Thread: P-Please! I need this...

RE P-Please! I need this...Alan x Izzy Mr Rudyard Kipling stated that one of the true tests of a man is the ability to Walk with kings, nor lose the common touch, - an ability that had added greatly to the social acceptance of Jarrod Flea Walcott, and done much to mitigate the effect of traveling around to so many countries. Born in Guyana, to an Australian father and a Trinidadian mother, and with a record that included schooling in Sark, The Andaman Islands and for a very brief time Mawson Station in the Antarctic, Flea was surer of his identity than he was of his roots. While the lament of his two sisters was a wish that their parents were anything but the Research Geomorphologists that they actually were, Flea was sanguine enough about the life. Saying goodbye to friends - or rather, transferring the friendship from a physical one, to one conducted by email and chat lines - was a phenomenon he'd grown well used to. So, now, he'd fetched up here, and in the eight months since his parents had taken residence, Flea with his usual existential fatalism had accepted the situation, dealing with the jealousy that attaches to any good looking, brown-eyed, dusky-skinned newcomer with a placid, dazzling smile and if this didn't work the ability to fight like a threshing machine on caffeine. There had been times, however, when his sanguinity had been shaken. Most recently in Mawson, when one Celia Withesby, six years his senior and daughter of a Meteorological Technician had initiated him into, in this order, the joys of longing, love, sex and loss. The exact details, as the phrase has it do not come into this tale, save that the final cause - loss - had not been in any way her fault. His loss of her had been no tearful rejection, but a deep fissure, into which the unfortunate Ms Withesby had fallen during a snowdrift. Genuinely shattered as he'd been, and true to his nature, Flea had spent the three counseling sessions that this led to looking up the skirt of the counselor. This however, was the past. And now is now. So... Yeah, well, that's a come on if I ever saw one, laughed Roy O'Rourke, slapping Flea on the back. Hey, look, guys. Flea's got another love token. Who from? came the obvious question, from Tony Polley. Yeah, that's just it. He don't know. I bet it's Julie Faulkner. She's had the hots for him ever since he came here. Nah! She's hanging with Rick Field. I'll take any bets it's Deirdre Piper. Sami Rendelle, maybe? Or Brenda Lunt, added Mick Walsh, sadly, for he had his eye on Brenda himself. Come on Flea. Give! I really don't know, Flea admitted, spreading his hands. I note you've picked all the good looking girls, though. Isn't it more likely it's someone, y'know... More of a dog, you mean? I didn't want to say that, but - said Flea, whose nature was essentially kindly. That's a point, laughed Mick Walsh. What about Penny Starr, with the bad acne? Or Eulalie Tomson, the walking heffalump? Ellie Lovelock, the superdweeb? Or Sue Miller? Hellen Grant? Wendy-Jane - Yeah, well, I guess I'll never find out - unless she ever declares herself, said Flea, in a The-subject-is-closed kind of voice. He was glad he'd quickly pocketed the note. And so now, ten minutes after the conversation, here was was, padding towards the appointed rendezvous. And soon, his excellent eyesight made out just who his mysterious benefactor was. A very slight tinge of disappointment struck him, though he was careful to hide it. He'd been hoping for Sami Rendell. Well, too late to back out now, He smiled a gentle greeting, his hand waved in a gentle hello, and with a slightly quizzical look on his face, that said, in so many words... So what's this about, then?