scotch house

candy heart (new start)

pairing: marcus flint x oliver wood
wordcount: 2167
a/n: a belated valentine’s day ficlet for our fave quasi-romantic quidditch boyfriends // written for the @hprarepairnet and @slytherdornet be mine challenge!

The candles that are neatly arranged on their dining table are burning low when Marcus decides to nix dinner and stick it back in the oven with a tempus charm in a futile attempt to keep it warm.

Oliver’s late.

Which isn’t usually something that bothers him – practices run over, and coaches get overzealous, and because Marcus knows those exact situations, has been in them more often than not, he never minds.

Except today is Valentine’s Day, and just this morning, Oliver had left by pressing a kiss to his cheek and reminding him that their plans would begin promptly at seven. Now, it’s almost nine, and Marcus is left sitting there at their dining table like a fool, if there were anyone else in their flat to see. It doesn’t help that his nerves are already rattled, from what he’s planning.

He doesn’t do romance. Thinks the holiday is honestly just a way to get all the young witches and wizards to spend money in the dreary winter months, but this year, Marcus had gotten a couple bouquets delivered and had gone to pick out some of Oliver’s favorite chocolates, because Oliver loves all the clichés and Marcus isn’t one to deny him of that. It just seems appropriate.

Worry grips him momentarily at the thought that maybe Oliver’s gotten injured, except if it had been bad, Puddlemere’s coach would’ve gotten into contact with family, and Mrs. Wood always tries to keep Marcus in the loop when that happens.

He picks at the salad, very resolutely trying not to jump to conclusions, because Oliver wouldn’t do this on purpose. Marcus tries to assure himself – it’s probably an honest mistake.

Or he got distracted, the stupid fucking voice in his head says, by something – someone else?

“Shut up,” Marcus groans to no one, shoving his plate away. The roses look more and more pathetic the longer he stares at them, silk ribbon tying them together winking tauntingly under the candlelight. He can feel the box burning a hole in his pocket, and tosses it out on the table to join the flowers.

He relocates to the couch, because sitting and staring at the empty seat in front of him only makes him want to wallow in self-pity, and that’s never a good road to go down.

Marcus chews his lip. Oliver wouldn’t – would he?

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

am i the only one that imagined alex or maggie stalking one another on fb or instagram after they met at the crime scene just because something about them was bugging one another? like can u imagine maggie seeing alex`s pictures with kara as suprgirl and being like "interesting.." someone needs to write this

She would pfft and deny it if Kara asked her, and she’d come dangerously close to breaking his nose if Winn asked her.

But no one asks her, because she only does it on her phone, and only when she’s sure she’s alone.

“Detective Maggie Sawyer, NCPD Science Division,” she mutters to herself, irritated that the arrogant woman – it was her crime scene, dammit – won’t leave her mind.

Irritated that the arrogant woman… does things to the inside of her stomach.

Things that she’s not entirely sure are unpleasant.

She pours herself a glass of bourbon and opens Instagram on her phone.

Just because she wants to check this hard-headed cop out, of course.

Not that way. Just… check out what she gets up to off the job. See if she can figure out if she’s actually any good at her job.

She must be – she knew Infernians, Kryptonians, heat vision, could spot sloppy methods of bagging evidence from twenty yards away – but Alex finds herself needing to know more.

For no reason, really.

To feed her irritation, probably.

She drinks deeper and types her name into the search function.

She doesn’t have to scroll long before she finds that infuriating grin, that gorgeous hair, that…

She knows she shouldn’t, but she does it anyway.

She clicks and she scrolls – slowly, more slowly than she would ever admit to – through photos of the detective sitting at a table with her hand up, a confident but somehow still soft, but somehow still edged, somehow still unreadable, expression on her face, in something just off black and white; photos of the easy-bake local cop sporting a gym bag and a confident, head-tilted stare that captivates Alex for longer than she’d care to admit; photos of the hardcore, unshakeable detective shrieking with apparent laughter on the back of a tall boy with a silver earring and dapper shirt, banter that’s cuter than Alex would care to admit in the comments section between Sawyer and some kid with the username arodriguez_nottheballplayer.

