Order Only: Stinted
Jun. 25th, 2012 10:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alt_poppyWell.
I knew there was another shoe to drop.
I spent the weekend cleaning every inch of the hospital wing, eaves to flooring, because they've let me know I'm to expect regular irregular inspections and that every failing will be held against me. Sure enough. Just before supper on Sunday, who should arrive at my threshold but Facinorous Stint, the worst of my foes at St Mungo's?
I say he's the worst, though that honour may actually be due Otto Strangeweale or Audin Pettworth, I'm not sure. In any case, Stint is the most odious of them, the arrogant weasel.
He's simply furious that his intention to have me sacked did not go to plan. He scarcely contained it during the meeting--you should have seen his face when Able Bellweather produced a packet of letters from prominent citizens, some of them notorious members of the Council, noting their appreciation for my work at the school, during the Tasks, and on other occasions. If you can believe it, there was even a letter from Bartemius Crouch, the younger, lauding my competence and assistance to MLE on the night his father died. I'm not sure which of us was more entirely surprised, but I'm certain I found the irony considerably more pleasant than Stint did.
There was not a thing he could do at that point to turn the tide back against me.
Of course, he saw to it that the terms of my re-authorisation are as odious as possible. That much was fully in his power.
Last evening's visit was the first lash of what he clearly hopes will be a punishment severe enough to procure my resignation. He was there to hand-deliver a packet of information detailing the re-certification courses I'm compelled to attend this summer and to personally deliver the tongue-lashing he withheld in the meeting.
Among other things, he wished me to know that he is not among those who view Hogwarts as a pleasant convalescent home where a Matron can drowse through her final days. He also said I should not think for a minute that I'm not still on the chopping block, waiting for the inevitable axe to fall. It was supremely unpleasant. More so when I had a chance to reflect on the implied threats woven in and out of his words.
And where am I bound off for this summer? A seminar on the treatment of hypothermia at the top of an icy peak in Snowdonia and another on resuscitating the drowned and water-logged, to be held on some offshore platform in the North Sea (just inside the wards, mind you), which the pamphlet notes is a place where storm surges regularly wash the unwary to their deaths. Oh, and there's another one that involves a solitary, survivalist trek into Dartmoor, which sounds entirely to my liking, except that in context, one has to wonder what accidents might be planned for me during that lonely journey.
It goes without saying that I will keep you all apprised of where I'm meant to be and whether I've encountered difficulties. I shall be glad to have you at my back in the weeks ahead.
I knew there was another shoe to drop.
I spent the weekend cleaning every inch of the hospital wing, eaves to flooring, because they've let me know I'm to expect regular irregular inspections and that every failing will be held against me. Sure enough. Just before supper on Sunday, who should arrive at my threshold but Facinorous Stint, the worst of my foes at St Mungo's?
I say he's the worst, though that honour may actually be due Otto Strangeweale or Audin Pettworth, I'm not sure. In any case, Stint is the most odious of them, the arrogant weasel.
He's simply furious that his intention to have me sacked did not go to plan. He scarcely contained it during the meeting--you should have seen his face when Able Bellweather produced a packet of letters from prominent citizens, some of them notorious members of the Council, noting their appreciation for my work at the school, during the Tasks, and on other occasions. If you can believe it, there was even a letter from Bartemius Crouch, the younger, lauding my competence and assistance to MLE on the night his father died. I'm not sure which of us was more entirely surprised, but I'm certain I found the irony considerably more pleasant than Stint did.
There was not a thing he could do at that point to turn the tide back against me.
Of course, he saw to it that the terms of my re-authorisation are as odious as possible. That much was fully in his power.
Last evening's visit was the first lash of what he clearly hopes will be a punishment severe enough to procure my resignation. He was there to hand-deliver a packet of information detailing the re-certification courses I'm compelled to attend this summer and to personally deliver the tongue-lashing he withheld in the meeting.
Among other things, he wished me to know that he is not among those who view Hogwarts as a pleasant convalescent home where a Matron can drowse through her final days. He also said I should not think for a minute that I'm not still on the chopping block, waiting for the inevitable axe to fall. It was supremely unpleasant. More so when I had a chance to reflect on the implied threats woven in and out of his words.
And where am I bound off for this summer? A seminar on the treatment of hypothermia at the top of an icy peak in Snowdonia and another on resuscitating the drowned and water-logged, to be held on some offshore platform in the North Sea (just inside the wards, mind you), which the pamphlet notes is a place where storm surges regularly wash the unwary to their deaths. Oh, and there's another one that involves a solitary, survivalist trek into Dartmoor, which sounds entirely to my liking, except that in context, one has to wonder what accidents might be planned for me during that lonely journey.
It goes without saying that I will keep you all apprised of where I'm meant to be and whether I've encountered difficulties. I shall be glad to have you at my back in the weeks ahead.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-26 12:52 am (UTC)