On with the show!

This chapter might seem ABSURD, but there are a few things I'd like to point out.

1) In the book, there is suggestion that Crowley is responsible for a lot of what is on TV. Of course, the book came out circa 1990 when TV was very different (and demonic?).
2a) In the book, there is definitely a scene in which Crowley is watching the show that figures in this chapter! In fact, he loses the plot because some minion of Hell decides to use one of the characters as a conduit to communicate Apocalyptic nonsense.
2b) So you see, Crowley is a (former) demon, but there is sure-fire evidence that he likes this show, and it's not just me being goofy!
3) I love that show as well, and I do maintain that the writing was almost always on-point, and could, at times, be exceptional!

Enjoy!

A GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

Twenty-four hours later, Aziraphale stood over Crowley whilst the latter sat on the sofa, and listened to a voice mail.

"Crowley? Anathema. I'm just returning your call about keeping clothes clean. Well, ordinary clothes can be washed in a machine, and dried in another machine… I would guess that your flat would have come with those sorts of things. If not, you can purchase them, or maybe there's a laundry room in your building? But I've noticed that like me, you guys wear a lot of quirky, specialised clothing, with delicate fabrics and whatnot. I guess you never had to think too hard about maintaining them. But sorry to say, those sorts of things are harder to deal with. Like for example, you can't put leather pants – trousers – in a washing machine. Or vinyl ones. Aziraphale's Victorian suits and velveteen items cannot be washed that way either. For those things, there are dry cleaners. They clean fine pieces of clothing without using water, and without damaging the garments. Although, you mentioned, erm, copious olive oil stains? Well, those might be tough. If you let the dry cleaner know what it is, he can probably take care of it, but you'd have to communicate that.

"You also mentioned specifically a cashmere sweater that has some sort of… erm, stain, you said, that is decidedly not olive oil. I don't want to know what that means, but the dry cleaner might be able to get it out, if you give him more information than just, 'it's not olive oil.'

"And in the future, be careful with your olive oil, and your NOT olive oil. Humans avoid certain messes for a reason, okay? Literally and figuratively. Can't just snap your fingers and be done with it."

At that point, the message timed out again, so Crowley listened to the subsequent one.

"Hi. It's me, talking too much yet again. Just a couple of final thoughts:

"If you're going to use the washing machine, you'll have to buy some detergent at the supermarket, and some fabric softener as well! Oh, and, we're going to be in London next week for a couple of days, between Thursday and Sunday morning. If you want, we can meet in the park, and work out together. Call or text me, and let me know when you'd be free. Okay… take care of yourselves. Bye."

They had spent the first half of that day studying prophecy (which was what had reminded Crowley to call Anathema), then, true to form, had closed up shop and gone to lunch. While waiting for their wine, they made a quick plan to spend the second half of the day shopping.

"For what?" Aziraphale asked.

"Well, have you looked in our kitchen lately? We've hardly got anything in – including, now, olive oil. Which reminds me, we should probably stop by Stallions."

"Keep your voice down, Crowley," Aziraphale had demanded, knowing that Stallions was an 'adult' shop, where one could purchase various implements of pleasure, for couples such as themselves. Though he would have preferred not to discuss it in public at all, he couldn't help but ask, "What do we need from there?"

"A couple bottles of lube," Crowley had said, casually.

"A couple? Why a couple?"

"One for the shower. I don't know about you, angel, but I've learned my lesson about bar soap and repetitive chafing."

"Oh, Crowely," Aziraphale had scolded, like a Victorian auntie.

"Again with the proper?" Crowley had chuckled. Then he had affected Aziraphale's manner of speech. "'I'm afraid we're out of lubricant, my love, but didn't you tell me that olive oil could be used in a pinch?'"

"Shush!"

