Maybe this getting back into writing isn't so bad after all; this chapter is a distinct improvement on the previous effort. I think one more of these and I'll be ready to start stepping up my game to Man of Misunderstandings, which, on consideration, I should probably re-read in order to actually continue with the vague mass that is allegedly the plot.

Please read and review … or something …

I just received, yet another, lecture from Inara; for a woman of, supposed, mystery and allure, she is remarkably predictable; predictable, that is, in the same way that the consequences of building your house in an avalanche zone are predictable.

So, there I was, quietly contemplating the exercise in self-abuse that was trying to pass itself off as my lunch when Inara comes billowing into the galley; I use billowing in the sense that she resembled nothing so much as a sailing-ship from-Earth-that Was (and when she's wearing the diaphanous wonder that is her official whore-wear her resemblance to a ship under sail is frightening; not as frightening, however, as the resemblance of her face - in full make up – to a ship's prow: but that's another story).

Anyway: lunch … billowing and … abuse.

Apparently, when Inara was entertaining a fellow member of the Companion's Guild or, as I like to call them, The Whore Corps, and I didn't pay her visitor enough respect, which I can only interpret to mean that I didn't drool enough in her general direction – Pavlov's Mercenary anyone? - when she was whisked past us lesser mortals in a heavily perfumed cloud.

Maybe I didn't look servile enough?

According to Doctor Prissy Britches I can barely pass for human so mayhap I need to work on that first.

Of course, Simon acted with all due appropriate comportment, but as he has to ask for permission before he gets an erection, I don't think I need to rely on him as a reference point for normal human behaviour.

…Man's more constipated than a fibre shortage at colonic convention, where, I'm told, they really pack them in...

… Okay, I'm sorry for that.

Changing subject; we've just arrived back on Persephone, apparently Badger has a job for us; something to do with the upcoming elections. Frankly, I had my fill of shit in the cargo bay when we had those cows on board.

Admittedly, I can't confirm that we're actually transporting politicians.

I'm having all sorts of trouble reckonin' as to why Mal would be willing to transport politicians and, further, why he'd be willing to transport politicians Badger's supplying; that's analogous to buying chickens from the local fox. I know politicians are bent, by definition alone, but Badger-type politicians must be more bent that the organising committee of the local sly convention.

Now, don't be misunderstanding me and go thinking I got somethin' against sly-folk, cos I ain't; but I refuse to let a perfectly good stereotype got to waste if'n I'm makin' a point.

Dammit, you got me all upset and now I'm speaking like some under-educated hillbilly; which, apparently, when I'm failing at being a member of the human species, is what I am. Frankly, morons like Doctor Crippen can think what they like, and I use the term 'think' advisedly, but I'll be buggered if I'm going to end up sounding like a retard in my own diary.

So there.