Yahtzee Roll 1: Fill 1: Miss Marple: Gen
Mar. 10th, 2024 05:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: Picture Show
Fandom: Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Rating: Gen
Prompt: picture
Length: 500
Notes: Poignant, a bit angsty about getting very old
Prompt:
Also for:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sweetandshort 10 out of 20: picture
Summary: A very old Miss Marple muses on television.
Mrs. Marple walked carefully but steadily along the pavement, navigating the uneven parts with even greater care. She gave no attention to the bustling pace of metropolitan life about her. She’d done the necessary shopping and now she was on her way back to Saint Mary Mead. There were streams of pedestrians flowing around her. These currents were made up of representatives of all stations in life, but everyone, even the mothers with prams, especially mothers with prams, perhaps, were moving faster than Miss Marple.
As it should be.
Miss Marple was old. She had, it must be confessed, passed from ‘old’ to ‘very old’ some years ago.
Miss Marple’s slow journey led her by a large glass shop window which was filled entirely with square screens encased in square frames each with its own key of knobs and buttons.
Television.
And why not?
Even Bertram’s Hotel had had a television room, and that was so many, many years ago.
Miss Marple was a good sport. She had tried a few times to develop a taste for television. She’d tried in the company of great nephews and nieces. She’d tried as she sat quietly in the lobby in a nursing care home patiently waiting to visit an old friend or convalescing neighbor.
But she much preferred her knitting as company for waiting or traveling or, really, anything. The wireless had its place, of course, but the urge to stay abreast of things outside the diminishing circle of immediate concern waxed and waned.
If anyone had ever asked, Miss Marple would’ve said she wasn’t quite certain about television.
But she was certain that she never wanted to accommodate a television in her own home. Not at any size—and they seemed to get smaller and lighter every year—or any price. And thankfully none of her well-meaning—and sufficiently renumerated—friends or relations were myopic or insensitive enough to gift her with one.
No one ever said ‘Oh, what Aunt Jane really needs is a television!’
Miss Marple returned to Saint Mary Mead by train and took Inch—a car chauffeured by the great-grand daughter of the original Inch—to her home. The girl had already left for the day. Miss Marple laid out her purchases on the dining table, one by one, and carefully put them away, one by one.
Then she made a light meal of what the girl had left her. That was really a blessing, the diminishing of appetite. It was economical, and Miss Marple had a pet theory, more a private supposition, really that television might one day lead to general amplifying of appetites of all kinds.
After supper, Miss Marple sat in her favourite armchair and took up her knitting and let her mind wander—dropping whatever stitches it might along the way—back to her own private picture show, real stories more thrilling, more sinister, more interesting, at least to her, than any the wall of blank pictures in the shop window could provide.
Fandom: Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Rating: Gen
Prompt: picture
Length: 500
Notes: Poignant, a bit angsty about getting very old
Prompt:
Also for:
sweetandshort 10 out of 20: pictureSummary: A very old Miss Marple muses on television.
Mrs. Marple walked carefully but steadily along the pavement, navigating the uneven parts with even greater care. She gave no attention to the bustling pace of metropolitan life about her. She’d done the necessary shopping and now she was on her way back to Saint Mary Mead. There were streams of pedestrians flowing around her. These currents were made up of representatives of all stations in life, but everyone, even the mothers with prams, especially mothers with prams, perhaps, were moving faster than Miss Marple.
As it should be.
Miss Marple was old. She had, it must be confessed, passed from ‘old’ to ‘very old’ some years ago.
Miss Marple’s slow journey led her by a large glass shop window which was filled entirely with square screens encased in square frames each with its own key of knobs and buttons.
Television.
And why not?
Even Bertram’s Hotel had had a television room, and that was so many, many years ago.
Miss Marple was a good sport. She had tried a few times to develop a taste for television. She’d tried in the company of great nephews and nieces. She’d tried as she sat quietly in the lobby in a nursing care home patiently waiting to visit an old friend or convalescing neighbor.
But she much preferred her knitting as company for waiting or traveling or, really, anything. The wireless had its place, of course, but the urge to stay abreast of things outside the diminishing circle of immediate concern waxed and waned.
If anyone had ever asked, Miss Marple would’ve said she wasn’t quite certain about television.
But she was certain that she never wanted to accommodate a television in her own home. Not at any size—and they seemed to get smaller and lighter every year—or any price. And thankfully none of her well-meaning—and sufficiently renumerated—friends or relations were myopic or insensitive enough to gift her with one.
No one ever said ‘Oh, what Aunt Jane really needs is a television!’
Miss Marple returned to Saint Mary Mead by train and took Inch—a car chauffeured by the great-grand daughter of the original Inch—to her home. The girl had already left for the day. Miss Marple laid out her purchases on the dining table, one by one, and carefully put them away, one by one.
Then she made a light meal of what the girl had left her. That was really a blessing, the diminishing of appetite. It was economical, and Miss Marple had a pet theory, more a private supposition, really that television might one day lead to general amplifying of appetites of all kinds.
After supper, Miss Marple sat in her favourite armchair and took up her knitting and let her mind wander—dropping whatever stitches it might along the way—back to her own private picture show, real stories more thrilling, more sinister, more interesting, at least to her, than any the wall of blank pictures in the shop window could provide.
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