Crowley had continued quoting his partner, from the night before, during their kitchen adventure. "'Crowley, I want to feel you absolutely erupt…'"

"Shush now! I'm serious!" Aziraphale spat. "If you don't stop, I'm going to stand up and walk out right now! It might not be so bad, Crowley, if we weren't in public!"

They had chosen once again to partake of Mozzafiato's food, and try something new today. Crowley wound up ordering their basil-fennel sausage sandwich, and Aziraphale had sampled their goat cheese pizza with fresh oregano and house-made smoked pepperoni.

After that, they went to the market for the week's provisions, then split up. Crowley went to Stallions whilst Aziraphale went to a 'modern' bookshop and purchased a volume all about taking care of plants. When they'd become human, Crowley had lost his ability to 'communicate' with his greenery, and therefore his ability to keep them alive. Aziraphale was dismayed by the sight of dying plants in the corridor, and did not want to throw them out, but had no idea how to nurse them back to life.

And now, it was evening, an unremarkable chicken dinner had been unremarkably consumed, and they were in separate rooms of the flat, unwinding.

Aziraphale had stood up from where he sat, and wandered out into the hall to study the plants. He reckoned they'd have to be moved to a part of the flat that got more direct sunlight, and he would have to do more than just mist them. And to bring them back from the dead, they would need special plant food and to have cut off the wilting brown fronds, sucking energy from the healthy parts of the plants.

He had heard Crowley's mobile phone ring from somewhere nearby. It was lying on the desk in the study.

The annoying tinny song had filled the room, and the name "Anathema" had come up on the display. Aziraphale waited for it to stop, then had brought the phone to Crowley, who had been sitting, for the last hour, upon the sofa in the parlour.

"Well?" Aziraphale asked, after Crowley listened to the message.

"She said to use a washing machine, and a separate machine for drying," Crowley told him, tossing the phone aside. "Said maybe the flat came with them."

"Oh. Is that what's in that room down the hall, that we never go in?"

"Possibly. I never bothered to wonder what those things were for. She also said that things like suits and leather and vinyl and cashmere have to go to a dry cleaner – can't go in the machines."

"Dry cleaners. I've seen those about."

"But we have to tell them how things got soiled," Crowley said, wrinkling his nose. "I guess so that they know how to release the stains…"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, distastefully, sitting down on the sofa beside his companion. "I don't fancy the idea of that at all."

"Well, I don't imagine we'll have to give details. We'll just have to tell them what the stain is. Red wine, or chocolate ganache, or…"

"Do you suppose he or she will know, you know… how it happened?"

Crowley smirked. "I don't know how else that much olive oil winds up splattered over two men's trousers in quite such a way, but I suppose a thing like that wouldn't necessarily be on everyone's radar. Maybe they'll just think it was a cooking mishap. Although, when they see the dried-up white splotch on the black cashmere…"

"Okay, okay," Aziraphale said. He sighed. "I suppose living this life, indulging the way we do… it's inevitable."

"People have sex, Aziraphale, and it's all right. Most everyone understands that. Even the Archangel Michael, for Somebody's sake. And anyway, it's no-one's business. Our clothes got caught in the crossfire this time… maybe in future, we try to be more diligent about getting out of them before things kick off, eh?"

"An excellent plan."

"Did you work out what to do about the plants?"

"Yes, I did," Aziraphale said. Then he frowned, when he realised what Crowley had been doing here on the sofa, for the past hour. "Are you… watching television?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Aziraphale continued to frown. "Well, Crowley, I wouldn't have said anything back when we were both immortal, but now, I must ask you: don't you think life is too short?"

Crowely smiled. "No. I'm enjoying myself. It's a laugh. It's like reading a book, only less effort."

The former angel looked distastefully at the paused scene on the screen. It was a garish, outdated kitchen occupied by three human women in dowdy clothing, all of whom seemed to be upwards of sixty years old. "Oh, Crowley. I mean… what is this?"

