, letting them move forward. With one last wave—bright, effortless—you pushed through the door and disappeared into the sunlight.
Phoenix turned back to the cashier, halfway through her order, when her gaze drifted to the large front window—and froze.
"Holy shit."
Bob instinctively looked where she was staring, and his brows shot up so high they nearly vanished into his hairline.
Jake Seresin was outside, casually leaning against a matte black Jeep Wrangler like he belonged in a magazine ad. Arms crossed, aviators in place, his flight jacket unzipped just enough to hint at the crisp white tee underneath. That usual cocky smirk was on his face—or at least, they thought it was.
But it wasn’t a smirk.
It was a smile—wide, open, and so bright it looked like it had cracked straight through his usual armor. Jake Seresin was glowing. Radiant. Practically lit from within.
And then they saw why.
You stepped out into the sunlight, heading straight for him, holding that ridiculous Hailey Bieber smoothie like it was a gold medal. Jake’s face lit up even more. He threw his head back and laughed, his whole body moving with it—unrestrained, joyful, real.
Then he reached for you, pulling you into his arms with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. One hand at your waist, the other settling on the small of your back, fitting you against him like you belonged there.
Phoenix’s jaw dropped slightly. Bob just stared.
Jake lifted his sunglasses, pushing them up onto his head, and looked down at you like you hung the stars. The softest expression they had ever seen on his face—like the man didn’t know how to look away. You said something that made him laugh again, and you handed him the smoothie like it was some inside joke.
They must have been staring too long. Jake’s head turned slightly—just enough to catch them in the reflection.
His eyes found theirs through the glass. For a split second, something flickered across his face.
Surprise. Panic. Maybe even guilt. Just enough to register—before he shoved it back down and straightened up, as if nothing had happened.
He opened your door and helped you in, careful not to jostle the armful of overpriced smoothies and whatever else you’d picked up. Then he turned back toward the window, his eyes meeting theirs once more.
A subtle nod. Barely there. But it carried weight—an unspoken request.
Not for secrecy exactly, but something quieter. A plea to let it be. To pretend they hadn’t just seen past Hangman… and caught a glimpse of Jake.
Phoenix and Bob exchanged a long look, sipping their drinks in stunned silence as they tried to process what they’d just witnessed. It was easy to box Jake in as the poster boy for cockiness—the walking embodiment of swagger and ego—but deep down, they’d always suspected there was more.
More to him than the sharp one-liners and smug grins. More than the call sign.
And now, they’d seen it.
Guess this was it.
The next day, Jake showed up with his usual swagger, every step as self-assured as ever. But his eyes—sharp, watchful—carried a flicker of guardedness. It was subtle, the kind of thing only Phoenix and Bob would pick up on.
“Hey, Strawberry Glaze,” Phoenix said casually.
She could’ve let it slide—pretended like nothing had happened—but she couldn’t resist poking at him just a little. Jake shot her a look sharp enough to make most people flinch.
She just laughed.
The words had been soft, low enough that no one else could hear. And the smile she gave him—amused, knowing, a little smug—said it all:
Your secret’s safe with me.
2. Bradley.
Bradley hated shopping. He wasn’t good at it—never had been. He took forever to decide what he liked, forgot to write down what he actually needed, and always left the store with random things and none of the essentials.
This time, though, he had a mission: crockery. At the moment, he owned exactly two plates and three mismatched forks. And if he was serious about settling down here, it was probably time to get his shit together.
Normally, he’d drag Nat along—not because she was a woman and supposedly knew about this stuff, but because she was mean enough to keep him on task. She had no patience for his two-hour deep dives in the mug aisle, where he’d examine every single one before deciding he didn’t like any of them.
But Nat had bailed on him, leaving him to fend for himself. Now he was aimlessly wandering the store, eyeing every dinnerware set like it might reveal the meaning of life, tossing random items into the trolley with no real plan—just vibes and mild confusion.
Ever the gossip, Bradley’s ears perked up at the sound of a laugh he knew far too well.
Hangman.
