Did you know?
The Language of the Flowers was a popular method to express feelings where words might be improper, but did you know other means of doing so? Some ladies used their parasols, as well as their fans, gloves, and hankies to flirt with a gentleman (or alternatively, tell them to shove it!). — Bree ( Submit your own)
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Questionable Friend/Crush for Philip Aymslowe.
When your mum thinks you're gay for your best friend (but you probably are)
This boy, then. He wasn't new. Wasn't one of the worst people in the common room, those rotten rich boys - like Mr. Jailkeeper - who could not fathom a world beyond their own farts. Was a good working class lad, so he'd heard. Had a bit of a weird looking face, and a bit of a weird thing for preaching. Still.Aubrey Davis in The Under-Sofa
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Post 3+ times in three or more class threads during the course of a school year. Must all be done with the same character, be they a professor, student, or school portrait or ghost!

Don't spice things up
March 16th, 1889 - McPadraic house

Arthur didn't like being bothered with the whole affair of running a household. He wanted to focus on his work and when he was home, he just wanted a little peace and quiet. That was hard with his wife being of such a fragile and nervous nature, and his children revolting, and his staff unable to follow simple instructions. He could have summoned the chef to his office, but Arthur preferred to keep this small and simple. He didn't really like the idea of having to tell the new chef off over something others would think such a small issue. But nothing was a small issue when it came to Evaine. Sometimes he feared a small breeze could kill her. Arthur entered the kitchen and cleared his throat.
Armel was nowhere to be seen immediately, but the kitchen was alive with knives chopping and pins rolling and various things boiling and baking.

This was weird. He never saw Mr. McPadraic outside of mealtime. Somehow, he doubted an auror would be keen on a chef skulking around under the cover of invisibility... and so he crept to the back door that led out to the garden in hopes his boss might get distracted and he could pretend to be coming in rather than hiding from his nightmare wife.
Arthur frowned with disapproval. The kitchen was empty. Where was this lazy chef? He did not pay him to take half the day off. Was he off with some maid? Oh in that case Arthur would make sure the Greek would never find another job! "Mr. Koch!" he called out.
It was a weird situation – but then, most things involving the upper class were. He figured Arthur would help himself to something, probably a main course forcing him to make something else to compensate knowing his luck.

But no. Arthur was shouting for him, specifically. Shit. Did he know his daughters talked to him unattended? He looked angry.

“Mr. McPadraic,”
he answered curtly by the door, fading into view as he stepped forward. “We are running on schedule as always,” he reassured, though there was a hint of question to the way the end of his sentence trailed.

He was a couple of inches shorter than Mr. McPadraic, though he looked fairly physically strong. There was a quiet confidence to him that was only half-feigned – chefs didn’t usually have to bear the brunt of a customer’s (often misplaced) rage, but he’d heard enough to have a few canned lines to placate.
He calmed a little when the chef faded into view. Apparently he had not abandoned the kitchen. Good. He liked to know that his staff took their jobs serious. "Mr. Koch, my wife has been ill all day, because of a bun she ate this morning," he said, folding his hands behind his back and looking at the chef sternly, though no longer angry. Even Arthur was aware that his wife's sensitivity was on the extreme end, and took some time to get acquainted with. Nevertheless, he had given his chef explicit instructions. "I believe I had given clear instructions to be careful with spices."
Oh Merlin. Had he mixed up the flours? The difference was undetectable... undetectable unless one was essentially a princess on a pea, anyway. Shit.

“You said nothing spicy, if I recall correctly.”

Allah. What did ‘nothing spicy’ mean here?

“Under my training... ‘spicy’ generally refers to pepper, horse radish, mustard, garlic... savory things which sting the tongue, is it not?”
Arthur frowned. He didn't have time for this. Sometimes his wife's troubles made him feel so weary. But then again, staff that couldn't follow instructions didn't help. "She says you used to much cinnamon," Arthur claimed somewhat irritated. At times he felt that dealing with cold-blooded murders was easier than dealing with his own household.
Somehow, a constant torrent of screaming seemed easier to handle than one hangry Auror. Mr. Baudelaire had power of lungs; one hangry Auror had the scales of justice one wrong pinch of salt away.

When it came down to it, there were two things Ahmet felt strongly about: his family, and his cooking. One was his life and the other was his livelihood. He’d worked hard for his livelihood.

“I see,”
Armel said, trying to hide the salt in his own voice. “And do you share these complaints about the cinnamon buns?”
Arthur sighed wearily. "Not personally," he said, feeling like he had to answer to his own staff. What was happening to the world? Family name mattered less and less. Every John from the gutter could start a company and weasel his way into circles that were above him. And staff didn't know their place anymore. "But I asked you to be careful with what you prepare for my wife."
Weasel he had. Rest in well-seasoned Peace, Mr. Baudelaire.

“I see,” he said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I used the same amount as with the cinnamon toast...” and then shrugged. “A... unique woman has unique tastes, and I thank you for your patience as I learn them.”
Arthur's eyes narrowed as he watched the man. "I do not appreciate the tone, Mr. Koch. You will be careful with what you serve my wife, without grumbling, or you may want to look for a different post." He cursed Baudelaire.
Armel tilted his head, mouth open in unspoken word. He pursed his lips, face flushed with humiliation. He’d gone from middle class kitchens where they feigned sympathy when they gave him lip, to coveted chef across Britain, to shit stain on some cheapskate faux fop’s boot.

“I am?”
he said, ignoring the way his voice came out like wilted celery rather than crisp and fresh. “And shall be carefuller – … more careful-?” damn it why wasn’t English more sensible and agglutinative? “-still.”

Hard work and good character went nowhere with this one.

It was Saturday... Alexandra was home.
That's what they got for hiring some Greek farmer's hand. "Glad to hear." Arthur said, and he turned, and left the kitchen.

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