"Oi! Less judgement, more embracing of creature comforts," Crowley protested, smacking his haughty companion on the arm. "Television is a product of the twentieth century, which I realise hasn't quite caught your notice yet, but why is yoga okay, and this isn't?"

"Well, yoga is a form of exercise and meditation, both of which have been shown to improve the quality, and to prolong, human life."

"Television provides escapism and laughter, both of which have been shown to improve the quality, and to prolong, human life. It's called recreation, angel. Dive in."

Aziraphale studied Crowley's body's position. He was leaned back on the sofa with both arms spread out over the back cushions, and both feet up on the coffee table. Awkwardly, Aziraphale began to imitate the pose, except in the end, he returned his hands to his lap like always.

"Okay, if you're going to watch TV with me, get rid of the bowtie," Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale obliged, tossing the slip of fabric aside, and unbuttoning his collar. For good measure, he also rid himself of his jacket and waistcoat, and returned to his new TV-watching position.

"I'm ready," he said, as though he were about to do barrel rolls in a crop duster.

"This programme is called 'The Golden Girls.' It's an American, half-hour sit-com."

"A what?"

"A situation comedy."

"All right. With you so far."

"At this point, the newest episodes are thirty years old, and almost all of the actors are dead. But it was one of my favourite things about the 1980s, and if you ever tell anyone I said that, I'll hide your Ottwell Binns first editions somewhere you'll never find them."

"Understood."

"The premise is, four older women who are either divorced or widowed, move to Florida and become housemates. Hijinx ensue."

"Is it based upon any accepted canonical works, say, by Aeschylus or Shakespeare?" Aziraphale asked, failing to see how such a premise could fill an entire half-hour, let alone on a weekly basis.

"No, it's its own thing," Crowley shrugged. "Each of the four main characters has her own exaggeratedly quirky personality… I suppose you could call them archetypal if you wanted to intellectualise the crap out of it."

"I see. Well, what are the archetypes?"

"I don't know what, say, an angelic egghead would call them, but… well, the one on the far left is a moron. The one on the far right is… well, let's say she would definitely know how the big olive oil splashes got there."

"Oh, my!"

"The one there in the brown, she's overly sarcastic and cynical. The fourth character is her eightysomething-year-old mother, who possesses no discernible thought-to-speech filter."

"So, what, they just sit there in the kitchen firing one-liners, or what-have-you?"

Crowley sighed. "Wow, you really don't know how scripted television works, do you?"

"Of course not."

"Okay, you weird, weird man," Crowley chuckled. "A sit-com is like a series of short 3-act plays. Details of a storyline begin to emerge straight away, and before long, a conflict arises. And the exaggerated personalities interact with the conflict, and with the resolution, coming to a dénouement as only they can."

"All right then," Aziraphale sighed back gesturing awkwardly at the screen. "Tell me what's going on in this week's installment."

"Episode, Aziraphale. They're called episodes."

"Fine – episode. What's the conflict-resolution paradigm in this episode?"

"I don't know – this is just the credits."

"All right, let's find out what happens."

"Okay," Crowley said. "You understand, this is supposed to be entertaining. Not thought-provoking, not historically important…"

"I understand."

"Okay. Open mind, angel."

Crowley unpaused the show, and the rest of the theme tune, "Thank You For Being a Friend," played out.

Immediately, the jokes kicked off. Sophia, the eldest, was accused of being cranky. "Well forgive me. My arthritis is bothering me, my social security check was late, and I realised today, I haven't showered with a man in twenty-two years," she replied.

"Oh my!" Aziraphale gasped. "Can they say things like that on television?"

Crowley just chuckled.

Sophia's daughter pointed out that her father has been dead for twenty seven years, which led their daft friend Rose to conclude that Sophia showered with a dead man for five years.

And then, to everyone's shock, Aziraphale laughed.

Immediately, he stifled it. Crowley didn't say anything, but he definitely noticed.