“Darlin’, if you put one more candle in the cart, I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to burn the house down.”
“But Jake, smell this one—it’s amazing. And it says limited edition, so they won’t have it next time,” you replied, dropping not one, but two candles into the cart.
Bradley watched, stunned, as Jake didn’t even argue. He just shook his head with a helpless smile and kept pushing the cart like a man who knew resistance was pointless.
“I also saw this gorgeous botanical garden plate set online—we have to get it.”
“Whatever you want, doll,” Jake said, voice low and warm as he pressed a kiss to your temple and gave your hip a casual, affectionate tap.
Bradley was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor. He wasn’t stupid—and he definitely wasn’t blind. He saw the massive rock on your finger and the way Jake looked at you like you hung the stars.
Hangman, married?
The motherfucker was married.
He could hardly believe what he was seeing.
Bradley had always assumed Jake Seresin was the type who’d never settle down—too cocky, too stubborn, too Hangman. Honestly, he’d half-expected the guy to grow old alone, flirting with waitresses and arguing with air traffic control until the bitter end. Harsh? Maybe. But Jake had never given them any reason to believe otherwise.
Yet here he was—married, domesticated, and currently letting his wife toss candles and dinner plates into the cart like she owned the place. And judging by the look on his face, she did.
The man Bradley was low-key stalking from behind a shelf of overpriced wine glasses wasn’t the Hangman he knew from the skies. This wasn’t the ruthless, lone-wolf aviator who treated teamwork like a contagious disease and would rather eat glass than back down in a briefing.
No—this Jake looked… soft. Happy. In love.
And it was messing with everything Bradley thought he knew.
He ducked behind the endcap as you turned down the next aisle, nearly knocking over a pyramid of mason jars in the process. This wasn’t eavesdropping, he told himself—it was reconnaissance. For team cohesion. For morale. For… reasons.
Jake Seresin, hopeless romantic and candle mule, was not something Bradley had mentally prepared for.
He peeked around the corner again just in time to see Jake reach for a throw blanket you were eyeing. Without hesitation, he tossed it into the cart. “Matches the couch, right?” he said.
“Exactly,” you beamed, and Bradley swore the corners of Jake’s mouth lifted in something dangerously close to a fond sigh.
Who was this man?
Bradley had spent years knowing Jake as a walking testosterone complex with aviators and a call sign, someone who’d charm the hell out of a bartender and then ghost her before the first date. The idea that this man—this patient, domesticated, grocery-hauling version of Jake—existed at all was blowing his mind.
And worse? He looked good at it. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to play husband in a West Elm ad.
Bradley finally backed away from the aisle, muttering to himself, “I need to go look at forks before I lose my grip on reality.”
Still, as he wandered toward the kitchen section, a weird feeling settled in his chest—part disbelief, part amusement… and maybe a little bit of envy. Not the kind that stings, exactly, but the kind that pokes at something you didn’t realize was hollow.
Because despite all his jokes, all his gripes about shopping and settling down, maybe there was a tiny part of him that wouldn’t mind someone tossing limited-edition candles in his cart, either.
But first, he really needed more than three forks.
3. Payback and Fanboy.
It was just past 7 a.m. when Fanboy and Payback jogged down the beach trail, sneakers thudding lightly against the packed sand. The sun had barely risen, casting a warm, golden glow over the shoreline, and the waves rolled in slow and steady, their rhythm soft and soothing beneath the buzz of gulls overhead.
It was the kind of morning that made you forget how exhausting the week had been.
“If Mav makes us watch one more hour of grainy debrief footage, I’m walking into the ocean,” Fanboy grumbled between breaths, arms swinging loose at his sides.
“You say that, but last time he caught you checking your phone, he added another hour to the session,” Payback replied, grinning.
“I’m just saying—death by drowning would be less painful than another slideshow.”
They rounded a gentle bend in the trail, where the dunes opened up to a more secluded stretch of beach. The tide had pulled back, leaving wide, smooth patches of sand dotted with seashells and a few early footprints.
Payback slowed, frowning. “Wait. Who’s already out here?”
