"When the skies are looking bad my dear
And your heart's lost all its hope
After dawn there will be sunshine
And all the dust will go
The skies will clear my darling
I'll wake up with the one I love the most
And in the morning, I'll make you up
Some tea and toast."
[image description: An eight-armed figure in a blue dress and shoes, a striped blue and white apron with the tine figure of Small God Hummel sewn on, feathered headdress and blue bakelite bracelets stands in front of a dark larder – in which outlines of food jars and dishes can be seen. They bear 5 glowing jars that seem to be candles in primary colors. Text reads, “50, Kitsch Annette ~ The Small God of Organized Pantries”]
If she could make people understand one thing and one thing only, it would be this: that food has no moral value, and that anyone whose pantry can be considered “full” is a virtuous person in her eyes, regardless of whether that fullness is kale chips and quinoa or Girl Scout cookies and pre-mixed buttercream frosting. She cares about the quality of the shelves, their fullness and fineness, not their contents or what the latest diet craze has to say about those contents.
If she could make people understand two things, it would be that a well-stocked, well-indexed pantry is a palace beyond price, a lofty cathedral filled with miracles waiting to be mixed. Cakes to be baked, potatoes to be peeled, spices and seasonings over which people have so very often gone to war, ready to be sprinkled over meat or folded into casseroles. Holes in the shelves are not to be borne; a regularly updated shopping list is worth a thousand impulse buys or once-a-year stocking runs. Every household should, in her eyes, be able to shut its doors and sustain itself for as long as plausible. She understands all too well that not everyone can afford the luxury of a proper pantry, and she weeps for those outside the warmth and light of her hearth, whose stomachs are too often empty, whose soups, when they exist at all, are too often unseasoned.
She would feed the world, given rice enough and time.
If she could make people understand three things, it would be that another cup of water can always be added to the pot, that one more potato can always be diced into the hash, that one more egg is not so great a sacrifice, for look, the poorest among her following understand these things, make their offerings both wise and wide, fill the bellies of those around them. For even the fullest shelf will be empty in a moment if placed before the starving, and so she will accept no hunger among her faithful that could be filled, will believe no table full when a single plate more could be placed upon it. There is always room to feed your fellows.
She was a god of harvest once, and plenty. She still is.
But seriously, replace your spices every four years, or they won’t be anything but faintly scented powder, and that is a blasphemy in her sight.
Are you close with your family? Do you have any siblings?
Fairly well all the family I have left are my siblings and their children.
I’m close with my younger brother and sister and their little ones. And I’m close with my niece and nephew from my older brother and his wife, but we are definitely not close, he and I.
Hazel laughed at that. “I hear that quite a lot, believe it or not?”
She kept one of his arms in her gentle grip and lead him out of the rubble, going carefully to the truck where she had a cooler with more water and a bin with wrapped sandwiches, and a couple of folding chairs set up in some shade.
“Here, sit down please and have a bite. …would you like medical to check you just in case?”
He lets her lead him, largely because it’s a funny image when she’s so petite. Not as small as his brothers, but small.
Dropping into the chair, he’s all limbs as he takes a bite of the offered sandwich, swallowing it down nearly without swallowing, then again so that half the sandwich is already eaten.
“No, no. Trust me when I say they won’t find a scratch on me right now, and that might start more questions, it’ll become a thing. No one needs a thing,” he answers, shaking his head quickly.
“Okay, okay, no trouble here. No thing.” She held up her hands in pacification as she took a seat close to his. “I promise. I…understand, believe it or not.” She picked up a water bottle, opening it to take a swallow for herself.
“So Klaus. Do you have anyone that I need to call for you? Let them know you’re alright at least?”
She approached and sat down about a yard from where he was, cris-crossed legs and her bag at her side. “I know, I wasn’t sure if you had your ears on, luv,” she teased as she relaxed and leaned her elbows on her knees.
“The crew was a bit concerned that you’re in the middle of their landing pad. What’s going on, mm?”
He turned his head to the side, it ‘lolling’ a little as he shifted in the popup chair just to the slightest degree, it was lazy in nature and very fitting movement of someone as drunk as he was. “Hazel..” He slurred her name as he looked at her, ‘Even without them I still would have SEEN it was you, didn’t have to spell it.” Despite his mood he chuckled, soft and short.