She idly slips over to the boy’s instagram and finds that Maggie is all over his, too, at Pride parades and activist events, at college visits and a high school graduation, the boy beaming with his diploma and the detective on her tip-toes, kissing his slightly scruffy cheek, his skin darker than hers but his eyes just as bright.

Alex wonders how the apparently hard-ass detective wound up so full of smiles around this kid, and she wonders if maybe he’s Maggie’s Kara.

But no, Maggie can’t have a Kara.

Maggie can’t be a person to Alex.

Maggie’s just a local cop who got in the way of her investigation, who impeded on her territory, who stepped into her jurisdiction.

And is, apparently, refusing to leave.

“Hey M’gann, what’s the wifi this month?” Maggie wants to know, and M’gann smirks.

“Morn made it up this time – guess.” She grins as Maggie laughs into her beer and types in the quiet but ever-present alien’s name into her phone, and she goes immediately to Instagram.

“My lab is not an easy bake flipping oven,” Maggie mutters to herself as she searches the name of the overly self-assured, overly hot – that suit, my god, why would she do that to a person? – secret service agent who’d trampled onto her crime scene earlier today.

“Ooh, new hot date?” M’gann asks as she passes behind Maggie with a tray of north Bravakian ale. “She’s cute.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “Come on, M’gann, you know I’m still with – ”

“Yeah, I know, and you know I don’t think you should be.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Maggie sighs and drinks deeply and squints as she scrolls through photos of Alex with pursed lips and smoldering eyes that set Maggie’s core on fire; older photos, it seems, of the secret service agent with shorter hair, a few with longer hair; a few of an apparent game night with two men with broad smiles and collared shirts, and a pretty blonde who makes Maggie’s stomach twinge with unwarranted and completely inexplicable jealousy; and even a couple in the field with Supergirl, their easy, intimate rapport clear even from the way they’re standing, from the ways they’re looking at each other.

“Interesting…” she murmurs.

“What’s interesting?” M’gann wants to know, and Maggie closes the app on her phone, knowing she shouldn’t be going down this rabbit hole, she shouldn’t be looking up photos of some – beautiful – woman just because something’s bugging her about her, just because she can’t get her out of her mind, just because…

“Nothing. Nothing. Just someone I met in the field today.”

M’gann arches an eyebrow; she doesn’t need her telepathy to know better, but she doesn’t push.

“Scotch? On the house?” she offers instead.

Maggie grins and pushes her empty beer bottle at her friend.

“Only if I can interest you in a game of pool when you get off shift.”

“You know you have no chance, Sawyer,” M’gann laughs.

Maggie thinks of that agent – Alex Danvers – her name feels better than she wants to admit on her tongue – and shrugs.

“I’ve got hope.”

angleterre97  asked:

Hi! Could you maybe do an AU where Bones works at a dive bar and Jim is a guitar player who does shows on weekends and is constantly using his playlist to hit on the grumpy bartender who helped patch him up after falling off the stage that one time?

I love this, thanks for the suggestion!

