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BlendedSlop
VIP Member
Brian Butterfield
VIP Member
No longer on Rosemary's client list. They didn't update Jack's profile for years but were lightning-quick to remove all traces of her 
www.unitedagents.co.uk
Rosemary Scoular | United Agents
loulou1185
New member
About 5/6 years ago I worked in the charity sector. Specifically for a charity right in Jack’s so called niche. I don’t work there anymore so no fear of 
Back then I was surprised we hadn’t done a campaign with her. When I mentioned this to the CEO there was a dry laugh and that they had tried on multiple occasions only for Jack to flake or bail.
I respected that CEO a lot and they were visibly angry at the wasted time and effort the charity had put in. I didn’t ask more questions as at the time I assumed Jack’s mental health was the reason she couldn’t follow things through. It’s telling that folks did want to work with Jack and give her a legitimate platform. Only she couldn’t be bothered! She was totally happy to give charities the run around and waste their resources.
Finding these threads has been a nice bookend to that experience. Been meaning to share for a while but seems a good time when our smol pixie is refusing to chaos for us.
Back then I was surprised we hadn’t done a campaign with her. When I mentioned this to the CEO there was a dry laugh and that they had tried on multiple occasions only for Jack to flake or bail. I respected that CEO a lot and they were visibly angry at the wasted time and effort the charity had put in. I didn’t ask more questions as at the time I assumed Jack’s mental health was the reason she couldn’t follow things through. It’s telling that folks did want to work with Jack and give her a legitimate platform. Only she couldn’t be bothered! She was totally happy to give charities the run around and waste their resources.
Finding these threads has been a nice bookend to that experience. Been meaning to share for a while but seems a good time when our smol pixie is refusing to chaos for us.
hooplifehero
Chatty Member
Hope you enjoyed your break... back again with Chapter 3 Part Two
‘Well!’ Emma gathered herself and surveyed the canvas. She had altered Miss Monroe’s lips a little, and made slight improvements to her eyes, and to her hair, and redesigned the tattoos upon her arms, and removed some of the dirt on her feet, and dressed her in more appropriate clothing, and while it did not look so much like Miss Monroe now, it was undeniably a pretty drawing, worthy of display above any mantlepiece.
‘You have made me too tall!’ the painting’s subject complained, appearing suddenly at Emma’s shoulder. ‘I am barely four-feet-tall, and you draw me as a giant.’
‘I... I think not, dear. For I am five-feet-three, and you are surely taller than me.’
The other ignored her, and leaned forward to the canvas, rubbing the surface with her fingertips to blur and soften the pencil drawing, until all details were lost and it looked as though it was being viewed through a smeared pair of eye-glasses.
‘That’s more like me,’ she declared, standing back.
‘I am sure Mr Elton will love it, when he has regained his health.’ Although even as she spoke, Emma wondered at the wisdom of pairing Mr Elton with Miss Monroe. He had seemed to her a foolish, harmless individual, an ideal pawn for her idle games of match-making, but now for the first time she hesitated and wondered if her schemes were folly; worse, if they were cruelty. To place Miss Monroe into matrimony with Mr Elton would be like throwing a mouse to a cheetah and instructing them to play together as friends.
‘Elton? I care not for his opinion,’ scorned Miss Monroe. ‘His view is as trifling to me as a troll under a bridge.’ And from one of the pockets of her waistcoat she produced a miniature trumpet, blowing a fanfare. ‘Toot toot!’
‘Then why... why were you so keen to have your portrait painted at his insistence?’ Emma asked, genuinely at a loss for once in her life.
‘I was keen to have my portrait painted by You, Emma. It is You I care for, You I admire, You whose ample charms I wish to cup in these hands of toil. Order me a bonnet, buy me a ring and invite Mr Elton to announce the banns, for I am in love and see Marriage on the near horizon! Am I right in thinking your father has an income of over ten thousand pounds per year, by the way?’
‘Miss Monroe!’ exclaimed Emma. ‘Of course, in time I was prepared to love you as a Sister, and welcome such intimacy as I have enjoyed with Mrs Weston when she was dear Miss Taylor, but the improprieties you speak of are unconscionable at present and will only become socially acceptable in one hundred-and-fifty years time, or more. Were I to live until such a brave new era arrived, I would count myself as an ally of such women – why, I could even... if the law and society allowed it, I could perhaps contemplate...’ – and here she thought of Miss Jane Fairfax with such warm regard that her cheeks flushed – ‘but no, Miss Monroe. Such a union between us is quite impossible.’