“S’bad day.” He doesn’t yet elaborate on it, elaborate on how each part of the day had gotten progressively worst, how the mission had gone completely nuts, how the fall out from it was worst, how everything just crashed down around him. “No chopper.” He pointed up, “Doesn’t matter.” He meant of course it didn’t matter he was on the pad.
Un/fortunately, she had a good bit of experience dealing with drunk people, and Clint was rapidly slipping down a hole. At least he was still mostly lucid and communicating. But she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him in quite this state and she was worried under her calm smile.
“Tch, sorry for trying to be polite, mister,” she teased as she pulled a couple of wrapped sandwiches out of her bag along with some water and a thermos.
“No chopper, you’re right. And we’re fine until one comes along.” She unwrapped one of the BLT’s and took a bite. “So. Must be a really bad day. Care to share with a friend?”
One of the guards assigned to the rooftop landing pad had contacted her, and she’d told them to leave the agent alone, she’d be up presently. She arrived on the rooftop in short order, a backpack on her shoulder as she approached him quietly and slowly once she was pointed his way.
She heard a little of what he said and her heart just ached for him. He was in a bit of a state, as reported. She couldn’t see if his earpieces were in or not, so she tried to get in his line of sight so he wouldn’t be startled, the rooftop was dimly lit while no aircraft were coming or going. She waved a little and tried to catch his eye, signing his name with a smile on her face.
C-L-I-N-T and then, It’s H-A-Z-E-L
Whereas most people would feel that familiar butterfly like sensation in the pit of their stomachs should they find themselves in the middle of a helipad atop one of the taller buildings in the area, The hawk? He finds peace in it, finds the feeling of the chill air hitting his face grounding, the blinking of the lights indicating the landing space, familiar. Could he have equally have found solace in the space not twenty feet away without a giant H on it, yes, but he’d chose his spot and had no intention of leaving it now.
Clint had never been an overly heavy drinker, socially? Sure, he got drunk but this? This was a different level it was rare for him to go this far down the rabbit hole, one bottle empty and resting on his neck, another popped open as liquid drops ran down the bottle indicating it had been recently drunk from. Vaguely he registers that someones coming over, his eyes following the shadow and moving back to the city when he realizes who it is.
It’s probably a good thing he had his aids in, he didn’t want to pay attention to anyones lips, didn’t want to bother signing with them, no he just wanted to disappear. “I’m deaf Hazel, not blind.” He muttered, his words far less crisp that usual.
She approached and sat down about a yard from where he was, cris-crossed legs and her bag at her side. “I know, I wasn’t sure if you had your ears on, luv,” she teased as she relaxed and leaned her elbows on her knees.
“The crew was a bit concerned that you’re in the middle of their landing pad. What’s going on, mm?”
Some days are longer than others, some weeks seem to never end and some missions go completely ass up and get labeled with a big red failure, three guesses how his week had gone. The look on his face reads exhaustion, annoyance, and slowly there’s a drunkeness coming to it, a rare truly drunk Clint (after all drinking too heavily… well that makes him nervous for fairly obvious reasons). Slouching in the lawn chair, atop the roof no less he rested the now empty bottle of bourbon on his neck and sighed. “Fuck I look like Harold right now which just makes me hate myself more than I do.” The latter part he’d assumed he said in just his head, not aloud like he had.
One of the guards assigned to the rooftop landing pad had contacted her, and she’d told them to leave the agent alone, she’d be up presently. She arrived on the rooftop in short order, a backpack on her shoulder as she approached him quietly and slowly once she was pointed his way.
She heard a little of what he said and her heart just ached for him. He was in a bit of a state, as reported. She couldn’t see if his earpieces were in or not, so she tried to get in his line of sight so he wouldn’t be startled, the rooftop was dimly lit while no aircraft were coming or going. She waved a little and tried to catch his eye, signing his name with a smile on her face.
People were asking me what counts to help get Season 3 made. And the answer is, 1) people watching S2 and watching it to the end, 2) people who haven’t watched Good Omens before watching Good Omens, which very much includes Season 1.
So if you know people who haven’t seen Season 1, get them to watch it. And if you are at the homes of people with Prime Video who have never seen Good Omens, this is your chance to introduce them to the world of Good Omens while helping make a statistic that the algorithm people are following.
Is there a time frame important? Like does it have to be during the first month of airing or something ?
Yes. With Sandman it was a four-month process to get renewed, but with Good Omens we will know if we’ve been renewed or not pretty fast. Or at least, Amazon will know. They may have to wait for the Strikes to be done before they tell us, though.