  • Jim Kirk can sing, alright? Like, the type of singing that absolutely doesn’t belong in a dive bar. And he plays the guitar so well. Whether it’s a quiet, jazzy tune or he plugs in his electric guitar for a a more rocking night, Jim Kirk is incredible. 
  • Bones thinks he’s insufferable. Sure, he brings in the public, who in turn buy drinks from Bones. But Jim is this arrogant, handsome young man who’s full of potential and life energy. Who sees beauty in everyone. Who is always smiling. Who sings beautiful songs he wrote himself. Jim is just that incredibly annoying, good at everything guy that Bones wants to hate but can’t. His only flaw is being clumsy while drunk, and that’s barely a flaw because everyone is clumsy while drunk. And that one time Jim’s fallen off the stage, Bones checks out his wrist and patches up the gash on his cheek. “I’m sorry to say it, but I think you’re going to be fine. Unfortunately,” Bones says, and Jim gasps. “Unfortunately?” He repeats, though when Bones grins, so does Jim. Bones gives him a scotch on the house, and Jim’s more than willing to accept.
  • Jim’s songs get a little different from then on. Weirder. Still beautifully sung, skillfully played on his guitar. But the lyrics are odd. Jim’s just standing on that small stage, sitting on a high stool in front of his microphone. “I’m just trying out this new song that I wrote the other day. It’s called; Thank you for patching me…up.” and Bones raises an eyebrow. He’s trying to listen to the song, but he’s also serving customers their drinks and he’s keeping the bar clean. Over the next few days, Jim adds more songs to his repertoire, all including names like: Dear BartenderYou should walk me home after work, you should call me on xxx-xxx-xxxx, and You should pay attention to me
  • And Bones listens, and surely Bones is trying to turn these songs into hidden meanings that they’re not. Jim has a nice soothing voice he’s grown quite accustomed to, and it sucks when Bones works shifts where Jim’s not there. And when Jim is there, he always goes to the bar straight after his performance for a free drink, something Bones is happy to give him. “Did you like the last song?” Jim asks, sipping his scotch. “I guess,” Bones replies, before adding: “Sure. You have a good voice. Sometimes I don’t even know why you insist on playing here rather than some downtown pub with actual potential.” Jim perks up a little at that. “I’m here for the view,” he says, and Bones raises an eyebrow. Jim sighs. “I’m also here because of the drinks, and the bartender’s pretty nice most nights.” Bones huffs. “Most nights?” “Yeah, I can’t speak for the nights when you’re not working,” Jim adds, and it’s smooth. It’s definitely smooth. But Jim can’t mean anything serious with that, can he? “You get a lot of action with those songs you’re singing?” Bones asks him, and Jim shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. But I’m mostly interested in one particular person.” And Bones really wants to ask him, but a group of new visitors arriving at the bar draw his attention away from Jim.
  • Probably Jim gets impatient. Rather than his own music, he’s doing a bunch of covers one night, and it’s a weird mismatch of genres, with songs such as: Tired of Waiting For You, from The Kinks, I gotta know by Elvis Presley, and Should I Stay or Should I Go by the Clash. It’s odd, it doesn’t fit. People like it, but Bones thinks it’s odd. And Scotty’s leaning against the bar and he’s listening as well, drinking his beer, before turning to Bones. “Sounds like he’s growing impatient, huh?” He says, and Bones frowns, “Of what?” he asks. “Of you, of course.” Scotty replies so matter-of-factly. “What does that mean?” “Oh my God,” Scotty says, nearly slamming his beer down at the bar, hard enough for foam to rise over the top of his bottle. “Are you serious? Ya wee dafty,” he says, and Bones has no idea what that means. “He’s been writing songs to you for weeks,” Scotty explains. “Seriously, he’s put his phone number in one of his songs so you’ll call him. Did you never listen? Jeez.” “Okay, calm down,” Bones says, “I’m sure he’s not… singing about me. I’m just a bartender.” “His song is literally called ‘Dear Bartender’!” Scotty protests. “I swear to God, you are the most oblivious…” He stops when Jim actually approaches the bar again. Without thinking, Bones serves him his usual drink. “So,” Jim says, “what do you think?” “Nice,” Bones replies, in lieu for a better answer because the thought of someone like Jim being actually into him was something he couldn’t really cope with. Jim could get anyone. Why would he even be remotely interested in Bones, who worked in a dive bar at night and a car garage during the day, just to get by? Jim, who was smart, and clever, and just talented at everything he gave a try. “Nice,” Jim repeats, and he really doesn’t sound all too amused at that. “Just nice?” “It was good. Odd song choice selection, but performed okay,” Bones replies, and Jim sighs. “Hey, listen. I’ve been asked to perform downtown. It’s a pretty big deal, and I think I might take it,” Jim says, and there’s something in his voice. Like he’s waiting for Bones to tell him to stay, or something. And Bones wants to, he really does, but Jim deserves so much more than a shady dive bar. “That’s… that’s great news. Well done,” He says, heart heavy as Bones hears himself speak, and he adds a “congratulations”. Jim’s fingers tighten around his glass. He just throws his drink back, and gets up from his bar stool. “Thanks.” And walks away. Next to him, Bones hears Scotty sigh. “If you were waiting for the right moment, Bones, you just missed it.” 
  • And Bones tries to tell Scotty  don’t be ridiculous, but he’s right. And Bones has to think of something quick, because Jim picks up his guitar and he’s cleaning up and if Jim leaves those doors to play at a different gig, then that’s it. No more Jim. And so Bones just panics, and he probably does the cheesiest, dumbest thing ever. “Scotty, take over.” He says, walking away from the bar to leave Scotty in charge, who really doesn’t know how to serve anything that’s not beer.
  • So Bones just slams on a song on the old Jukebox in the corner. It’s loud, it’s super obnoxious, and Bones absolutely can’t sing to save his life, but when he does climb up that stage, at least he has Jim’s attention. “What are you doing?” Jim asks, just closing his guitar case. “I’m an idiot, okay. Just..” Bones starts, but when the music starts, he just starts to sing along because embarrassing himself in front of his crowd of loyal customers - and Jim - is somehow easier than just saying Hey I like you too, and so when REO Speedwagen starts singing the whole “I can’t fight this feeling anymore” Bones just rolls with it and Jim looks at him dumbfounded. “Feel free to stop me any time,” Bones says to Jim, small smile, but Jim is grinning widely, arms crossed in amusement, and he’s just like: “Nah, you suffer through this a little longer.” and so Bones continues ‘ti it’s almost over and finally, finally, Jim pulls him away from the microphone to kiss him right there on stage, but Bones is definitely not stopping him. “You know the entire lyrics to REO Speedwagen,” Jim points out, “that’s pretty bad.” “Shut up.” Bones mutters, and Jim’s just like: “Make me.” And Bones happily does.
The Green Ladder

