Even spara loves the series and bigs it up better than ever before!
Cool, huh? And this ep really rams home how utterly awful Alex Drake was to hide Keeley Hawes' natural charisma. Does anyone know how the "shag Thatcherite wanker" revenge ploy was supposed to work, or is it like "How is a raven like a writing desk?" and will remain an eternal mystery?
I speak of this because once again self-destruction has seeped into my work. There I am, trying to do some nice fluffy stuff about the YOA gang stuck in the Williamsberg Diner and then, next thing you know, Dave's committing suicide. I've never been one for this "the characters surprise the author" shite, but it just seemed to fit together. Dave was getting crap from the others, he was overseas, he'd seen people living their lives to a moral and ethical standard he'd never achieve and suddenly all the whacky jokes about Nigel trying to seduce a random Polish woman through his total ignorance of anything Polish or Andrew taking over a kitchen to make his own food because the menu doesn't appeal turns into suicide!
Dave wandered back into the main diner area. There still didn't seem to be anyone else in he diner. Trust their luck to arrive in Brooklyn on the slowest night of the year and have to leave before anything started happening.
It was a question that often plagued Dave. After all, he had nothing to go back to at the end of the day - a family he'd all-but-cut-himself-off and were undoubtedly better off without him. The love of his life was in Prague enjoying an existence he couldn't have ever given her. Andrew and Nigel had often made it clear that he was at best a hinderance to their fascinating and demented lives as a jack-of-all trades part-time DI exorcist and celebrity nymphomaniac respectively.
He had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Nineteen years of wasted potential and disappointment to all those he cared about. And he'd tried to be a good person and a competent student, only to lose it all. It occured to Dave that life got better for people the more he wasn't around. He was like pluntonium, with his absence doing nothing but improving things. What was it his old Turkish neighbor told him was written in the Qur'an?
Everyone in the world does things for a reason. But the best reason is to be good to other people.
The only good he could achieve was to get the hell out of Dodge.
"Heh," he chuckled out aloud. "Five minutes in New York and I've gone native."
"What's that, son?" asked Earl, tugging an earphone away to hear better.
"Sorry, sir," Dave apologized. He looked at Earl. The man was clearly very old, but there was a youthfulness to him that made him ageless. "Can I ask how old you are?"
"Seven decades and change, brother," Earl replied.
"So... in your experience... do things get better?"
Earl gazed at him, as if unsure if this was a joke. "Well, it certainly started well with the abolition of slavery but it's not been going anywhere fast."
Dave felt the last gasp of oxygen burn away in his lungs. He smiled again. "Thanks, sir," he said and then turned and went back to his booth. He got out his signal-free mobile phone and started to draft out a text message.
Suicide note by text was probably a bit lame, but there was no one he could talk to face to ace, so this was the way it would have to go. Besides, he'd just made sure those two girls wouldn't get in trouble for what happened with the others.
Best to go out on a high, right?
Even my readers on ff.net asked me if everything was all right at home. But what with flirty abuse from Ttellam Noryk, spam companies trying to comment on my blog 57 times a day, the fanfic.net browsers playing up, the internet slowed to damn near nothing, my relapse into the awesomeness of caffinated drinks, the fact no one seems to do avis of NuWho, the endless wait till the next series of 2BG (actually, it's only a couple of months, but then it'll be a whole year, god dammit) or the fact my medicated rest cure is at an end it all just puts me in a right mood.
Oh, if only I was a comic-shop-owning social embarrassment with a forum full of illiterate sychophants constantly telling me how I was so right and the rest of the human race was wrong and that I definitely fucked my wife twelve times a night, maybe then, THEN I might achieve some psychological closure.
Hey, what are you - perfect?!