Miss Monroe drew herself to her full height, which Emma was secretly pleased to note was far taller than four feet. ‘Fie and shame upon you for a hypocrite,’ said she. ‘You are no more an ally to my kind than the Holy Roman Empire is an ally to France. I know where you live – ‘
‘That surprises me not,’ Emma responded pertly, ‘For you have spent the last fortnight in my father’s house, sleeping in every spare bed, and by daytime emptying his larder and cellars.’
‘That is my Work!’ cried the other. ‘That is what I do. The D_vil take me if I ever give up on my war against privileged society – ‘
‘You wage your War by consuming the ham and salmon, the veal and chickens, of a man who has been nothing but good to you?’
‘D__n you and your household, for I consume nothing but vegetables,’ declared the proud Miss Monroe. ‘
‘Because you have left us nothing in the kitchen but vegetables,’ Emma protested, gathering herself. ‘You have outstayed your welcome here, Miss Monroe. I must request that you leave us.’
‘Aye, you’d love that, Emma. To see me crawl in the gutter and walk in front of a carriage, leaving a small boy as an Orphan.’ (Emma had seen no evidence of a small boy during Miss Monroe’s extended residence in Highbury, and sometimes wonder whether this mythical infant even existed).
‘But why should you be reduced to the gutter? You have a large house yourself, I have heard, in Hertfordshire.’
‘A mere hovel!’
‘A hovel, I have heard, with a dozen rooms and twenty servants.’
‘Scurrilous lies! Who told you such falsehoods?’
Emma blushed a little at this, for she had overheard the maid, Molly, whispering it in the scullery, and did not like to admit that she took any account of tattle from the working classes, especially if, as she suspected, Molly was repeating it second-hand from other sources to claim her own glory.
‘I thought as much. Don’t worry, Pal, I’ll trouble you no more. And I’ll trouble Life no more, neither!’
With those words, she was gone, and Emma experienced a wave of absolute relief, combined with a pang of concern. ‘Where will you go?’ she called.
‘To H_ll, I expect!’ came the bold reply.
Emma could not allow even such a miserable creature to venture out aimlessly and alone.
‘Miss Monroe,’ she called after the departing figure. ‘My friend Miss Bennet lives on the Longbourn Estate in Hertfordshire. If you are in that area, call on her and mention my name, and she will help you, I am sure.’
‘Thankyou...’ replied a mournful hoot, like a lost owl.
But as she watched Miss Monroe stride away -- with no visible sign of arthritis or brittle bones, Emma was pleased to note – she wondered if she had just cursed poor Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her family.
‘You have made me too tall!’ the painting’s subject complained, appearing suddenly at Emma’s shoulder. ‘I am barely four-feet-tall, and you draw me as a giant.’
‘I... I think not, dear. For I am five-feet-three, and you are surely taller than me.’
The other ignored her, and leaned forward to the canvas, rubbing the surface with her fingertips to blur and soften the pencil drawing, until all details were lost and it looked as though it was being viewed through a smeared pair of eye-glasses.
‘That’s more like me,’ she declared, standing back.
‘I am sure Mr Elton will love it, when he has regained his health.’ Although even as she spoke, Emma wondered at the wisdom of pairing Mr Elton with Miss Monroe. He had seemed to her a foolish, harmless individual, an ideal pawn for her idle games of match-making, but now for the first time she hesitated and wondered if her schemes were folly; worse, if they were cruelty. To place Miss Monroe into matrimony with Mr Elton would be like throwing a mouse to a cheetah and instructing them to play together as friends.
‘Elton? I care not for his opinion,’ scorned Miss Monroe. ‘His view is as trifling to me as a troll under a bridge.’ And from one of the pockets of her waistcoat she produced a miniature trumpet, blowing a fanfare. ‘Toot toot!’
‘Then why... why were you so keen to have your portrait painted at his insistence?’ Emma asked, genuinely at a loss for once in her life.