A large cream-colored blanket had been spread beneath a sun-bleached lifeguard stand. A wicker picnic basket sat off to one side, its lid open and lined with fabric. There were iced coffees, a brown paper bag, a small vase of wildflowers—wildflowers, at the beach—and two people.
One of them crouched near the cooler, pulling out what looked like a container of fruit. The other approached barefoot, holding two drinks, sleeves of a linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, light catching in his sandy hair.
Fanboy’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on a second…”
The barefoot man looked up—and grinned.
Jake Seresin.
Hangman.
Golden-boy aviator, squadroom shit-talker, human ego parade.
Except… something was different.
He stepped forward, took one of the iced coffees from your hand with a quiet thank-you, then leaned in and kissed your temple with the kind of easy, familiar affection that made both Fanboy and Payback freeze mid-stride.
Jake said something with a lazy smile and you laughed, the kind of laugh that came from your belly—bright, genuine, totally unfiltered. Then you plopped down on the blanket, legs curled underneath you, pulling a croissant from the paper bag as if you’d done this a hundred times.
And maybe you had.
Because Jake didn’t hesitate. He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it behind you, just in case the blanket wasn’t enough cushion. Then he sank down beside you, stretching his legs long across the sand and casually slipping one arm around your waist.
Payback immediately ducked behind a nearby dune like he’d just witnessed a war crime. “Tell me I’m not seeing this.”
Fanboy crouched next to him, equally stunned. “What the hell is happening right now?”
Jake leaned back slightly, watching you unwrap something else—probably another baked good—and tilted his head, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. You fed him a bite without even looking, and he accepted it like it was second nature. Then he reached up and tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.
“I’m in shock,” Fanboy whispered. “He just tucked her hair behind her ear. That’s a boyfriend move.”
“That’s not a boyfriend move,” Payback muttered. “That’s a married guy move.”
Fanboy squinted. “Wait—zoom in. Look at her hand.”
A glint of metal caught the sunlight as you reached for your coffee. Simple but elegant. An emerald-cut diamond, gold band. The kind of ring that said permanence. The kind of ring that didn’t come off easily.
“Oh my God,” Payback breathed. “He’s married.”
Jake leaned back again, one hand lazily tracing circles along your knee while you showed him something on your phone. Whatever it was made him chuckle low in his chest, and he leaned in to kiss your cheek before setting the coffee down in the sand.
Fanboy was frozen, processing. “So Hangman—Hangman—sneaks off on weekends for romantic beach picnics… with his wife.”
“And we never knew.”
“I thought he lived off protein bars and sheer arrogance.”
“Same.”
You pulled something else from the basket—what looked like a floral plate set, one of those whimsical ones you’d find in a lifestyle magazine. Jake took it from you with care, set it between you, then reached for the wildflowers, adjusting the little vase so it wouldn’t tip over.
Fanboy stared. “He brought flowers.”
Payback shook his head. “He packed a goddamn centerpiece.”
They both crouched lower behind the dune, as if Jake might sense them. The only thing louder than the waves at that moment was the sound of their worldviews shattering.
Fanboy finally whispered, “Okay, but like… how dare he be this soft and not tell us?”
“We’re his squadmates. This is betrayal.”
“We were supposed to know before the blanket picnics started. There’s an order to these things.”
“I mean—what’s next? He gets a dog and starts doing couples yoga?”
Fanboy paused. “He would be good at couples yoga.”
Jake leaned back, hands behind his head, face turned up to the morning sun as you laid your head on his chest, sipping your drink and humming along to some song playing quietly from a speaker. You looked perfectly at ease, like this was your favorite part of the week.
Like he was.
“Okay,” Payback muttered. “We can’t tell anyone.”
“Agreed.”
“But also,” Fanboy added, eyes still wide, “we are absolutely never letting him live this down.”
“Obviously.”
They finally stood, dusting off their legs, still stunned but grinning. One last glance over their shoulders showed Jake pressing a kiss to the top of your head, like you were the only person on earth that mattered.
