As the ostensible man of the house, Norton has been giving this whole lawn mowing endeavour a go, although he's not very good at it. The rows aren't remotely straight and there are missed patches all over. His previous living arrangements were largely rooms in boarding houses and later a Victorian two-up-two-down in the slums of Waterloo with a front door that opened right to the street and a backyard privy and weeds. Having his own lawn to manage is a novelty.
Still, no one can say he hasn't tried, and after running the push mower over the missed patches, no one can say he isn't in compliance with the grass length regulations. Even if it looks like it was cut by a drunk Army barber.
He stands in his driveway for a while admiring the task he has completed, considering himself very manly in this moment.
Pool Party
Norton lounges on a semi-reclined pool chair enjoying the sun, and showing off (what he thinks is) a very nice body, in his (what he thinks is) very fashionable belted swim briefs. He has a pair of sunglasses to keep down the glare and also has the benefit of hiding his eyes. As he sips his boozy punch, his gaze flickers around to the others at the party to see who's here, who isn't and who looks like they might have gone through some reeducation recently. And if Norman is there, Norton hopes that Norman is noticing him.
Cadaver
He hadn't thought anything about the fogger trucks. The mosquitos were annoying and, yes, he felt a bit lightheaded after the foggers went by, but no worse than some of the winter London smogs he's dealt with, or so he thought.
So when he wakes up--or not awake, more like being a pharadyne projection--in the morgue, he pushes away a spike of shock and panic. He's silent for a few seconds, noticing the body, the corpse tag, and two men talking. Norman. And the man from his New Year's vision.
"Um, hello!" He squeaks out loudly. "Sorry to interrupt but I don't know how I got here."
He wonders if they can hear him. He might be dead. Or a psychic projection. Or hallucinating nonsense.
no subject
As the ostensible man of the house, Norton has been giving this whole lawn mowing endeavour a go, although he's not very good at it. The rows aren't remotely straight and there are missed patches all over. His previous living arrangements were largely rooms in boarding houses and later a Victorian two-up-two-down in the slums of Waterloo with a front door that opened right to the street and a backyard privy and weeds. Having his own lawn to manage is a novelty.
Still, no one can say he hasn't tried, and after running the push mower over the missed patches, no one can say he isn't in compliance with the grass length regulations. Even if it looks like it was cut by a drunk Army barber.
He stands in his driveway for a while admiring the task he has completed, considering himself very manly in this moment.
Pool Party
Norton lounges on a semi-reclined pool chair enjoying the sun, and showing off (what he thinks is) a very nice body, in his (what he thinks is) very fashionable belted swim briefs. He has a pair of sunglasses to keep down the glare and also has the benefit of hiding his eyes. As he sips his boozy punch, his gaze flickers around to the others at the party to see who's here, who isn't and who looks like they might have gone through some reeducation recently. And if Norman is there, Norton hopes that Norman is noticing him.
Cadaver
He hadn't thought anything about the fogger trucks. The mosquitos were annoying and, yes, he felt a bit lightheaded after the foggers went by, but no worse than some of the winter London smogs he's dealt with, or so he thought.
So when he wakes up--or not awake, more like being a pharadyne projection--in the morgue, he pushes away a spike of shock and panic. He's silent for a few seconds, noticing the body, the corpse tag, and two men talking. Norman. And the man from his New Year's vision.
"Um, hello!" He squeaks out loudly. "Sorry to interrupt but I don't know how I got here."
He wonders if they can hear him. He might be dead. Or a psychic projection. Or hallucinating nonsense.