Here’s my 20-21 week progress with being PT’d by @CS__Fitness!! I keep thinking there’s some illusion, but other than the house move the mirror and stance etc are all the same.
I’m also sharing my weight loss graph from the SW website—I started Slimming World when I was 191.5lbs (I originally started at 193.5lbs)—So you can see my progress on weight loss/gain. I’m constantly seeing progress in pictures than, of course, the scales. So I urge anyone who’s trying to lose weight to concentrate on your body and not the number on the scales (although it does help sometimes).
I strongly believe that Camilla should be Queen on Charles ascension to the throne but Clarence Houses stance is still that she will be Princess Consort. I’ve wondered whether a prenuptial agreement with the Queen before there marriage agreed what her role would be. It’s very uncertain and every time there the Queen as much as sneezes the question about Camilla ’s future role in the Monarchy arises. Interesting times ahead. I just wish them happiness.
Of course, all I wish them is happiness and health and a long life together, it’s the most important thing. But I hate the thought of `Princess Consort` so incredibly much. I honestly don’t think the title really matters to her, but it matters to Charles, a lot, and it matters to me, too, a lot. I know I rant about it way too often and I’ve made my points clear several times, but PC is ridiculous. I know they came up with it because she wasn’t “popular”, but, for God’s sake, that was almost 12 years ago, things have changed so much. People love her. Like, you just have to look at the pictures from her engagements, she attracts way more people than WK, though the press tries to tell us otherwise. The title’s hers by law once Charles accends to the throne. If we call her Princess Consort she’ll be Queen in all but name, just like she’s PoW now, so why not give her the proper title, why come up with such an unneccessary thing?
Actually, I’m just reading an article written by a lady who wants her to be PC and her arguments are just so dumb and hateful, and while I’m really nice and rather peaceful, I just really feel the need to punch her and I’m not even sorry. Arguments like “Philip is just Prince, and so was Albert.” are just dumb, really. They are/ were Prince because they’d outrank their Queens, not because someone made a bad decision or whatever.
I’m sorry I’m absolutely over-emotional when it comes to that topic, but I love her and I want her to be Queen so badly. She deserves it. That title was made for her. We will see what the future brings. I just hope Clarence House will figure out that PC is stupid. For now, she’s the Queen of my heart, she always will be!
Here’s the finished piece of Nathan Canty Graphic Design’s VW Bora.
Nathan is a rad friend of mine who I met through cars and connected with through art and design.With an upcoming colab underway as we speak, I produced this to coincide with the project. This will be available as a print along with other drawings in the next few weeks so keep an eye out!
A big thank you to Mark at MRKODNGHE for the reference photo, the shoot of Nathan’s Bora is outstanding.
There’s very little that Annabeth hates more than feeling helpless. She’s never been happy to sit on the sidelines while her friends walk into battle. And here she is, rendered helpless as the person she cares most about fights all by himself.
Alright, he’s not completely by himself, there’s a satyr with him, but this does little to quell the worry in her heart.
“Why did he have to go?” she asks Chiron for the hundredth time.
She’s standing on the porch of the Big House, stance firm, arms crossed over her chest, scowl marking her face. Chiron sits next to her in his wheelchair and patiently explains to her, again, why it was Percy who left the camp to retrieve the lone demigod, unaware of his identity and hunted because of it, traipsing around Brooklyn.
“He’s perfectly capable of looking after himself.”
“I know that,” Annabeth snaps, unable to help herself.
Chiron’s voice remains level, reasonable despite her sharp tone. “He was here when we needed someone, Annabeth. There was no reason for it not to be him.”
You should have called me, she wants to say. I should have been here, she scolds herself.
“They should have been back by now,” she says instead.
Chiron murmurs vaguely in response.