A PC Jane Downing has come to ask for my help. Her husband died. Everyone thinks it’s a tragic accident. She’s convinced his brother did it. Brother has a cast iron alibi. I love cast iron alibis so I’m taking on the case.

Background: End of last year, Sir Harry Downing died. Left the house to the older son, Jack. House to stay in the family though - it was to go to Keith, the younger brother, if Jack died without having any kids.

Last month: Jack found dead in the garden pond. He’d no reason to kill himself but no signs of a struggle. High level of alcohol in his bloodstream. Looks like a tragic accident. Looks like Keith gets the house.

Jack’s wife, Jane, not convinced. Keith spends the week in Edinburgh and only returns to London for weekends. Even though Keith was in Scotland on the night Jack died, she’s certain he was responsible for her husband’s death. He’d definitely got a motive.

Update: Have been to the house:

It’s the side wall of one of the smaller buildings in the grounds. No windows so nobody could have thrown anything out at the victim. No footprints in the flower bed. Path is loose gravel - fairly narrow but not dangerously so. Jack couldn’t swim. He could have slipped on the gravel and fallen in? Looks like an accident.

Update: Have now met Keith - it was definitely not an accident.

Update: Spoken to Jane again. Got her to tell me everything she could about the victim. He was boringly mundane. One thing I noticed when she was setting the table - she spilt some salt so she threw it over her shoulder. Apparently it’s bad luck to spill salt. I asked if her husband believed in similar nonsense and she confirmed he did. Also asked her about his drinking - he didn’t drink that much, usually just beer.

Update: Returned to the house and examined the flower bed. Nothing. Examined the gravel… and took some away to examine in closer detail.

Update: Traces of green paint in the gravel. In two specific patches, about a metre apart. A ladder. No windows in the wall so it’s an unlikely place to put a ladder. And if you were to put a ladder there, you’d put it in the flower bed, not on the path. Have spoken to the house gardener - there’s no green ladder on the property. Conclusion: The ladder was brought to the house and placed there for some other reason.

Summary: Keith knew his brother was superstitious. He arranged for a friend to put a ladder there - knowing Jack would walk around it. There was a bottle of Scotch in the house which Keith had sent to Jack - knowing he wasn’t much of a drinker. Jack drinks the whisky, gets drunk, goes for a walk, loose gravel, dark night - sees the ladder. Bad luck to walk under the ladder, so walks around it - into the pond where he drowns.

I’ll text Jane later. Case closed.

