Open Post: Who invented this calendar anyway?

[futaille]

How unfortunate.

Yes, Grantaire was fully aware that the year being longer at the mansion would logically cause seasons to drift when someone kept track of the old calendar, or at least what had been pinned down as the old calendar for convenience sake, which was almost necessary when people's arrivals weren't necessarily tied to the day they left. He hadn't given it too much thought last year, when his birthday, such that it was, arrived in spring like he was used to.

Dark, though, was unfortunate. Not inappropriate for the next notable anniversary coming up, but for this one, not at all. Of course, it wasn't as if he would have been planning much in the way of an event, Dark or no, but it would have been nice to treat himself to something or other, regardless.

Instead, he has installed himself in the game room, where he is carefully balancing dominoes on their ends to make a domino rally on the billiards table. It's a nice large flat surface, so it should work nicely. Have to keep entertained somehow.

Comments

[sagramore]

"Wise, wise words, even speaking relatively!" Sagramore applauds just as the oven chirps about being preheated.

[futaille]

"Like Socrates, knowing only that he knew nothing." He glances at the oven. "Oh, it's ready!"

[sagramore]

"Oh, quick, put the cake in! Let's say thirty minutes to start."

[futaille]

"Right away!" He promptly goes over, opens the oven, and pops the cake in, closing the oven door behind him.

[sagramore]

"Beautiful." He pauses. "It's fairly dense. We'll see whether half an hour really does it."

[futaille]

"Oh no. The prospect of having to wait slightly longer for a surprise cake. How terrifying."

[sagramore]

"So sayst thou now, when thou hast not yet had to do any waiting."

[futaille]

"I've had to do some waiting, or there would have been a cake just sitting here when we arrived."

[sagramore]

"Wrong. Before thou wert admiring me while I toiled on thy behalf."

[futaille]

"I won't deny that, but even as I was doing that, I was waiting for cake. Unless you mean to suggest we will be doing nothing for the next half an hour aside from waiting and possibly staring at the oven."

[sagramore]

Sagramore blinks, as if astonished. "Well, obviously. What else would we be doing?"

[futaille]

Absolutely anything else is what he's about to say before he abruptly switches tactics. "Oh, all right then." He straightens, promptly turning to stare fixedly at the oven.

[sagramore]

Sagramore immediately posts up beside him, affecting his own attentive posture, silent and focused.

[futaille]

Grantaire takes in the details of the oven for a bit, finding at least something to focus on, and fully intending to shift to singing songs in his head once that gets tedious. He only needs to outlast Sagramore.

[sagramore]

For his part, Sagramore contemplates what to make for dinner tonight and whether he should invite over Susan and Lancelot, which leads to whether Lancelot knows it's Grantaire's birthday, to when Lancelot's birthday is, to what sort of cake Lancelot would like, to whether he has a sweet tooth like Laertes, to Laertes and how handsome he looked this morning as he helped Sunny get ready to go out with Magnus, to how grown up Sunny is getting--

"She's really gotten so big, hasn't she?" he remarks to Grantaire.

[futaille]

He's on a loop through
"I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General", convinced he's switching some of the lines, when it's brought to a halt from Sagramore's question. Thankfully, there's only one person who he could be referring to. "Sunny? Oh, very."

[sagramore]

"She must be almost three by now, dost thou not think?"

[futaille]

He thinks it over. "Probably? I suppose it depends on what years you use but I am not the person to ask to do calculations."

[sagramore]

"I don't actually have any idea how much time has passed since she got here," Sagramore confesses.

[futaille]

"A year or so, I think? In regular reckoning. The year's longer here and I want to say it was spring when she arrived."

[sagramore]

"Only a year? Art thou serious?"

[futaille]

"Close to it, I think."

[sagramore]

"Time is obscene."

[futaille]

"That sounds right, yes."

[sagramore]

"I don't like it! It shouldn't pass like this."