Ms. Smartarse > Recent Status Updates

"Think about [tutorials] as Education through interrogation."
I nodded energetically, like I couldn't wait to be questioned for my intellectual crimes.

There had been a schism in the Cryptic Crossword Club. Colin Clemence's weekly solving challenge had been won by Irene Dougherty for the third week running. Frank Carpenter had made an accusation of impropriety [which] had gained some momentum. The following day a profane crossword clue had been pinned to Colin Clemence's door, and, the moment he had solved it, all hell had broken loose.

'You're very beautiful, by the way,' says Ian to Donna. 'For a police officer.'
'You'll see how beautiful I am if I ever have to arrest you,' says Donna.
'Well, not beautiful. But definitely attractive enough for round here.'
'Thank you for your time, Mr. Ventham,' says Chris, standing. 'If there's anything else, we'll be in touch. And if you ever need to tell me that I'm beautiful, you have my number.'

For really complete disaster maps, Louis remembered thinking, see your local doctor.

Rachel came up then, her travelling bag and pocket-book slung over one arm, Gage's diaper bag (I'LL BE A BIG BOY SOON was printed on the side, a sentiment probably more meant to cheer up the parents than the diaper-wearing child) slung over the other.

"I don't want Church [cat] to be like all those dead pets!" she burst out, suddenly tearful and furious. "I don't want Church to ever be dead! He's my cat! He's not God's cat! Let God have his own cat! Let God have all the damn old cats He wants, and kill them all! Church is mine!"


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"How do you read so quickly? Is it some kind of... I dunno, magic thing?"
"I look at the page, and then the words are in my mind. That's the accepted way, yes?"
"All of the words on the page? All at once?"
"You read them one by one?"
"Yes!"
"That seem quite inefficient, if you don't mind my saying so."


*agrees in reading slump*

"But you did like [the book]? Even with the distinct lack of sword-fighting?"
Viv thought for a moment, idly moving the bits with her thumb. "Well, there was plenty of fighting, I guess. Just not a lot of bleeding."

Children, as was well known, could all be beautiful in their mothers' eyes, but Suae didn't agree at all. When someone is ugly, they're ugly, and that's it. If you think they're cute regardless just because they're your son, then you're not seeing clearly.

If I sensed that someone was hiding something, I'd feel a mix of sympathy and strange fascination for that person - the more elusive the secret, the stronger my curiosity grew. That night with E., however, affected me in a way I had never experienced before. It was an uncomfortable, bitter feeling: I had believed I was undressing an attractive woman, only to realize it was actually a little girl.

She ran until daylight broke and kept running - along a road with no destination, leading only nowhere. And so she ran on the endless treadmill, softly gasping, without pause, as if into eternity.

"Why do you look guilty all of a sudden?"
"Do I?" Wesley said weakly.
"You never look guilty," said Sebastian. "You have no shame."

Matteo was turning out to be snappish, cynical and protective of Sebastian. Ugh, he was almost tolerable.

"Xenophobia is a waste of time," Lord Fine went on like he hadn't just paid Sebastian something of a compliment. "Everyone is a foreigner somewhere. Foreigners are just people, and all people are universally terrible, so what's the point of despising foreigners in particular?"

English upper lip meets Spanish guilt and sparks fly... and SO. MUCH. CHEESE.

"Friendships like yours, feelings like yours - they are their own kind of magic. And a betrayal this deep, necessary to fool a telepath - your trust in one another might not have survived." She shook her head. "We would not destroy you like that. Better Ellis and I do it alone, and remain your villains, while your love for each other stays unspoiled."

"Yeah, okay, that's better."
"Is it?" Arthur said pointedly.
"I mean, I'd rather deal with them than your ex. Aside from the trying to kidnap and kill us part, of course."
"Trying to kidnap? What try? We've both been successfully kidnapped by that lot, full stop."

"Don't pretend some working-class sod is worth your time."
"You have no idea what he's worth."
The hostility in Arthur's words must have gotten through to even Wesley, because he softened his voice placatingly. "But I'm better for you. "
"You don't even like me."
"I like looking at you."

Finch started to read at half past eleven on a school night. The third night of Hanukkah, his sophomore year. He closed the book at three in the morning, his mouth dry and his head pounding. And the space behind his eyes filled with bloody brides and walking death, and little girls who weren't little girls at all.

"How do I do it? Where do I start?"
"Where do all these things start? Once upon a time. And you just... go from there."

She sighed, sounding older than salt and way too young to be a mother.

You're going to sit here, and I'm going to bring you some food, and you're not working anymore till you stop looking like crap. Oh, except I have to leave in twenty minutes, so hopefully you'll look better by then.

"How did you know who I was?" he said, rubbing his headache as he squinted up at the doorman.
"Mr. Kenzie has a lot of eccentric guests."
Eccentric. Mrs. Brodigan liked that word too because it was a nice way to say weird.

Yes, I was a queen of Faerie - and I wished to appear so. To match. For where had I ever matched before? At Cambridge, yes - I matched with the old stones, and the dusty libraries. I suppose that, in Faerie, I had wished to match with the Folk. A foolish aim indeed! I wondered at myself now. Yet I suppose that one cannot spend one's life half in love with Faerie without wishing to be part of it...

"All right. Let us accept for the sake of argument that you possess a truer understanding of the Folk than I, that books and academic knowledge are secondary to lived experience. What then would you have me fear?"
She hesitated. "Power".

'You can fool others, but you can't fool yourself.'
This saying still felt odd to me. The verb 'to fool' and the object '-self' just didn't fit. Even though he added a 'not', the association of these two words still felt pretentious. [Father] must've [linked them] a long time ago, and then he must have removed the connecting words. That's probably why he could express it to me like this.

He imagined the air filling his lungs, washing away the dankness of the pipe.
Slowly the tension in his body eased, and at last he moved again, easing his torso forward to release his legs from the pressure of the pipe. He closed his eyes then and concentrated, as he had in the kiva with his grandfather; as he had alone in his room on Saturday night.

He knew he was in trouble again, but not for something he'd actually done.
He was in trouble simply because of what he was.

"Wendell wrote to us, of course," Lilja said. "When was it? November, I think. He wished to know if we would like a little holiday - how did he put it? Oh yes: 'Where winter is a peaceable, rainy season, and one need not insulate oneself with dead animals to venture out of doors.' You know, I don't think he will ever take to Ljosland."

'Mr Pink had a last message for the Prefects. [He's] the guy who made all the chutney. He was here forty years. He said the Prefects should all go and fuck themselves.’
‘Outrageous. How dare you?!'
‘It was a last word message, Bunty. I was honour bound to deliver it. Would you have me deny the final wishes of a respected member of the community, and the driving force of [town]'s one-person chutney industry?’