I am losing my touch - sigh!

As evidence

Chapter the Second: Where the Lead Cast is Hungover

Dee woke up to mayhem. The world was ending... or it was the last day of a 98% discount in Mirabelle's... or her cat was singing Juditha Triumph-whatsit... or was all of this happening simultaneously... what was that infernal racket for crying out loud? Can't a body get some effing sleep in her own effing house at bloody effing three in the afternoon? Oh wait – that was the clock ticking. Loud enough to be heard in Slovenia – just like grandma.

"Might as well get up I suppose", Dee muttered as she raised her head off the pillow gingerly. It lolled a bit but remained connected to the rest of her. One leg off the bed – slide, slide, slide, flail mid-air, contact! Now the other – effing hell... maybe back to bed till the room stopped tossing around so vigorously? That would be a waste though – she was almost off the bed. And everyone knows that almost off the bed is half way to office. Not that she needed to go to office today. But she could have if she had had to.

Finally up, she vacillated – frig it, big words – must be high still! – between making a gigantic tumbler full of very hot very strong very very black coffee and calling Cilly and checking on her. She decided that since Cilly had always been there for her, ever since they met in boarding school (ha... some meeting that had been – "Hello, I am Cecilia Devrett, your roommate. My friends call me Cilly though." "As in intellectually challenged? Some friends! I am Dianna by the way – my friends call me Dee." "As in cup size? Some friends" – in all honesty, there could have been no looking back after that), it was about time she responded in kind. Right after the coffee.

***

Ting. What Cilly couldn't understand was the, ting, little-bell-on-the-counter. Why have a little-bell-on-the-counter when she was standing, ting, right behind it anyway – and was in fact, ting, here to do just that. There was no back-of-the-shop to disappear, ting, into and be summoned from. Emmy said the little-bell-on-the-counter, ting?, added ambience to the store. Emmy, ta-ting, was Cecilia's friendly neighbourhood librarian – her very own Casper with a penchant for Rosetti as it were. Emmy was also currently, ting, ensconced in said friendly neighbourhood library, ting-traling-aling, and not having to listen to the indeterminate-age-probably-boy-since-girls-are-prettier-monster-child playing master to Cilly's... butler? parlourmaid?... who did respond to bells?... ting ting ting (wasn't that on cue), while the indeterminate-age-etc's mother browsed Cilly's bookstore for something "suitably edifying and uplifting" for Augustus. Assuming Augustus was the monster, Cilly would have recommended the Bible. TING. Maybe a copy with notes in the margin. Ting triling. St. Peter's notes in the margin. Hoping the troll's IQ was at least double digit, Cilly was persuaded to part with The Railway Children. At least they left and she could always buy another copy so it wasn't much of a loss either, which was admittedly a funny way to run a bookstore. But no more bells ringing – Cilly could have jigged. Except she couldn't chance it – she didn't think she had enough neural control left to stop bobbing her head if she started. And she did not want to spend the rest of inst. hangover nodding like – like – like – Noddy. It was one in the afternoon. Cilly hadn't slept the whole night. Hadn't been much point to it since the binging stopped at 7 in the morning and the book shop ("The Turrets" – Cilly had spent an entire CSI episode trying to come up with a name) opened at 10. And the boss was a bitch. Well, the boss was Cilly. But then Cilly was a bitch too. Or at least she liked to think of herself as one. If she couldn't be morally loose, she could damn well try her hardest to be a bitch – after all a girl's got to have some pride. And a certain je ne sais quoi. Being a bitch qualified.

She'd give Dee another three or four hours. And then she'd call Dee, cackle on for a bit, mention some form of solid sustenance – slip it in casually. And remember to not mention a sandwich place. Neil had been wrong for Dee. Cilly knew it. Cilly's mum knew it. Dee's mum knew it. Emmy knew it. Hell, Neil knew it. Everyone except Dee in fact – and she ought to have known it. Especially because Dee always chose the wrong man – if there was a rotter within a ten mile radius, Dee'd manage to stumble upon him, adopt him, fall for him, promote him, sleep with him, be fleeced by him, be dumped by him and bemoan him – not necessarily in that order and sometimes within the space of less than a week. Dee Worried Cilly. And this was not a slogan for breakfast cereal.

Ting.

See what I mean... why does the bloody muse have to be feline instead of canine.