fandomhigh | Advanced Journalism (Tuesday, February 7

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Advanced Journalism (Tuesday, February 7 - 2nd period)

Rita sat behind her desk with very red eyes, nursing a cup of coffee.

She might have looked a tad triumphant, though.

"Good morning. Today, we talk about obituaries, which will be due tomorrow at the latest. Write forty words on someone who you know well. A good friend, perhaps, and someone you haven't written on before. And, naturally, it should be written as though they are no longer with us."

She sniffled. "Questions?"

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"Children?" Rita asked, staring. "Why are you talking like that?"

"Why, your bundles of joy," Nigel says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Considering you've admitted being married to the world, I figure there were children in the mix. Tell me, are they with their au pair?"

"Because I'm British," Nigel says and waves his walking stick at her. Of course, the monocle chooses that moment to fall off his eye and into his lap. Oh well.

"All right," Rita said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "They're with their father."

"Are they?" Nigel produces a few Euro's that aren't really Euro's, just poorly drawn imitations of the currency that have been laminated. "Do these precious wonders of life have names? Something good and strong and British?"

"Their names are...." Rita thought for a moment. "Their names are Jonathan and Erin."

"Congratulations on your wonderful children," Nigel says, waving his walking stick in the air. "Tell them Lord Nigel von Susteren from Glastonbury says top o the morning!" Okay, he might've gotten that from the Lucky Charms guy. "Why are they with their father? Are you an unfit mother?"

Rita just facepalmed.

"No. I'm devoted to my work, and they prefer London. Plus, can you imagine small children running around this place?"

"Bloody well not," Nigel agrees. "Though, I do think that a child should be with their mother. Children have certain maternal needs that only a mother can provide. A mother who puts her work first?" Nigel tsk's lightly. "The divorce must've been messy. Are you in witness protection, Professor?"

Rita shook her hand and suddenly came up with a handkerchief, which she began to bawl into.

Nigel makes a frowny face.

"There, there, fellow British female," he says, softly. "Have a Mento's! I saw an American commercial that said these make everything better."

And yes, he has a pack of Mento's in his hand.

Rita glanced up, and hiccuped, "No, you twit," before resuming her sobbing.

"No, no, Briton, I'm a Briton," Nigel supplies helpfully. "Twits, I believe, indigenous to the country of Scotland."

And then he pulls out a CD. "Why don't we listen to Margaret Thatcher's Greatest Hits together? It might cheer you up!"

"Who the hell is Margaret Thatcher?" Rita snapped, looking up.

"Such language in a classroom," Nigel scold, putting his monocle back in. "You talk to your children with that mouth? Poor, poor misguided children."

Pulling sometihng about of a hidden satchel, Nigel says, "Look, I brought you a gift (http://img220.imageshack.us/img220/9848/feb72006tue062348pm2014front9y.jpg) that I hope might help you two estranged people reconcile."

Rita took one look at the shirt and buried her face in the hankie again.

"My middle name's not Alberta," she sobbed.

"There, there Professor Rita Helga Skeeter," Nigel says, putting the shirt near her so she could take it. "We all make mistakes. But you don't deny the pookie pet name. Aww, Professor, if you're in love, you should fight for it. Unless...you're not really a man and Mr. Skeeter found out, right?"

Rita just glared.

"No."

"Delightful to hear," Nigel says, laughing maybe a little too hard. "Mishaps like those a marriage cannot survive. You don't quite have the hair of a male either. Too fluffy, too bouncy. Are you...too controlling?"

"Mr. Crichton. Would you like to be a stickbug?" Rita asked, picking up her wand.

"Mr. van Susteren, dear lady." He smiles calmly and pulls a pocket watch out of his jacket. "I do say, it's nearly high noon. Shall we watch polo together or does that remind you of Wilbur as well?"

"What's polo?" Rita asked. "And I thought it was Lord van Susteren."

"Of course it's Lord but I was making an exception for you, dear lady." Nigel bows. Really, he does. "And polo is...a sport. An exciting sport. Very exciting. And alas, I am afraid I do not have the time to be turned into an animal for your leisure. Perhaps we can schedule an appointment?"

"I'm afraid I don't schedule things like that," Rita said, eyes narrowed. "Sort of a spur of the moment thing."

"Honestly, an appointment would be better for me," Nigel says, digging into his satchel again. "Let me find a free moment of time in my day planner and then I will be all yours. And, Professor, I do have preferences of what I am turned into. For instance, I do not want to be your husband or your child. Also, I would prefer to be something big enough that people cannot step on me. And, if it's not too much trouble, I am against being anything that smells. Perhaps we can draw up a contrat and make this legal and binding?"

"How about no, and I don't give you detention as well?" Rita asked aimiably.

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