Hangman hadn’t just settled down.
He’d crash-landed into love, and apparently? He was thriving.
4. Javy (ten years ago)
The bar was thick with smoke and the smell of spilled beer, its low-ceilinged walls pulsating with neon light and the steady beat of a bass-heavy pop song. The air was warm and sticky, full of laughter, shouting, and the occasional off-key karaoke warble daring to take the stage. Jake leaned casually against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the corner where you and your friends were holding court.
You were the heart of the group—laughing without restraint, glass in hand, your voice rising clear and confident above the din. Your friends egged each other on to the microphone, but you owned the room like it was yours, moving effortlessly through the crowd, radiating that kind of joy that was impossible not to notice. Jake’s gaze softened as he watched you—like you were a secret he had stumbled upon, the kind of thing you didn’t want to shout about but couldn’t stop looking at.
Javy, never one to let an opportunity for teasing pass, nudged Jake sharply. “You been staring at her all night, man. You planning to say something or just get a reputation as the creepy aviator?”
Jake barely glanced at him. “I’m just… watching.”
Javy smirked, shifting on his feet. “Right. Watching. She’s having fun—seems like she owns this place. You gonna sing or what? Or just keep mooning over her?”
Jake’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I don’t sing.”
“Everyone sings at karaoke night. Even you.”
Before Jake could respond, you stood with your friend, grabbing the microphone like it was a lifeline. The opening notes of a popular pop song spilled through the speakers, and suddenly, the bar seemed to hush just enough to let your voice soar.
You sang with an easy confidence, playful yet sincere, the kind of performance that made people stop talking and just listen. Jake felt his breath hitch—the way you smiled at the crowd, the way you closed your eyes briefly on the high notes—it was like watching sunlight break through storm clouds.
Javy elbowed him hard. “Dude, you look like you’re about to pop the question right here, right now.”
Jake shot him a sharp look. “I just met my wife.”
The words slipped out quieter than intended, but Javy caught them all the same and grinned wider, clearly not buying it.
After your song ended, the room erupted into applause. You laughed, cheeks flushed, and caught Jake’s eyes from across the room. It was a brief glance, but electric—like a door quietly opening.
Jake made his way over, weaving through the small crowd until he was standing right beside you. “Hey,” he said, voice low and just above the music.
You smiled, a little breathless. “Hey.”
Jake nodded toward the microphone stand. “That was… impressive.”
You shrugged, flicking your hair back. “Well, I had a good duet partner.” You glanced at your friend and winked. “But it’s nice to have an audience.”
Jake laughed softly, eyes never leaving yours. “So, what’s your name?” You offered it to him, along with your hand to shake. “Jake,” he replied, taking it. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was trying to make sure you felt it. “And I’m supposed to be focused on training missions, but I can’t stop watching you.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that so? What’s more distracting—the music or me?”
He smiled, just a little crooked. “Definitely you.”
You laughed, and the sound was like a spark in the dim bar light. For a moment, it was just the two of you—no crowd, no noise, just the hum of a song fading out and the start of something new.
Javy sidled up, grinning. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But remember, Jake, if you break her heart, I’m coming for you.”
Jake’s grin turned serious. “I don’t plan on breaking anything.”
You looked up at him, feeling a flutter you hadn’t expected. “Good.”
Fic Idea: ASOIAF x Night of the museum au where you become a Night guard to a museum in a modern westeros and all of a sudden everybody comes to life on the first Night of your job : bonus points that they came to life for the first time because of you, I think it would be more chaotic lmao. Imagine all the confusion among the characters, and you have to find a way to calm them down, and most of them are like egoistic af. You're so close to pulling your hair out.
Being a girl is: wanting to go to bed early but deciding to just get on tumblr/wattpad/Ao3 for a little bit and then end up finding a fic series that you really like and read until well past your usual bedtime then keeping on because it’s already past your bedtime. Then being mad when you wake up in the morning because you overslept your timer.