Rose then proceeded to ask whether "rooster inseminating" is taught in American high schools, put her foot in her mouth concerning the seemingly advanced age of her friend's date, and claim that her general cluelessness is a result of her family intermarrying a bit too often.

This time, Aziraphale laughed, and didn't stifle it. "Wow. A moron, indeed."

"Yes, but at least she's showing a bit of self-awareness, which is rare," Crowley commented.

"It occurs to me, Crowley," Aziraphale said, and Crowley could tell that this might be a long discourse of some sort, so he paused the television. "That they could have told the story, as it were – the miniature story, if you will – of the old lady showering with men, in a different way."

Crowley sighed. "What?"

"I mean, when the old lady said she hadn't showered with a man in twenty-two years, they could simply have had Rose say, 'your husband has been dead for twenty-seven, so I conclude that you showered with his corpse for five.' Yet, they didn't. The idea of showering with a corpse is absurd, indeed, and is shocking and amusing on its own. Yet, they included questions, quips, a roundabout way of getting to the point, and some amusing phrasing, and overall the effect is even more amusing."

"Yes, angel, it's called setting up a joke," Crowley said. "Good writing will allow them to do that often, and weave it all into the story. Sometimes it takes the whole half-hour to set up a joke."

"It seems to me that this is a subtle art. Or could be considered such, under the right circumstances."

"Gee, do you think?"

"I would have to consult my books, but I believe it's a modernisation of techniques we've seen throughout history."

"Yes, I believe it is."

"What an interesting study."

"And look at that, we're not even two minutes in."

"Do proceed."

From there, a man entered the scene to take out one of the women, Blanche. He had an interesting exchange with Sophia, to whom he eventually said, "Blanche said you were incorrigible!"

"I guess I deserve it," Sophia responded. "I always say she's a cheap slut."

At this, both Aziraphale and Crowley laughed. The former tried to stifle it, but was unsuccessful.

"I suppose it's the bluntness of it that made me laugh," he justified. "The unexpectedness of it."

"Right, right," Crowley chuckled.

"The element of surprise, even a small surprise, can be quite powerful in theatre."

Then Blanche and her date left, which was followed by an exchange in which Rose didn't understand common English-language expressions, Dorothy is cynical and annoyed, and Sophia belittles them both. All of this was executed with a series of linguistic misdirections, to very comical effect.

"Very tight writing," Aziraphale commented. "Could be a proper farce."

Halfway through the episode, it was revealed the Sophia is secretly dating Blanche's beau, who was introduced earlier. He then puts it on the two women to decide whether he will be dating one or both of them.

"Oh! We have our conflict!" Aziraphale breathed.

From there, as Crowley had said, Blanche and Sophia immediately began "interacting with the conflict" as their exaggerated personality traits would dictate.

"Blanche Devereaux has never shared a man!" Blanche declared.

"Or a pizza," Sophia shot back.

"Oh! Did she just call her friend fat?" Aziraphale asked.

"She did," Crowley confirmed.

"Ha! Very true to Sophia's no-thought-to-speech-filter archetype! And also indicative of how she handles adversity."

Crowley wished a bit that his companion could just loosen up and laugh at the jokes, rather than analyzing the writing, the story structure, character motivations, et cetera. But he realised that this was, indeed, how Aziraphale enjoyed himself. He was laughing when he should, and having fun with one of Crowley's creature comforts, so he reckoned he ought not be choosy.

A few minutes later, Blanche fired at Sophia and her date by appearing in a négligée, and claming to be headed for a "Hot, steamy bath, with just enough water to barely cover my perky bosoms."

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, disapprovingly, but still chortling. "And there's Blanche's randy personality, dealing with the conflict!"

"You're only going to sit in an inch of water?" Sophia asked, in proper, no-filter, Sophia fashion.

The conflict resolved itself when the man died, and it was revealed that he was seeing twenty-five different women, which was likely what killed him.

