Procedures for underground
Charles Wallace didn't have to be taken out of school today: the England/Sweden game was at 3:00 p.m., which gave me time to study in the high school library with Zenobia and Zapata beforehand. Jeremy Jones tried to thank me for my grade 9 notes, but at that point I was late for getting Charles Wallace.
We set out for the Waltzing Weasel after a stop at home so we could get our England kit on (Charles Wallace had the red shirt, I had the white) and my grandfather could make sure my mother knew to pick us up at 5:00 p.m.. Charles Wallace was still whining a bit.
"I hate sports. What's so important about soccer?"
"It's the easiest game to play, idiot. All you have to do is run around a lot near the ball. Charles Wallace, even I have a soccer trophy." He appeared somewhat mollified by that.
The Waltzing Weasel is on Milborough's High Street, on a strip with Championship Vinyl, Greenwood Stationers, the Ellesmere tea room, and Finch, Wilson & Coxwell: Barristers and Solicitors. The pub was filling up when we got in. My grandfather set Charles Wallace up with an NTN gameplayer, and we waited to get drinks. We had a bit of a problem there.
"A pint of lager, and a half of shandy for the lass," my grandfather ordered.
"Is she over nineteen?" the server asked.
"I was drinking lager out of a rusty can when I was 10--give the girl a half shandy, you mealy-..." The server scuttled away at that. Unfortunately the men around the bar heard that, and one of them pointed at me and asked,
"Aren't you the girl with the cracking bust what was in that play at the high school?" I turned red, and then my grandfather said,
"That's my granddaughter--she's got an 89 average at the high school." I wondered if I could stay in the women's room for the whole 90 minutes of the game. Luckily, after the kickoff, everyone (except Charles Wallace) concentrated on the game. It was hard not to get caught up in it. At half-time, Charles Wallace demanded food, and my grandfather went off to find someone with menus. Then Charles Wallace looked up.
"Look, Sandra, look who just came in," It was Duncan, who looked a bit annoyed.
"Great, it's Duncan," I said, but Charles Wallace still pointed at the door. "Oh hell." Right behind Duncan was a large man with a blue and yellow Viking helmet on. "It's Arne."
We set out for the Waltzing Weasel after a stop at home so we could get our England kit on (Charles Wallace had the red shirt, I had the white) and my grandfather could make sure my mother knew to pick us up at 5:00 p.m.. Charles Wallace was still whining a bit.
"I hate sports. What's so important about soccer?"
"It's the easiest game to play, idiot. All you have to do is run around a lot near the ball. Charles Wallace, even I have a soccer trophy." He appeared somewhat mollified by that.
The Waltzing Weasel is on Milborough's High Street, on a strip with Championship Vinyl, Greenwood Stationers, the Ellesmere tea room, and Finch, Wilson & Coxwell: Barristers and Solicitors. The pub was filling up when we got in. My grandfather set Charles Wallace up with an NTN gameplayer, and we waited to get drinks. We had a bit of a problem there.
"A pint of lager, and a half of shandy for the lass," my grandfather ordered.
"Is she over nineteen?" the server asked.
"I was drinking lager out of a rusty can when I was 10--give the girl a half shandy, you mealy-..." The server scuttled away at that. Unfortunately the men around the bar heard that, and one of them pointed at me and asked,
"Aren't you the girl with the cracking bust what was in that play at the high school?" I turned red, and then my grandfather said,
"That's my granddaughter--she's got an 89 average at the high school." I wondered if I could stay in the women's room for the whole 90 minutes of the game. Luckily, after the kickoff, everyone (except Charles Wallace) concentrated on the game. It was hard not to get caught up in it. At half-time, Charles Wallace demanded food, and my grandfather went off to find someone with menus. Then Charles Wallace looked up.
"Look, Sandra, look who just came in," It was Duncan, who looked a bit annoyed.
"Great, it's Duncan," I said, but Charles Wallace still pointed at the door. "Oh hell." Right behind Duncan was a large man with a blue and yellow Viking helmet on. "It's Arne."
posted by Zandra Larson at 9:54 p.m.
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