‘I was keen to have my portrait painted by You, Emma. It is You I care for, You I admire, You whose ample charms I wish to cup in these hands of toil. Order me a bonnet, buy me a ring and invite Mr Elton to announce the banns, for I am in love and see Marriage on the near horizon! Am I right in thinking your father has an income of over ten thousand pounds per year, by the way?’
‘Miss Monroe!’ exclaimed Emma. ‘Of course, in time I was prepared to love you as a Sister, and welcome such intimacy as I have enjoyed with Mrs Weston when she was dear Miss Taylor, but the improprieties you speak of are unconscionable at present and will only become socially acceptable in one hundred-and-fifty years time, or more. Were I to live until such a brave new era arrived, I would count myself as an ally of such women – why, I could even... if the law and society allowed it, I could perhaps contemplate...’ – and here she thought of Miss Jane Fairfax with such warm regard that her cheeks flushed – ‘but no, Miss Monroe. Such a union between us is quite impossible.’
Miss Monroe drew herself to her full height, which Emma was secretly pleased to note was far taller than four feet. ‘Fie and shame upon you for a hypocrite,’ said she. ‘You are no more an ally to my kind than the Holy Roman Empire is an ally to France. I know where you live – ‘
‘That surprises me not,’ Emma responded pertly, ‘For you have spent the last fortnight in my father’s house, sleeping in every spare bed, and by daytime emptying his larder and cellars.’
‘That is my Work!’ cried the other. ‘That is what I do. The D_vil take me if I ever give up on my war against privileged society – ‘
‘You wage your War by consuming the ham and salmon, the veal and chickens, of a man who has been nothing but good to you?’
‘D__n you and your household, for I consume nothing but vegetables,’ declared the proud Miss Monroe. ‘
‘Because you have left us nothing in the kitchen but vegetables,’ Emma protested, gathering herself. ‘You have outstayed your welcome here, Miss Monroe. I must request that you leave us.’
‘Aye, you’d love that, Emma. To see me crawl in the gutter and walk in front of a carriage, leaving a small boy as an Orphan.’ (Emma had seen no evidence of a small boy during Miss Monroe’s extended residence in Highbury, and sometimes wonder whether this mythical infant even existed).
‘But why should you be reduced to the gutter? You have a large house yourself, I have heard, in Hertfordshire.’
‘A mere hovel!’
‘A hovel, I have heard, with a dozen rooms and twenty servants.’
‘Scurrilous lies! Who told you such falsehoods?’
Emma blushed a little at this, for she had overheard the maid, Molly, whispering it in the scullery, and did not like to admit that she took any account of tattle from the working classes, especially if, as she suspected, Molly was repeating it second-hand from other sources to claim her own glory.
‘I thought as much. Don’t worry, Pal, I’ll trouble you no more. And I’ll trouble Life no more, neither!’
With those words, she was gone, and Emma experienced a wave of absolute relief, combined with a pang of concern. ‘Where will you go?’ she called.
‘To H_ll, I expect!’ came the bold reply.
Emma could not allow even such a miserable creature to venture out aimlessly and alone.
‘Miss Monroe,’ she called after the departing figure. ‘My friend Miss Bennet lives on the Longbourn Estate in Hertfordshire. If you are in that area, call on her and mention my name, and she will help you, I am sure.’
‘Thankyou...’ replied a mournful hoot, like a lost owl.
But as she watched Miss Monroe stride away -- with no visible sign of arthritis or brittle bones, Emma was pleased to note – she wondered if she had just cursed poor Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her family.
hooplifehero
Chatty Member
It's here! Chapter 3 of the teatime telly drama that folk are already calling 'better when it was, you know, just a spontaneous joke sort of thing, instead of something planned and announced in advance as if it's actually... good'
From an idea by @Valiofthedolls title by @FourSeasonSoupObsessive
ADVERTISING BREAK! please provide adverts
The second half of CHAPTER THREE will be broadcast in approximately ONE HOUR
From an idea by @Valiofthedolls title by @FourSeasonSoupObsessive
Emma Woodhouse was not much deceived as to her own skills either as an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved; and as such, she had perhaps more in common with Miss Monroe than she supposed or would have liked, for Miss Monroe, too, was not unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know that her reputation for accomplishment was higher than it deserved. And yet there the similarities ended, for while Emma prided herself only on her musicianship and drawing, Miss Monroe’s supposed talents included not just art and song, but writing, cooking, the ways of Love, Motherhood (it was said, certainly, that she had a child, yet nobody had seen him in Highbury), Charity-Work, and indeed some talents that had not yet been invented, such as Photography and Political Activism.
