alt_penelope: (annoyed)
Mum,

Look, it's not that I wouldn't love to see you. It's just--not a good time, right now. Percy's working all sorts of hours and so am I, and by the time we get home we're both too knackered to do much besides a little reading and then fall right to sleep.

And there was this big project I was doing for Mr Powell and I realised halfway through it that I accidentally crossed two columns of notations and--well. It wasn't easy to fix. I was working on it when he asked to see how things were coming along, and of course I was trying to get it fixed before he needed it, but instead I had to explain and--well, the short version is that I'll have to work this weekend, probably, to get it done.

I mean, I really appreciate your offer to come in some afternoon and cook and all. It's just that right now that would be a waste of your time.

But.

I think I could use one of the enchanted crockery pots, if you could spare one. That way I could throw something together in the morning or the night before and it'd be done (and perfect) when we got in. It'd save us on takeaway and particularly it'd save me his look of disappointment when it's oatmeal or fried eggs or beans on toast again. Not that he minds, much, it's just that he always compares things to the way his mum cooks. You know.

And--about the holidays. Well, it's a little early to know exactly what we'll be invited to go to or not. But obviously, his family will want Christmas Day. I thought maybe I'd come round on Christmas Eve for an hour or two, after work, to say hello and give you and Dad your presents. All right?

Not that it'll be much. The landlord mentioned just yesterday (as it was the first) that he might have to raise the rent in January. Just by two Galleons a month but still--that'll probably take care of all the money we were trying to saving for a new lounger. (The second-hand one we found when we moved in just developed a tear in the upholstery on the arm, and reparo isn't keeping it sewn shut.)

Well, I've got to get back to sorting out these mixed-up notations. Let me know about the cookpot? And maybe we can get together the week after next, all right?

-Penny
alt_penelope: (working)
Oh, bugger, Mum!

What do I do?

I got the afternoon off from Mr Powell, so I could come home and cook Percy supper for his birthday. Everything was going so well. I made the recipe perfectly, I swear, and then I put the roast in the oven.

And then Perce said he'd be later than we thought, so I turned the cooker down.

Well.

I thought I turned it down. I was sure I turned it down.


Are there any spells to un-crisp a roast? Only it's all sort of black. And dry.

And the potatoes are none too edible.

It's really rather a ruin, actually.

After I spent extra on the groceries this week, too, to get fresh broad beans and real butter and all his favourite extras.

Maybe next year we should just let his mum cook.

I mean, it's not like he'd have been home for that, either.

Oh, bugger it. I'm getting take-away.

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Penelope Clearwater

September 2015

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