she's no david attenborough but still

British Gothic

it’s the year 2052

• every year they tell us we’ll win Eurovision. it could be last year, it could be this year, it could be next year. but no one wins Eurovision anymore. Eurovision doesn’t exist

• you’ve lived on this same street your entire life and every day at 3:51pm a large group of lads go into the local convenience store yet you don’t know where they come from. no one does, not even the Indian man who runs it

• the great British bake off is back on bbc for the first time in years, you watch the final. as Mary berry slices into the cake you wonder how old she must be, but didn’t she die in 2008? you ask your family who watch it with you, but they don’t even know who this woman is

• david attenborough is still around. you see him in your quaint village. don’t you? everyone sees him nowadays. he lulls our village to sleep with his voice. he lulls every village to sleep. can’t you hear him?

anonymous asked:

the first time cosima kissed a girl B)

She spins a curly lock around her finger, cocking her head as she examines herself in the mirror.

“What do you think about dreads?” Cosima asks suddenly, gaze sliding to the reflection of her friend. 

The girl peels away from the tv long enough to shoot her a decidedly horrified look, and pointedly punches a button on the remote. Now two middle-aged women are tittering endlessly over some necklace Cosima can’t even see from this angle—only ten easy payments of $19.95! 

“You mean like Bob Marley?” Skepticism is a soft word for the tone in her friend’s voice.

“No, Lillian, not like Bob Marley,” she shoots back, dropping one hip and rolling her eyes. “More like…more like…” Squinting slightly, she stares harder at herself, but gives up and issues a lengthy sigh. “Besides, drugs are, like, totally bad for you.”

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