‘I’m very shy,’ she confessed to Emma, as the latter prepared her canvas and paints. ‘But I’m trying to do things that make me brave.’
‘That is a virtue,’ Emma kindly assured her, for she had decided to take Miss Monroe under her wing as a hobby, and a virtuous project of improvement. It was rumoured that Miss Monroe was the daughter of a gentleman and wealthy land-owner, and surely, with the deft hand of a caring friend, this ragged weed could flourish into a bloom worthy of the nicest society, one who reflected not only upon herself, but on the guidance of her mentor – that is, of course, Emma. Emma had, in fact, recently turned down the opportunity to offer her company to another local girl, Miss Harriet Smith, feeling that Miss Monroe was the more deserving.
‘Indeed,’ she went on softly, ‘I heard Mr Elton declare that modesty was the most womanly of the virt- Oh!’
She raised her hand to her mouth as Miss Monroe rose from the sofa wearing very little more than undergarments, and of a most peculiar kind; a sagging grey vest of the kind that Emma’s dear grandfather used to wear, and the briefest of black short trousers, and her arms decorated with inky sigils like a jolly jack tar who had spent decades in Her Majesty’s Navy.
‘Yes, Pal, they’re called birthmarks and I’ve had ‘em all me life,’ Miss Monroe sneered.
‘Your...those designs upon your arms have been there since birth?’
The other relaxed. ‘No, shipmate! Each of these tells a story of Life, Love and Struggle. I meant the marks upon me legs.’
‘Forgive me, I cannot see...’ Emma glanced, and for the life of her could make out no disfigurement to Miss Monroe’s limbs, though she could see a great deal of those limbs, and rather more than she ever hoped to have seen. Indeed, she had also seen far of Miss Monroe’s chest in the last minute than she had of her own sister during the hours of quiet conversation while Isabella was feeding her infant babies in the way that Nature intended.
‘I’ll hop up on here,’ suggested Miss Monroe, hoisting herself with difficulty onto an oak table. ‘Though it’s a trial for me, you know. Arthritis, brittle bones and holes in me teeth.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ ventured Emma, though she failed to understand how teeth, with holes or without, could hamper Miss Monroe’s attempts to mount a table. ‘You need not pose in quite such a... well, such an awkward way, if it is painful for you.’
‘I’ve been an artist’s model for the last fifteen years,’ the other assured her blithely. ‘If I was good enough for William Blake to call me his muse, I’m good enough for you, I daresay.’
And so Emma began to sketch, trying to ignore Miss Monroe’s grimace, rather like a Sabre-Toothed Tiger trying to smile, and her arms and legs stretched into what looked very uncomfortable positions, as if she was being tortured on an invisible rack.
‘Something’s simmering!’ a voice warmly declared from behind her, and Emma looked away from her canvas with undisguised relief. She had never expected to be so pleased to see Mr Elton.
‘It certainly is, Lover!’ called Miss Monroe, arching her neck and pointing her toe like a child just starting to clumsily learn the steps of ballet.
‘I think Mr Elton means this soup,’ Emma said gently, for the newcomer had arrived bearing a steaming tureen, which he now set down heavily, with a great clatter, as he covered his eyes against the view of Miss Monroe in her undergarments.
‘Forgive me, ladies,’ he muttered, and Emma saw him cast his eyes upwards, too, with a whispered ‘forgive me’ to someone Higher, as if that Power could rob him of all memory of the sight he had just witnessed. Again, Emma had never considered Mr Elton especially aimable or easy to like, but at this moment, she sensed a bond with him as if he was her brother in misfortune.
‘Mr Elton, I quite understand,’ she said feelingly. ‘Perhaps you should be the first to avail yourself of the broth, for Sir, you look quite pale.’
‘Indeed.’ Mr Elton wiped his brow and cleared his throat. ‘Indeed. Lord, in all thy might and majesty, let me ne’er gaze on the likes of that again.’
