Disclaimer: -insert something clever and witty that amounts to the sad fact
that Lli owns not Artemis Fowl-
Summary: I've been skipping the main character! Time to do something with everyone's favourite vampire boy. Set between The Artic Incident and The Eternity Code, Artemis longs for conversation and a certain circular candy on a stick.
*
Oddly-precious
Class is boring. It is, in fact, awe inspiring just how extraordinarily dull it can be. I am trying to think of a more intelligent way of describing this disturbing phenomenon but as testimony to not only the school's disastrous qualities but also to how much of Root's base vocabulary has rubbed off on me, I can only think of several paragraphs' worth of multilingual curses. I am utterly ashamed.
The teacher, supposedly a Cambridge graduate, is stunningly stupid and unoriginal. I had always thought Cambridge to have at least some standards. For once, it appears, I thought wrong. Mulch could teach this subject, which, by the way, is the culture and traditions of the Maori people of New Zealand in the seventeenth century, with more depth and insight. (I am only taking this course because I thought I might not know the entire curriculum backwards. And now look at me: I am talking to myself.)
The bell rings with its usual angry exuberance and I curse creation as my eardrums are pummeled. At least, I console myself, classes are over for the day. For the day.
Butler is waiting for me in the Porsche outside the front doors, ready to take me home and as far from this mad house as possible. Thank Frond.
Oh good lord, I am even starting to adopt their monarchs.
Holding the door open for me, Butler gives me a small smile. I smile back. It is an odd sensation, returning a smile. Dr. Po seems to think such things will become more natural with practice (of course he also thought his chair was authentic Victorian merchandise), and I suppose it is all part of the mutual respect/being civil business. It is a pity then that most of the people I respect live underground. I do not, however, mind the lack of practice.
Driving through town we pass a dilapidated corner store. Not a piece of real estate I would look even once at usually, but something in the window catches my eye. Butler obediently parks the car on curb at my request and escorts me into the store.
It is the type of place lower middle-class children might haunt after school, though it is empty as we enter. I doubt the bleach-blonde cashier has ever even heard the word 'Armani'.
Trying to keep hold of my dignity, I ignore her stares and pick out a cherry flavoured lollipop from the display case. She rings up the total (ninety three shillings) and asks if I want a bag. I shake my head, no need to take one only to throw it out and further pollute the earth. (Mind you, the next customer will probably do exactly that.)
It is a testimony to his training that Butler keeps a straight face as we return to the car, not even raising an eyebrow. As per usual, I do not explain myself and he doesn't ask. It is remarkable how much trust he puts in me at times.
As we approach the manor, I stare at the offending chunk of artificially flavoured chemicals. Tucking it away in my pants' pocket, I feel vaguely forgotten about. I had been promised a lollipop a year ago and never received it; never mind that I do not actually like them and that Holly had not actually been serious. After all, as much as it galls me, I have been a very 'good boy', and I do not mean that with any sort of innuendo.
Though honestly, I suppose, the only reason I should want her to bring me a lollipop is for the chance to engage in an intelligent conversation for once, a commodity hard to find both above and below ground. After all, it is stupid to waste something as rare and oddly precious as friendship, however shaky, and good conversation, however sarcastic and over- opinionated.
(I could of course always come up with a dastardly scheme involving illegal fairy technology or something to that effect. Though that would more likely get me a kick in arse from a certain irate and over-worked elf then conversation. But one never knows...)
-Finis
Summary: I've been skipping the main character! Time to do something with everyone's favourite vampire boy. Set between The Artic Incident and The Eternity Code, Artemis longs for conversation and a certain circular candy on a stick.
*
Oddly-precious
Class is boring. It is, in fact, awe inspiring just how extraordinarily dull it can be. I am trying to think of a more intelligent way of describing this disturbing phenomenon but as testimony to not only the school's disastrous qualities but also to how much of Root's base vocabulary has rubbed off on me, I can only think of several paragraphs' worth of multilingual curses. I am utterly ashamed.
The teacher, supposedly a Cambridge graduate, is stunningly stupid and unoriginal. I had always thought Cambridge to have at least some standards. For once, it appears, I thought wrong. Mulch could teach this subject, which, by the way, is the culture and traditions of the Maori people of New Zealand in the seventeenth century, with more depth and insight. (I am only taking this course because I thought I might not know the entire curriculum backwards. And now look at me: I am talking to myself.)
The bell rings with its usual angry exuberance and I curse creation as my eardrums are pummeled. At least, I console myself, classes are over for the day. For the day.
Butler is waiting for me in the Porsche outside the front doors, ready to take me home and as far from this mad house as possible. Thank Frond.
Oh good lord, I am even starting to adopt their monarchs.
Holding the door open for me, Butler gives me a small smile. I smile back. It is an odd sensation, returning a smile. Dr. Po seems to think such things will become more natural with practice (of course he also thought his chair was authentic Victorian merchandise), and I suppose it is all part of the mutual respect/being civil business. It is a pity then that most of the people I respect live underground. I do not, however, mind the lack of practice.
Driving through town we pass a dilapidated corner store. Not a piece of real estate I would look even once at usually, but something in the window catches my eye. Butler obediently parks the car on curb at my request and escorts me into the store.
It is the type of place lower middle-class children might haunt after school, though it is empty as we enter. I doubt the bleach-blonde cashier has ever even heard the word 'Armani'.
Trying to keep hold of my dignity, I ignore her stares and pick out a cherry flavoured lollipop from the display case. She rings up the total (ninety three shillings) and asks if I want a bag. I shake my head, no need to take one only to throw it out and further pollute the earth. (Mind you, the next customer will probably do exactly that.)
It is a testimony to his training that Butler keeps a straight face as we return to the car, not even raising an eyebrow. As per usual, I do not explain myself and he doesn't ask. It is remarkable how much trust he puts in me at times.
As we approach the manor, I stare at the offending chunk of artificially flavoured chemicals. Tucking it away in my pants' pocket, I feel vaguely forgotten about. I had been promised a lollipop a year ago and never received it; never mind that I do not actually like them and that Holly had not actually been serious. After all, as much as it galls me, I have been a very 'good boy', and I do not mean that with any sort of innuendo.
Though honestly, I suppose, the only reason I should want her to bring me a lollipop is for the chance to engage in an intelligent conversation for once, a commodity hard to find both above and below ground. After all, it is stupid to waste something as rare and oddly precious as friendship, however shaky, and good conversation, however sarcastic and over- opinionated.
(I could of course always come up with a dastardly scheme involving illegal fairy technology or something to that effect. Though that would more likely get me a kick in arse from a certain irate and over-worked elf then conversation. But one never knows...)
-Finis