Selling thing

So after finally getting done with moving, I’ve gathered up all the things that I no longer need/want that are in really good condition or not used at all, so here goes:

(US shipping is $8 for a single parcel, and if outside the US, let me know and we can figure that out) If interested, please email me at

30x30 men’s RoyalBones skinny jeans - $30 (used, undamaged)

size 8 - $5 (like-new)

$8 (new)

$1 (new, just hat)

size: small (shoulders 16.5" across) - $10 (new)

The Scotch House vintage hat - $10

s/m - $5 (used)

s/m (there is no tag help) - $8 (very new though)

medium - $10 (new)

small - $5 

small - $8 (new)

(like-new) $8

(vintage) small - $15

small - $10 (new)

xS (new - Mansculpture) $50 ($75 at store if that’s not a deal idk what is)

Dress pants (brand new) - 30" - $20

s/m - $5 (new) tshirt

s/m - basketball shorts - $5 (new)

small - $8 (like-new)

small - $8 (like-new)

medium (new) - RUDE hoodie vest - $20

over the knee socks (new) - $5

small turtleneck (painted and made for an inverted zackarie cosplay) $10

28" - $10 (like-new)

(TranZwear packing boxerbriefs/ pocket in the front) s/m - $8 (unused)

(Mr.Limpy - source: This is brand new, never left it’s bag that it arrived in save for the photo, comes with packer dust. - $15 (shipping should be cheaper for this)

small - (like-new) $8

medium - $5 (new)

large - (like-new) $5

small - $5 (new)

pushup 34A - $8 (brand-new)

(one of the zippers IS missing) Monster backpack with velcro flap - $15

s/m striped leggings - $8 (brandnew)

Blazer (brandnew) small - $30

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Steel boned waist training Polyester underbust corset - Medium (24-26" waist) - new - $13

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small - (light grey) $10 (new)

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Listen to me, there’s something important I have to tell you before I go. Come closer….there are five bottles of scotch hidden throughout my house. You and your sister find them and keep them and drink ‘em for me. Nobody else in the family deserves my good stuff, they can drink the cheap shit. Make sure you get all of them, they were expensive.
—  My grandpa

Our Instagram friend Lipstickninja said Willie Mae’s Scotch House has the best fried chicken in the South! What do you think?

An easy way to figure the age

A man walks into a bar and orders a 12-year-old scotch. The bartender, believing that the customer will not be able to tell the difference, pours him a shot of the cheap 3-year-old house scotch that has been poured into an empty bottle of the good stuff.

The man takes a sip and spits the scotch out on the bar and reams the bartender. “This is the cheapest 3-year-old scotch you can buy. I’’m not paying for it. Now, give me a good 12-year-old scotch.”

The bartender, now feeling a bit of a challenge, pours him a scotch of much better quality, 6-year-old scotch.

The man takes a sip and spits it out on the bar. “This is only 6-year-old scotch. I won’’t pay for this, and I insist on, a good, 12-year-old scotch.

The bartender finally relents and serves the man his best quality, 12-year-old scotch.

The man sips the drink and says, "Now that’’s more like it.”

An old drunk from the end of the bar, who has witnessed the entire episode, walks down to the finicky scotch drinker and sets a glass down in front of him and asks, “What do you think of this?”

The scotch expert takes a sip, and in disgust, violently spits out the liquid yelling “Why, this tastes like piss,” to which the old drunk

replies, “That’’s right, now tell me how old I am.”

Motivations for Menswear

If you’ve had the (mis)fortune of meeting me in person, or you have ever spoken about me to one of my friends, you’ll likely reach the conclusion that I am a preppy bastard. I hesitate to ever use the term preppy, but that seems to be the popular classification for someone of my tendencies. I’m working towards hearing, “You dress like an Italian socialite who attended an American boarding school!” a lot more often, but, in the meantime, “preppy bastard” will have to suffice.

It’s not long after the lament of being without a (presumably pastel-clad) father, that people ask how I became so interested in clothes. – I want to take a moment here to clarify something:  I don’t talk to strangers about men’s clothes. I’ve been asked, on more than one occasion, if I hang out with, or actively seek friends who dress well, and my answer is, invariably, “Why the fuck would I do that?” Never be a one trick pony and never be the guy telling some other dude at the bar why he doesn’t look nearly as good as he thinks he does. End rant. – It’s a question that I never really have a good answer to. Honestly, there is no one reason why I am interested in clothes and dressing well. However, in my attempts to diagnose why I spend so much time and money on things that other people are quick to dismiss, I’ve realized there are five main ways that dudes get interested in menswear:

The Thrifter

You know that weird looking guy in the patched up Barbour and Trilby nervously pacing the aisles of Goodwill, pushing the impoverished and elderly out of his way as he lunges for a threadbare tweed suit from 1962? That dude has a blog. It’s science.