Emma busied herself at the tureen. ‘I think it is potato, carrot and turmeric,’ she announced. ‘With cream and peppercorns.’
‘Oh, I used to live on that,’ Miss Monroe shouted from across the room as she dressed in a loose grey tunic that bore a unique pattern of stains almost as if it had enjoyed its own share of soup itself, and on many occasions. ‘I made gallons of it. Gave it to two dozen friends, and they came back knocking for more. I served it to Queen Anne on her coronation’ (Emma was quite sure that Queen Anne had died long before either of them were born, but she thought it best not to contradict). ‘Sick of it now though, and I doubt your cook’s version is a patch on my own. Any raw onions and gravel in there?’
Emma stirred the broth and guessed that there wasnot.
‘Raw onions and gravel is how they make it in France. I won’t eat it without raw onions and gravel. Or crab-apple and sand, at a pinch, if you don’t have the onion and gravel in stock. Much the same flavour and texture, at a third of the price.’
‘I am sorry... that is, I am very glad to hear it,’ replied Emma, her attention distracted. ‘Mr Elton, I must insist that you see Mr Perry. You seem quite overcome.’
‘I think I shall,’ gasped the good gentleman, staggering from the room, with a final mutter of ‘All saints preserve us.’
.
‘I’m very shy,’ she confessed to Emma, as the latter prepared her canvas and paints. ‘But I’m trying to do things that make me brave.’
‘That is a virtue,’ Emma kindly assured her, for she had decided to take Miss Monroe under her wing as a hobby, and a virtuous project of improvement. It was rumoured that Miss Monroe was the daughter of a gentleman and wealthy land-owner, and surely, with the deft hand of a caring friend, this ragged weed could flourish into a bloom worthy of the nicest society, one who reflected not only upon herself, but on the guidance of her mentor – that is, of course, Emma. Emma had, in fact, recently turned down the opportunity to offer her company to another local girl, Miss Harriet Smith, feeling that Miss Monroe was the more deserving.
‘Indeed,’ she went on softly, ‘I heard Mr Elton declare that modesty was the most womanly of the virt- Oh!’
She raised her hand to her mouth as Miss Monroe rose from the sofa wearing very little more than undergarments, and of a most peculiar kind; a sagging grey vest of the kind that Emma’s dear grandfather used to wear, and the briefest of black short trousers, and her arms decorated with inky sigils like a jolly jack tar who had spent decades in Her Majesty’s Navy.
‘Yes, Pal, they’re called birthmarks and I’ve had ‘em all me life,’ Miss Monroe sneered.
‘Your...those designs upon your arms have been there since birth?’
The other relaxed. ‘No, shipmate! Each of these tells a story of Life, Love and Struggle. I meant the marks upon me legs.’
‘Forgive me, I cannot see...’ Emma glanced, and for the life of her could make out no disfigurement to Miss Monroe’s limbs, though she could see a great deal of those limbs, and rather more than she ever hoped to have seen. Indeed, she had also seen far of Miss Monroe’s chest in the last minute than she had of her own sister during the hours of quiet conversation while Isabella was feeding her infant babies in the way that Nature intended.
‘I’ll hop up on here,’ suggested Miss Monroe, hoisting herself with difficulty onto an oak table. ‘Though it’s a trial for me, you know. Arthritis, brittle bones and holes in me teeth.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ ventured Emma, though she failed to understand how teeth, with holes or without, could hamper Miss Monroe’s attempts to mount a table. ‘You need not pose in quite such a... well, such an awkward way, if it is painful for you.’
‘I’ve been an artist’s model for the last fifteen years,’ the other assured her blithely. ‘If I was good enough for William Blake to call me his muse, I’m good enough for you, I daresay.’
And so Emma began to sketch, trying to ignore Miss Monroe’s grimace, rather like a Sabre-Toothed Tiger trying to smile, and her arms and legs stretched into what looked very uncomfortable positions, as if she was being tortured on an invisible rack.
‘Something’s simmering!’ a voice warmly declared from behind her, and Emma looked away from her canvas with undisguised relief. She had never expected to be so pleased to see Mr Elton.
‘It certainly is, Lover!’ called Miss Monroe, arching her neck and pointing her toe like a child just starting to clumsily learn the steps of ballet.