When you learn how to crochet/ knit or really any type of fiber arts, there will be a voice in your head that tells you that you should make something for everyone for the holidays.
oh my god, I didn’t think there were any surviving versions of this post left
For those who weren’t around in the Deep Lore times, this is one of the relics of the editable post era. This post has THE SINGLE HIGHEST NOTES of ANY post on this site, bar none, but with more than a dozen variations. Every single post you’ve ever seen with more than 3 million notes has been a different version of this one.
This is the “Dean’s Gym Shorts” post. This is the Flubber post. This is the original “Reblog if you support gay people” post. it was ALL of them. before half the site got nuked, it had even more notes than it has now - at one point, well over 15 million, and that was years ago.
This, with no exaggeration, is the ONE TRUE heritage post
So when I was getting dressed today, I very quickly put on a lab coat and some cat ears, not even trying to have something coherent, just wanting to have some kind of costume, and then I used some eyeliner to draw some whiskers on my face, so, yeah, that's my costume, cat in a lab coat, does it make sense? no. who cares. Still wearing the same skirt and striped knee-high socks from yesterday, but that's just my work clothes.
But then when I got to my office in the physics department, one of my colleagues was immediately like, "Oh! Schrödinger's catgirl!"
The eco fash and eugenicist leftists (yes, whether you admit it or not, you exist) aren't going to like this but I rank the invention of plastic as one of the top 5 best inventions to ever happen to medicine, along with soap, insulin, vaccines, and rehydration salt fluids
Absolutely! People who want to eliminate plastic production in its entirety ignore how it is used in *countless* ways medically. You know how surgical instruments stay sterile? Plastic packaging to keep them that way. How subdermal implants can be lightweight and comfortable as the body moves (to the point of being unnoticeable) and still disperse the medication for even years before needing to be changed out? Plastic bodies! Do you know what many modern stitches are? Plastic! Bc it has the ability to be fully sterilized and stretchable enough to move without snapping or tearing the skin while keeping the wound closed and in a position to heal.
If you wanna go after plastic: go after the consumer culture that puts ridiculous amounts of kids toys in dumps and clothes made by fast fashion. But this is a strong case of the ironic "all generalizations are bad" truism. I am all for reducing plastic waste and it's damage on the environment, but don't even *look* at the medical industry, let alone blame it until youve "solved" about ten other industries, cos this one improves and saves lives.
I'm on record as a plastic-hater but ALWAYS with the caveat that it's important for medicine
really I think it's gone way too far in all other areas like clothing, but obviously medicine is a whole other ballpark (hell, even in my own life- I wear contact lenses, which were theorized before the invention of plastics but never practical, and my glasses would have broken so many times over the years if the lenses were still actual glass)
someday hopefully medical plastic will be made from not-oil, but please understand that my criticism of plastic NEVER includes the medical field
I just had a physical exam today and I haven’t done the little knee hammer reflex test since I was like four years old so I was just like “yeah it’ll just make me flinch or whatever nbd” but when the doctor actually DID it my whole ass leg fucking launched into the air like I was David fucking Beckham. She didn’t even give me a second to recover either, I was gripping onto the exam table for dear life like “oh my god I’m so sorry” and WHAM she nails the other one. My entire body jolts as my foot flies three feet in the air and she twirls out of the trajectory of a five toe death kick to the groin like a capoeira master and just says “you have very brisk reflexes”. Like miss ma’am with the PHD didn’t just Ratitouille my whole shit. Like respectfully your honour you just played my skeleton like a piano, what the hell
It drives me crazy that "LOL steal from the British Museum/The Louvre!" is a meme because like.... you all realize that the stuff in there still deserves protecting, right?
These institutions are MUSEUMS that exist for public education and preservation, not monsters that live off of eating stolen artifacts.
The gems that were stolen were pieces of FRENCH history, made by FRENCH artisans, publicly owned by the FRENCH people and kept in a FRENCH museum.
And now they're being destroyed so some criminals can make a buck off selling the jewels.
I cannot emphasize this enough, THOSE GEMS WERE PUBLICLY OWNED AND ON PUBLIC DISPLAY.
