Now that I've worked out what the last week's set of prompts were about I guess I have to try and decode this week's? This is an interesting start and doesn't appear to be about the US political situation, but so far I've no guesses.
The craftswoman Emma was waiting at the schoolgates with Steve, her least favourite colleague at WrongStart, Sixticton's premier (and only) educational pre-school facility. Steve was watery-eyed from hayfever despite there still being snow on the ground in patches, particularly under the trees, and smelled faintly of urine. She knew that the smell wasn't his fault: the three-year-old intake this year was so poorly potty-trained that she was wondering if there was actually an epidemic of incontinence that the school hadn't informed the teachers about, but it still rankled her. Her coughed, and she reflexively checked that her mask was still in place over her mouth and nose. The parents of the school were terrible at mask-protocol and they only turned up wearing them at all because the school had threatened to turn their children away if they didn't. "This craftsman," said Steve, and was immediately interrupted. "Craftswoman," said Emma. "She's very particular about it." "Particular like Geraldinium Holmes particular, or particular like Headmaster particular?" asked Steve. He looked slightly worried and, perhaps, contrite. Emma considered it for several seconds, that drew out as she found it harder and harder to choose between them. "Headmaster particular," she said at last. "I think she'll look for weapons the second or third time someone gets it wrong." "Right," said Steve. "Right. This craftswoman then; what kind of crafts does she do? Only we're letting her loose on five-year-olds, and they will tell their parents about her. At least, they'll tell them in words they can understand and don't just write off as too much sugar." "She does batik," said Emma, trying to remember the staff email that had been sent round. "And... cheesemaking, I think. And something else. Pig-foot scrimshaw? I can't remember, but it wasn't something she'd do with kids." "Right," said Steve slowly. He looked behind them. "Right." Emma turned, dreading what she'd see. Two of the school janitors, swarthy men who claimed they were Japanese immigrants but looked distinctly Mexican to her and spoke a lot of Spanish, were pulling a long trough out of a store-room and onto the playground. "Probably batik," she said, wishing that she more confident and less hopeful. "It's tie-dying, so it makes sense to have a long container that all the kids can gather round." "Right," said Steve, rather drowned out by the oinking of pigs. A large truck with "Prana Piggeries: Bacon for the nation" painted of the side was heading up the road towards the school. "Right, and not at all for the slaughter of pigs so their feet can be whittled. Right." "No," began Emma, feeling her confidence drain away. "If we were killing pigs the pickle-ballers would... be..." She tailed off. Sixticton's pickle-ballers, led by the craftswoman, were converging on the playground from the other side.
Greg - can't help you with this one. Maybe inspired by a building show on TV? The boys like to watch them around bed time snack.
Hah. I don't know, Steve doesn't seem so bad to me. Maybe Emma should give him another chance. Right after she finds a way out of what is about to be attempted...
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Now that I've worked out what the last week's set of prompts were about I guess I have to try and decode this week's? This is an interesting start and doesn't appear to be about the US political situation, but so far I've no guesses.
The craftswoman
Emma was waiting at the schoolgates with Steve, her least favourite colleague at WrongStart, Sixticton's premier (and only) educational pre-school facility. Steve was watery-eyed from hayfever despite there still being snow on the ground in patches, particularly under the trees, and smelled faintly of urine. She knew that the smell wasn't his fault: the three-year-old intake this year was so poorly potty-trained that she was wondering if there was actually an epidemic of incontinence that the school hadn't informed the teachers about, but it still rankled her. Her coughed, and she reflexively checked that her mask was still in place over her mouth and nose. The parents of the school were terrible at mask-protocol and they only turned up wearing them at all because the school had threatened to turn their children away if they didn't.
"This craftsman," said Steve, and was immediately interrupted.
"Craftswoman," said Emma. "She's very particular about it."
"Particular like Geraldinium Holmes particular, or particular like Headmaster particular?" asked Steve. He looked slightly worried and, perhaps, contrite.
Emma considered it for several seconds, that drew out as she found it harder and harder to choose between them. "Headmaster particular," she said at last. "I think she'll look for weapons the second or third time someone gets it wrong."
"Right," said Steve. "Right. This craftswoman then; what kind of crafts does she do? Only we're letting her loose on five-year-olds, and they will tell their parents about her. At least, they'll tell them in words they can understand and don't just write off as too much sugar."
"She does batik," said Emma, trying to remember the staff email that had been sent round. "And... cheesemaking, I think. And something else. Pig-foot scrimshaw? I can't remember, but it wasn't something she'd do with kids."
"Right," said Steve slowly. He looked behind them. "Right."
Emma turned, dreading what she'd see. Two of the school janitors, swarthy men who claimed they were Japanese immigrants but looked distinctly Mexican to her and spoke a lot of Spanish, were pulling a long trough out of a store-room and onto the playground.
"Probably batik," she said, wishing that she more confident and less hopeful. "It's tie-dying, so it makes sense to have a long container that all the kids can gather round."
"Right," said Steve, rather drowned out by the oinking of pigs. A large truck with "Prana Piggeries: Bacon for the nation" painted of the side was heading up the road towards the school. "Right, and not at all for the slaughter of pigs so their feet can be whittled. Right."
"No," began Emma, feeling her confidence drain away. "If we were killing pigs the pickle-ballers would... be..." She tailed off. Sixticton's pickle-ballers, led by the craftswoman, were converging on the playground from the other side.
Greg - can't help you with this one. Maybe inspired by a building show on TV? The boys like to watch them around bed time snack.
Hah. I don't know, Steve doesn't seem so bad to me. Maybe Emma should give him another chance. Right after she finds a way out of what is about to be attempted...
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