‘I think Mr Elton means this soup,’ Emma said gently, for the newcomer had arrived bearing a steaming tureen, which he now set down heavily, with a great clatter, as he covered his eyes against the view of Miss Monroe in her undergarments.
‘Forgive me, ladies,’ he muttered, and Emma saw him cast his eyes upwards, too, with a whispered ‘forgive me’ to someone Higher, as if that Power could rob him of all memory of the sight he had just witnessed. Again, Emma had never considered Mr Elton especially aimable or easy to like, but at this moment, she sensed a bond with him as if he was her brother in misfortune.
‘Mr Elton, I quite understand,’ she said feelingly. ‘Perhaps you should be the first to avail yourself of the broth, for Sir, you look quite pale.’
‘Indeed.’ Mr Elton wiped his brow and cleared his throat. ‘Indeed. Lord, in all thy might and majesty, let me ne’er gaze on the likes of that again.’
Emma busied herself at the tureen. ‘I think it is potato, carrot and turmeric,’ she announced. ‘With cream and peppercorns.’
‘Oh, I used to live on that,’ Miss Monroe shouted from across the room as she dressed in a loose grey tunic that bore a unique pattern of stains almost as if it had enjoyed its own share of soup itself, and on many occasions. ‘I made gallons of it. Gave it to two dozen friends, and they came back knocking for more. I served it to Queen Anne on her coronation’ (Emma was quite sure that Queen Anne had died long before either of them were born, but she thought it best not to contradict). ‘Sick of it now though, and I doubt your cook’s version is a patch on my own. Any raw onions and gravel in there?’
Emma stirred the broth and guessed that there wasnot.
‘Raw onions and gravel is how they make it in France. I won’t eat it without raw onions and gravel. Or crab-apple and sand, at a pinch, if you don’t have the onion and gravel in stock. Much the same flavour and texture, at a third of the price.’
‘I am sorry... that is, I am very glad to hear it,’ replied Emma, her attention distracted. ‘Mr Elton, I must insist that you see Mr Perry. You seem quite overcome.’
‘I think I shall,’ gasped the good gentleman, staggering from the room, with a final mutter of ‘All saints preserve us.’
.
ADVERTISING BREAK! please provide adverts
The second half of CHAPTER THREE will be broadcast in approximately ONE HOUR
Cheekymonk3y
Active member
ItchOfTheWestCoast
Active member
Marmalade Atkins
VIP Member
BlendedSlop
VIP Member
This looked better in my head.
Valiofthedolls
VIP Member
Justacatindisguise
VIP Member
IT'S THAT MAN'S AGENCYSorry if this has already been posted, haven't caught up for ages as new baby.
New agent and agency?
View attachment 1805528
Valiofthedolls
VIP Member
colouredlines
VIP Member
heretoreaditall2019
VIP Member
Obviously outside of the fact she’s actually middle class, she’s also never worked a real 9-5 job so what value can she add to this conversation for anyone? She’s never filled in a UCAS application or sat the LSAT/MCAT or done uni interviews, or done the apprenticeship equivalent, she’s never gone to college to do an NVQ, she’s never retrained, she’s never interned or filled out a grad scheme application or had to do 100s of those weird tests they run u thru in prep, never done post grad quals, she’s never done the grad scheme thing or applied for entry level roles? No continuous training or personal development. No conditional offers where you’re sick with nerves each results day cos that’s your life? She’s never worked her way up in a career so what can she tell them? Shes never done a sandwich year or special project at uni. She’s got no idea about cost of living in a city on an entry level salary and she’s got no idea how inhibitive train fare and accommodation can be for ppl outside of the few cities big biz is concentrated in trying to make a start. She’s never tried to claim train fare back as an expense for ur grad scheme interview and had to wonder if it’ll impact your chances or their perception of you? She has no idea how hard it is waiting for your first pay cheque and she’s got no idea what it means to start out already in a maxed out overdraft? Never had to ask for a pay rise or negotiate pay with a new employer? She’s probably never even written or read a CV? Like what value can she add to that conversation even cosplaying as a class mobility success story? Just everyone get a book deal and sit on ur arse for the next decade? Inspiring.Social mobility
Didn’t even need to write all that out she’s not even done a fucking week turning up day in day out to a 9-5 so how can she tell anyone anything?