Percy has fought without her many times before. He’s been fighting since he was twelve years old and at seventeen, he’s one of the best demigod fighters Camp Half Blood has seen. But that doesn’t mean Annabeth won’t worry about him. Because she’s seen his very best and worst. She’s seen his spiteful rage reduce him to a whirlwind of fury, only to be reclaimed to himself by her hands and her words. And she’s seen the aftermath of a battle, she’s seen him beaten to his knees, seen him drowning in a river with all hope torn away from him. She’s pulled him back to himself, both in the midst of battle, and out of it.
And now he’s out there without her.
Annabeth feels guilt creep into her chest, heavy and binding, with these thoughts. She hates that she doubts him, hates it with every part of her being. And she knows that she will not always be able to be there, but it’s been merely months since the war, since they dragged each other out of the swallowing darkness, and she doesn’t quite feel ready yet. Ready to trust that he will come back to her every time he leaves.
The other part of her simply misses him. She hadn’t woken up this morning expecting him to be gone and it opens up an old ache, a wound which never truly healed even after he returned to her. Those months had been spent with arms curled around her chest as if to hold it together, with bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep and relentless tears. She just wants him back, safe.
“Annabeth,” Chiron murmurs.
She looks up just in time to see three figures tripping over the boundary line next to Thalia’s tree. Peleus lifts his head and sniffs at them before tucking his head back under his wing and resuming his nap. Annabeth is frozen to the spot. They look fine. Percy’s figure, the tallest of the three, lopes easily down the hill. She watches as he touches the lid of his pen to his sword and it shrinks small enough to be tucked into his jeans pocket.
“Fetch some one from the Apollo cabin for me?” Chiron asks. Annabeth turns to him indignantly and he sighs. “Please, Annabeth. Nothing will happen in the sixty seconds it takes you to run over there and run back.”
She sends a glare his way before glancing again at Percy and his companions’ approaching figures, still too far away to make out any expressions or injuries, and turns her back on them to sprint down to the cabins. Chiron’s right, it takes her less than sixty seconds to run to the Apollo cabin, stick her head inside the door long enough to yell that someone needs to report to the medbay, and sprint back up to the big house.
She’s always been a fast runner.
The young demigod looks startled, his eyes are wide and staring as the satyr half-carries him past the porch of the big house towards the medbay. Annabeth spares them both a glance long enough to notice the bloody trickling down the young boy’s wrist from underneath his jacket sleeve and the bruising on the satyr’s face, and then her attention is drawn away, to Percy. He’s talking quietly to Chiron, rubbing a dark mark on his cheek and spreading it further across his skin. It looks like dirt, not blood, to Annabeth’s relief. He’s frowning until he looks up and meets her eyes, and then his expression morphs from surprise to relief, and then to guilt.
Annabeth surges forwards anyway, grabbing him by the shoulders, firm, wide shoulders, tense and there and alive. He’s alive. She wraps her arms around them and pulls him in close, feeling his breath rush out of him as their chests crash together. Percy’s arms come around her belatedly, and he rubs her back soothingly as if to say, it’s okay, I’m here. She loves him for that.
Annabeth withdraws from the circle of his arms and promptly whacks him on the shoulder.
“That’s for playing hero.”
He scowls at her, rubbing his shoulder and opening his mouth to say something to her. Annabeth grabs his cheeks between her palms and kisses him firmly on the mouth, stopping his words of complaint in their tracks. It’s all tense lips and clacking teeth and quiet moans and it’s over in a moment as they both gasp for breath, foreheads pressed together.
“That’s for being a hero,” she mumbles.
Percy’s answering smile helps her heart settle in her chest. His hands stroke her cheeks, smearing dirt there, and he dips his head to kiss her again, more gently this time.
“I won’t go without you again. Promise.”
It’s a promise she knows he won’t keep, can’t keep; one she knows she can’t expect him to keep, but it makes her feel better anyway. It reminds her of his words as he clutched onto her wrist underneath Rome, the only thing preventing her falling alone into the seemingly endless pit, We’re staying together. You’re not getting away from me. Never again.
And her answering promise, As long as we’re together.