Wherever the jewels came from, they're getting cut into smaller pieces and now NOBODY can go view them and enjoy them and the money being made off of that is going to a handful of criminals not the countries these gems originated from.
Believe it or not, not everything in these museums was stolen from colonized people. Most of the stuff was actually ethically acquired through trade. And most of the stuff in their collections are priceless pieces of BRITISH and FRENCH history that needs to be preserved and protected.
And for real. If you want to see cultural items repatriated to the countries they came from, you'd better put your money where your mouth is and start supporting museums in the global south. For real everyone wants the Benin Bronzes repatriated but can't name a single museum in Nigeria where they can be housed, cared for, and displayed. (it would be the National Museum Lagos or the National Museum Benin City).
Preserving those items and keeping them safely on display is EXPENSIVE and museums in poor countries are often severely under-funded. They need extensively-trained preservation staff, fire-proofing, and regular security.
It’s been so funny (in a very bleak) kind of way, talking to my friends who live here in Scotland as they bemoan the cost of living and the cost of groceries—which is bad, let me be clear what is happening here in the UK is very bad given the state of wages and the economy, it is bad—and they’re like “yeah! It’s ridiculous, it’s like £6 for really nice olive oil now!”
And we’re like oh. Yeah that’s rough...
Meanwhile our local grocery store back home has hiked the price up to $24 for the same size bottle.
A liter of milk at the same store is now $5
Today we bought the 2 liters of milk for £1.75
Yeah. Anyway. We’re going to be traveling further out for groceries. Which sucks because the local store is what gives me some autonomy and ability to contribute to the household chores without needing Mothman to drive my disabled ass everywhere but fuck that. The fuck you mean you want $16 for 18 eggs? Jesus Christ.
Getting my ass a Costco card. I’ll buy a crate of eggs. Holly Mop will be delighted.
reading this as someone who does cross stitch but is scared of the other kinds of embroidery is like overhearing an incredibly tall and buff person say they have beef with Mr. Tom, the kitten that chills at the bookstore
We’ve both been sick for close to two weeks now, and while I’ve been kinda okay by comparison, he’s developed a 12 pack abdomen from coughing. My man is shredded like a Victorian consumption victim.
Anyway. We called NHS 111 and were told someone would call us back.
If you’re from the UK you know this means you’ll normally hear back several hours later, or never and end up spending 8 hours in A&E only to be told to talk to your GP in the morning.
Well, they phoned him back within 20 minutes, did a brief consult over the phone with a doctor, then gave him an appointment for within the hour up at the nearest out of hours clinic.
Thanks to my mum driving the car like she stole it, we got there early, to find only one other person there and an abundance of doctors on staff, so he got seen immediately within minutes of sitting down. Verdict is he (and I) have the viral sinus infection that’s been going around and kicking the stuffing out of people. They prescribed him a nasal steroid and codeine, because sometimes the Victorians are right. Sometimes you need an opiate to suppress your cough.
Meanwhile my entire family and half the neighbors whom my dad has informed incredulously over the hedges, cannot believe how quickly he got treated.
And this isn’t the first time either. The last time he was here and got a strep throat infection, my dad drove us first thing in the morning to A&E on New Years Day, only to find the entire A&E empty and with several doctors hanging around the reception having a coffee with the nurses waiting for someone to treat. He didn’t even get to sit down that time. They just whisked him into an exam room, said “yep, that’s strep throat” and bundled him off to the in-house pharmacy to pick up his free medicine with strict instructions to drink plenty of fluids and stay in bed.
He’s like, specifically gifted for avoiding long wait times at the NHS. Incredible.
“Bloody foreigners coming over here and getting immediate treatment on the NHS!” claims unfounded.
@mothman-etd who is an outlier and apparently blessed by some elder god of socialized healthcare is a statistical anomaly and should not have been counted.
So sad to hear about Patricia Routledge’s death. Keeping Up Appearances is something I’ve watched and loved since I was a little kid. It’s a funny, goofy comedy on the surface but underneath it you have probably one of the best pieces of commentary on the British class system you can ask for.
