therealpm: (smug)
*Peter dials Fiona's phone number, but just gets through to voicemail. He tries the landline, but soon hears the beep of the answerphone. Clearly she's not in. He leaves a message.*

Hi, Fiona. Alastair's a little indisposed and won't be able to come home tonight. Nothing to worry about, but he'll be staying here for a bit until he feels better. I'll send him back over tomorrow. Hope you're well- you've got my number if you need to call.

Lots of love,
therealpm: (Damn)
*Peter wakes up slowly, and once again, dresses cautiously. The wards show some magical activity occurred late last night, and although the spell seems not to have targeted this room, it is always better to be careful- his new wards are not perfect, after all.

The location of the spell becomes obvious as soon as he opens his bedroom door. Plastic cups full of water stretch the breadth of the corridor and several feet either side of Peter's door- far too far for him to merely step over. A sharply curtailed attempt to move a few reveals that the cups are stapled together, and cannot be shifted without spilling a considerable amount of water.

Attempts to levitate the array or freeze the water meet with little success- Peter's magic is still far too weak for brute force to work, and persuading the entire thing to either move or freeze as one is an almost impossible task- like trying to direct every individual bee in a swarm.

He rocks back on his heels, chewing his lower lip, unwilling to admit defeat.*

therealpm: (Bercow incoming)
*Peter works his way quietly through yet another brief, occasionally stopping to flick the fringe out of his eyes.  His hair is far too long by now and it's beginning to annoy him. 

The TV screen in the corner is on, but remains carefully blank.  The Machine takes pains not to be visible when a guard might be peering through the door unless Peter specifically requests an answer.  Last night had been their longest uninterrupted conversation since the programming of the doppelganger.  Peter had guessed (correctly) that none of his guards would wish to miss The Thick of It, and so he'd had a whole half hour to talk with his creation. 

Peter being Peter, this had mostly involved a set of detailed instructions on what The Machine should do if the 'cure' killed him, and a request to both monitor and if possible, strategically intervene in the care pathway of Peter's two victims.  They were too far away for The Machine to do anything directly of course, but all patient records are computerised these days and overstressed doctors tend not to notice slight alterations to a patient's records or prescriptions when they've got another few dozen to manage as well.

The Machine tells him they're doing better and that LaGarde seems to be doing her best to make Osborne miserable.  It helps.  A little.*
therealpm: (annoyed)
*The first thing that Peter notices when he wakes up is that he can't move.  The second thing he notices is the pain that shoots through his limbs when he tries.  On further attempts, he finds out that the first isn't strictly true (which is good, because if John or Nigel or anyone else had put some sort of physical binding spell on him on top of all the other restrictions then he might just have had to find a way to kill them with his brain)- moving is just very very difficult and very very slow. 

Black Rod has already delivered breakfast- it's steaming gently on the other side of the room, which right now might as well be half way up Ben Nevis for all that Peter can get to it. He shifts one leg sideways.  Slowly, so slowly, then winces as his foot hits the cold carpet.  After what seems like an hour but was probably less than a minute, the other leg follows and Peter rolls himself upright, suppressing the urge to groan.  Wasn't he meant to have got all this aching business out of the way yesterday?  He certainly felt like he'd had more than his fair share of muscle cramps and spasms.

He manages to drag one of the blankets around his shoulders- warmth is mean to help with this sort of thing, isn't it?- and pauses.  He's going to have to stand up.  And then walk.  Steeling himself, he tells his legs very firmly that they're going to have to move.


Eventually he collapses in the chair.  It provides, he decides, an under-appreciated view of the room and he ought to stay here for some time.  Not bothering with the knife, he stabs... well, slowly nudges the fork into some bacon and settles the blanket more securely about his person.

This is ridiculous, even chewing hurts.*
therealpm: (annoyed)
My Hero
It is time that I finally leave frontline politics completely and instead devote my time to a far more worthy cause:
turning this journal into a tribute page for the greatest Lord ever to grace the upper chamber.
I am also jealous of his hair and will spend the next year trying to emulate it perfectly.

Don't turn my MPs into animals again, Peter, or this will be just the start. - John
You realise, John, that this means war?
therealpm: (Machine)
*Surveys the meticulously painted runes required for a meso-scale trans-location, sigils that are now useless and beginning to smell due to the wards: newly strengthened by Bercow's return.*

*attempts to cast a cleaning charm*

*after sheltering from the haphazard whirlwind of soap-suds and bleach, decides to try cleaning it up manually*

Machine, I require tea.

...and also some sort of cleaning implement


*rearranges the runes in one corner to form a slightly smaller summoning circle*

*steps back and mouths a few words until what appears to be a very trim racing broom appears*

*smirks and begins to clean up the mess*
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