I would have to actually go and say that. It joins the list of dangerous and forbidden utterances, like 'isn't it such a lovely day' and 'how bad can it be?'.
New Years Eve? Only one call (from the middle east, no less, snorkle) but what did I expect, miserable misanthrope that I am. Anyways, had a slap up meal, then it was Modesty Blaise on dvd and champagne (sorry, Oz fizzy wine). Best viewed as pop art rather than a film with silly trifles like plot and characterisation, at least young Mr Stamp was v.pretty. It was a good film for NYE, the sort that make you feel like you've been to some fabulous party, somewhere fabulous.
Popped the cork, watched the fireworks, then curled up with The Rocketeer on cable, just because I needed a Tim Dalton fix.
Meanwhile, this gallery of Bomer pics made me giggle, in a squirmy sort of way. Towards the end it really does begin to sort of look like the kind of piccies Peter might have hidden on his phone. You know, the ones he really doesn't want Elizabeth to accidentally find. Or maybe that's just me.
I mean, I have been enjoying spending time with the boys while I type, even if EvilChannelTen has taken the White Collar away.
If nothing else, I'm having fun sitting out on the veranda every morning typing away. I'd actually forgotten what summer smelt like. Didn't get as much done on the first day of 2011 as I might have hoped but I was nursing a champagne (sorry, fizzy wine) hangover and the parrots had discovered I was home to callers and it's hard to type when constantly fetching crackers for Polly and his band of pesky freeloaders.
It was also damn hot and I had to abandon the veranda. I'm calling it too hot to start in on the mountain of ironing that's waiting for me, either. Besides, for the first time in my life I'm putting something I want to do before housework. I just want to see if I can finish something this year, just for myself. And housework doesn't matter as I've no one here who cares or will see if the ironing basket is empty or not.
Xmas? Quiet but quite nice. Lovely day, turkey turned out well and the neighbours all sounded like they were having happy barbeques. It was really kinda nice. At least I could hear people having fun with family and friends.
Loot? Modesty Blaise dvd and a bottle of champers, the Back to the Future trilogy (not the special edn) and Haigh chocs, and, oh yeah, the 007 box set (at bloody last, I've been asking for it since Timmy was OHMS).
Boxing Day? Cold and wet (how I miss those days, I shall never moan again, swelter, swelter), and I made a typically catty female comment about Himself enjoying the ties and World Of Teas I'd bought him instead of the iPad which had been pushed aside untouched. In retrospect, well, let's just say that since he finally unpacked it I've been talking to the apple symbol ever since.
TV? There was the Doctor Who special which was a touch twee at the end but it was Xmas afterall and Matt Smith is wonderful and it made me giggle in parts so all is good. I'd rather a small personal episode to massive alien invasions, but that's just me. And Who had to do Scrooge at some point and it might as well be now with Gambon (perfect casting). Loved the Marilyn aside, and Roman Rory, and the 'two goes' and, oh, lots of other things.
Followed up the evening with Matt and Matt in The Glades and White Collar. Oh, I do love The Glades. White Collar too, but crazy fandom and other disapointments intrude at times. Matt sure is pretty, though.
Other than that? Typing, typing, always typing. It's kinda nice, just me and my wee pc, out on the veranda. Better than I ever dared to hope.
I even did a session in the banana lounge under the shade of my seriously spider infested jungle (weeding schmeeding) and that was fun too, except for the ants and their quest to bite me lots on the backs of my knees. Managed to distract them by hanging out some dripping washing (sent them into a right tizzy, mwhaha).
So I've finally caught up on the typing but not the ironing or the weeding or dusting or, well, anything really. Much scowling. Ah well.
Now commences ze spell checking (world's worst typist, I freely admit it) and ze cutting and ze pasting. The ironing will just have to iron itself.
Diana slapped photo after photo down on Peter's desk.
"You knew about this."
Of course he knew about this. He knew Neal couldn't resist for long, all that temptation, all that opportunity, just being thrown his way. Peter had come to realise that he couldn't rehabilitate Neal, just re-focus him. Most of Neal's energy went into the events and running the company, the designs, the logistics and the wheeling and dealing. He loved it. But once in a while, the tempatation would be too great, and things would go missing. Never at the venue on the night, that would be far too obvious, but sometimes, maybe a month or two later, there would be an incident, pulled off so smoothly, as though the place had been thoroughly scoped out in every detail by professionals. Sometimes, there would be a break in across town while the owner was out, usually at some big event, or sometimes, when the owner was out of town and somehow the thieves had known exactly when and what to go for and how best to get it, even if it meant renting the place next door and cutting through the walls.
Peter would read about it in the morning paper, and hed have his suspicions, but he said nothing. What could he say that he hadn't already said a thousand times before?
Neal was so well connected these days he not only knew who was in and who was out of town, he also knew who was naughty and who was nice.
Neal's targets were targeted. Not so much for what they had, though Neal still had an eye for treasure, but because they were the sort of people, or organisation, who were literally and actually above the law. Business leaders, executives and politicians who'd walked away from frauds that made Neal's conviction look like one of the moons of Jupiter compared to their callous criminality, and they had pocketed the lot.
The one thing Peter had taught Neal was that there was no such thing as a victimless con, and so these people were targeted and relieved of their most prized trinkets, though it was rarely ever reported officially. Often, the items would be mysteriously returned. Equally mysteriously, a large anonymous donation would be made to a charity shortly thereafter.
But it wasn't the robbing from the rich act that stayed Peter's hand.
"You'll never prove it,' he warned Diana. "Neal's worked inside the Bureau. He knows our methods and procedures inside out and has probably worked out a counter for each and every one. We took a good thief and made him a hell of a lot better."
"Damn it, Peter, I knew this would happen. I knew he was playing us."
"He wanted to learn from the best. So he did." Peter shrugged.
"Was this all it was? Just a con?"
"Well, he also wanted me to find Kate for him."
Diana looked up to the ceiling insulation panels for strength and then back to Peter again.
"If you knew he was playing you..."
"I wanted to see where he was going with it. And it wasn't all a game. Neal got sucked in. He became part of a team. He started to care. We got under his skin. We changed him."
"More than you think. The people who reported these thefts, they're all guilty of something, whether it's shorting pension funds or beating their wife."
"It's still theft."
Peter shrugged. "There's no forensics, and the security footage is always gone. It's quick and clean, every time."
"You sound like you admire him."
"No." Peter shook his head. "But he's not in my custody any more and I'm not about to turn him in with no evidence just because he fits the profile. He's not the only thief in New York city who does. Besides, you should be pleased."
"He's exactly the man we need for this job and he isn't rusty."
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