"Oh!" Aziraphale said, delightedly. "So Sophia and Blanche needn't have fought at all!"

Crowley smiled and looked at his companion fondly. "You are chuffing adorable, do you know that?"

"It's nothing to do with adorable," Aziraphale protested, sitting up straight, and adjusting his cuffs. "It's to do with recognising a well-executed piece of theater, even in the unlikeliest of packaging."

"So you're not adorable?"

"Well," Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. "Perhaps I am. But the point stands. Thank you for introducing me to this, Crowley. I had no idea."

"You're welcome," Crowley said. "Now, that's not to say that they're not plenty of tripe out there. There are sit-coms that are complete rubbish. But there are plenty with good writing, proper farce… all that stuff you said. Not to mention, angel… 'The Golden Girls' is from the 1980s, but these days, we're living in rather a privileged time for television."

"How so?"

"There's more actual 'good' stuff out there than ever before," Crowley said. "They call it 'bingeworthy.' There's drama, comedy, dramedy, adventure, historic. Excellent writing, compelling characters, bloody awful cliffhangers, frustrating story-arcs…"

Crowley called up Netflix on the television and began to scroll through.

"Each one of these is what you would call 'good stuff?' Bingeworthy?" Aziraphale asked. "You'd say it's well-executed theatre?"

"Not all of them, but plenty of them. We should pick one and start watching an episode a night or something. Or every other night. It's something we could do together, besides shagging. Not that I don't love that."

"I see, though. It's an interest we could share, on a regular basis. Yoga once a week, food, sex, good televised theatre on occasion."

"Right. It's an escape. Or, for you, perhaps more of an intellectual pursuit that I could actually participate in. Plus, it's an excuse to order food, then sit on the sofa and hold hands. Maybe start snogging if the plot gets slow."

"All right, why don't you choose one?" Aziraphale said. "Mind you, I'm not keen on the idea of becoming an avid television-watcher just for the sake of it."

"Of course not," said Crowley, exaggeratedly.

"But based on what I've seen, I'm willing to believe that it's not the universal wasteland I once believed."

"Thanks ever so."

Aziraphale stood up. "I'm going to go change into pyjamas."

"What? Why?"

"Because they're comfortable. I'll admit that lounging on a sofa is not normal for me, and I'm finding that my current apparel is not conducive to it. I'll be right back." He gathered up his jacket, waistcoat and bowtie.

"You own pyjamas? Wait, of course you do, I've seen them. So, why do you own pyjamas? Didn't you only recently start sleeping?"

"Yes, but on a trip to India a hundred years ago or so, as part of a series of blessings, I was obliged to buy a set off a chap who was starting a business."

"And you liked them?"

"Yes, of course. They're exquisite. That original pair got lost in a flood in Bombay that year, but since then, I've owned a few other sets. Mostly satin or polished cotton."

"Do you sleep in them?"

"Historically, as you know, I haven't slept much, so I've worn them sometimes in unguarded moments of relaxation. Puttering about the book shop, having cocoa," he replied. Then he looked away, and blushed a bit. "But now that I'm human, I tend not to wear much of anything when I sleep. Though, that's nothing to do with being human in and of itself."

"Well, yeah, but…"

"How can a creature who enjoys sleeping as much as you do, not own a pair of pyjamas? Have you always just sprawled out naked, like a snake sunning itself on a rock?"

Crowley frowned. "Yeah. Imagine me, being snake-like. Where the Hell would I have got that?"

"All right, if we're going to 'binge' something, Crowley, then we're going to do so in pyjamas. I believe we've been finding that our favourite creature comforts work best in tandem, wouldn't you agree? Yoga and shower, food and voyeurism…"

Crowley smirked. "Okay. Television and pyjamas."

"I'll buy you a set tomorrow. What colour would you like?" Aziraphale asked. "Heh, just kidding."

As always, I would loooooooove a review! It's actually pretty disheartening to keep going without them...

Thanks for reading!