Another Saturday night (and Sunday as well) (Day 1 & 2)

[WinstonP]

Since Taavi's asked what we're up to, I thought I might start things off, since Rev. Poole is a very exciting fellow, brimming with adventure.

Having spent the day attending meetings of the London Asiatic Philatelist's League (tea and biscuits), Anglo-Belgian Friendship Society (cheese, white beer and bread), and a lecture on the natives of Sarawak by the Young Women's Christian Evangelical League by one Doctor Cornelius Schmoke (finger sandwiches, tea, and interminable conversation), Rev. Poole retires to his flat. After putting on the kettle and letting in his cat (an ancient tabby named Virgil), he commences with needed mending and darning over a cuppa and a plate of lemon biscuits procured from a recent gathering of the East London Temperance Association. He then fortifies himself with a small taste of brandy, he settles into bed (after setting out, for Virgil, a plate of gizzards received as a gift from a pious butcher a few blocks away) to read the better part of a history of the Eleusinian Mystery Religion (by Mrs. Julius G.G. Cooke, 1912, Cambridge).

Waking early the next morning (due to a chill and an overabundance of tea), after his morning necessities, he attends services at St. Paul's. Afterwards he lunches at a nearby hot sausage cart (a weekly treat), then ventures to call up three infirm parishioners of Little St. Hugh, who never quite understood that they should head elsewhere after the fire. Mrs. Drew, age 95, is deaf but happily plays the organ while Rev. Poole sings a few of her favorite hymns as best he can. Mrs. Bullard, age 86, is confined mostly to her chair, and wishes to discuss a few passages from the Acts of the Apostles (but mostly wishes to complain about her ungrateful grandchildren), and Mr. Pomfret, age 92, prays a bit, but as soon as Pomfret's nosy son departs the old man produces a deck of cards and the pair plays a few hands for matches.

The afternoon drawing late, barring any chance encounters, Rev. Poole takes a leisurely walk, favoring the City but branching out as the day takes him into greater London. Returning home at dusk, he repeats his evening activities as above, eating a dinner of cold kippers on dry toast with water, finishing the Mrs. Cooke's work, and starting on a bit of fiction.

[justinhorner]

Oh, please do remind me not to do that again, Llewellyn tells himself for the umpteenth morning, or, more accurately, afternoon. After a fine day down the bookshop, and the intrigue of the Contessa's visit, he nonchalantly slipped out into the afternoon streets for a day's further wandering, scheming and, eventually, dining and imbibing, the latter at the typically overextended extent.

Yes, a man of my station should perhaps act with a bit more aplomb, but what can one do when one is simply overserved?

Llewellyn then decided, once again, that today (today!) is the day adventure, intrigue and all the joy those terms inspire will once again take center stage in his nonworking (that is, all) hours. If there is one thing that having part ownership of a renowned bookshop should get one is a pinch of adventure now and then, no?

After a little nip to get the day started on the right foot, Llewellyn heads back to Grants to dig up what can be dug up.

[Quinch]

After a busy day at work, mixing with society's finest, Luke is looking forward to spending the evening in his own company. He's planning on taking in the latest Mae West film and then finding a quiet bar where he can have a smoke and a pint in peace.

On Sunday morning he treats himself to a lie in and a shave before sauntering back to the bookshop.

He ought to get in touch with O'Doggy at some point but he honestly can't be bothered.

[Bookman]

Harwood leaves the shop and heads to see a friend, the Reverend Poole, to discuss consulting on some of the books in the back room. After a pleasant evening in the Hand and Shears in Smithfield he heads back to his place in Kilburn to read up on his Irving.

Sunday morning is spent at the 'Cathedral of North London' St Augustine's, Kilburn enjoying the ludicrously high mass and then talking to a certain young lady over tea afterwards. After his morning with the great and good he strolls over to Little Venice and grabs a swift lunch at the Warrington. He heads into the shop for the planning session with a bottle for Father Poole and will split his time with the back room to try to classify various books.

[andyw666]

Jory:

Jory wanders about the bookshop as the day draws to an end, and absently collects an envelope and a stamp. Wishing anyone left a cheerio, he wanders off whistling.

Jory walks through the city to his little garret, furnished with Indian rugs and paraphernalia. Pausing inside long enough to collect a snub nosed small calibre revolver from a drawer, flip open and spin the barrel to check it was loaded, then tucking it away in a jacket pocket, and grabbing a battered copy of Lesser Known Cults of the Sub-Continent, Rev J P Liverspoon (Ox), 1897, Jory heads out again.

Hat drawn low and head down, Jory beetles through some of the seedier parts of the city before eventually finding his way to a collection of Indian laundries. Jory walks into an Indian eatery hidden between two such laundries, not remotely well enough appointed to be classified a cafe or restaurant. Many Indian Londoners, and a few white ex-Raj types are happily eating curries. Jory orders in slightly stilted Hindi but with obvious relish.

Sometime later, while leafing through Liverspoon's work and downing a Rogan Josh, Jory is politely interrupted by a tall Sikh gentleman with a military bearing, who provides him with a much battered copy of Sir Richard Burton's 1883 publication of B. Indraji's translation of The Kama Sutra. The Sikh gentleman raises his eyebrows in mild disapproval. Jory happily pours through the book.

Later still, Jory can be found negotiating at length with the Sikh while pointing to certain entries in the Kama Sutra. The Sikh gentleman ultimately capitulates, raising his hands in mock surrender. The Sikh leads Jory through several backstreets to an innocuous house, opening a door from which come strange spicey smells and exotic sitar music. A female arm, clad in Indian jewellery, extends from the door, and beckons Jory in. The Sikh walks away, shaking his head.

Next morning, Jory emerges from his garrett and heads to St Martin-in-the-fields to repent and thank his luck again for surviving the War.