I shouldn’t be so tough on The Thrifter, as he is likely more educated on fabrics, makers and tell-tale signs of quality than I’ll ever be. However, it’s clear these guys became interested in nice clothes because they were already spending an inordinate amount of time around dead peoples’ stuff. Perhaps they realized they can find legitimately great stuff for cheap, perhaps they have an online business, perhaps they enjoy the thrill of the hunt, or perhaps they tuck their dick and dance in front of a mirror to Q. Lazarus. Whatever the motivation, these guys know their stuff and are cut-throat about scoring bigger and better than anyone else on the internet. Be wary of The Thrifter, lest he hit you with a career-ending chop block en route to the Vineyard Vines ties you are in line to donate.

Daddy Issues

These guys don’t have real daddy issues. Usually. If you’ve ever had sexual fantasies about shell cordovan or wondered just how far you’d go to secure a pink cashmere Attolini tie, then you need more help than this writer can provide.

When I say “daddy issues” I mean that you have a man in your life, usually your father, who has shown you the way to dress well. Or, at the very least, one who has taught you that your appearance is worth investment. Either way, lucky you. My dad, while owning a surprising number of nice things, was far from the source of my interest in dressing well. Unless he’s the unknowing ring-leader behind the Comfy Boy movement, the greatest influence he’s had on men’s clothing is single-handedly (I’m convinced) supporting the Cutter and Buck Corporation.

Just kidding dad, I love you. Keep the family trust as is.

The Brand Whore

The Brand Whore is the guy who starts out only interested in labels. There’s a chance he’s the eventuality of The Thrifter, but in all likelihood he just likes the idea of wearing nice things.

The problem with the Brand Whore is that nice things don’t always make for a nice look. Frankly speaking, you will almost always look better wearing expensive things. They are just made better and of nicer materials. That said, you have to have some concept of how to wear things in order to improve upon a mannequin at The Gap.

The Brand Whores come into the world of menswear eager to brag about their Armani suits, Burberry Prorsum outerwear and Ferragamo loafers. However, when they are met with a tide of snark from those more established, they immediately panic. Relying on their gut instincts, they evolve into menswear’s most predictable caste: The Fanboy.

The Fanboy will show you red coral. The Fanboy will show you his Drake’s collection. The Fanboy will show you that the cost of taste is prescribed by someone who has owned this stuff in the past.

“I do” or The Interview

Everyone in the world is getting married or getting a job. Seriously, check your favorite clothing forum. Everyone. But here’s the thing, no one has any idea what they’re doing. They were raised by wolves in the Argonne Forest and only recently rescued and rehabilitated by nuns just outside Saint-Dizier. Somewhere, in their efforts to understand the modern world and man’s quest to define his place in it, they got a job offer or knocked up some chick, and so here they are, online, looking for advice on men’s clothing.

Usually these guys are one pump chumps. They have a question, get their answer, and move along. That level of instant gratification and lack of initiative should serve their future wife or employer well. Thanks cluelessgroom69, I’ll see you on the cover of How to Match the Bridesmaids this summer. Just be sure to give me a shout out.

However, some of these guys do stick around and become very knowledgeable and passionate contributors to our small world of anal-retentive obsessive compulsiveness. Started from the bottom now we here, indeed, gentlemen.

The Nerd

Let’s face it, this is all of us. We’re all nerds. We revel in the details and find pride in knowing more than the common man. Maybe we’re academics, maybe we’re rich, maybe we’re bored. In any event, we’re here and still engaged because we are total nerds.

There are many guys in this camp who got into clothing to compensate for something. Too fat? Too short? Too likely to be stuffed in a locker in high school? Well put on a $5k suit, get your Managing Director business cards printed in silian brail, and talk to me about the benefits of using hand-molded horsehair canvas construction. You’re someone’s hero now. Fuck you, high school football team, I went to a Public Ivy!

All of these guys are out there. Many of them follow me. I follow many of them. We all spend our time in this manner for one reason or another. However, regardless of your camp, remember to keep your head about things. We’re all in this together. Now pour yourself an overpriced glass of scotch, put on your house shoes and email your online tailor. You can’t sleep on Pitti 86.