[ England had been remarkably capable of handling himself quite well for the past week or so. Certainly he sulked by hiding under his blankets, but he did that with pride. Or at least a respectable-looking blanket. But on the 21st day at the fourteenth hour at thirty-three seconds, as he realised he had written nothing but the word SOCKS1 for the
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Not going to. It's sad that that's the only thing he finds amusing.] Y'alright, England?
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Are y'on your period or somethin'? [HE IS A WEAK MAN]
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No.
What?
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So she is now standing at the bedroom door, arms folding in front of her chest, frown properly fixed upon her face and broom at the standby just outside in the hallway.]
Arthur!
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I'm not coming out.
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It's a very nice bed.
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You're a dirty old man!
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