(no subject)

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

OK, here goes ::crosses fingers::  (think this will have to be in chunks, so will try to post the rest below - apologies for technical incompetence ...)

T

Picture This

by Heliophile

 

Nobody can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but these people came as close to it as humanly possible: thanks to londonronnie, byslantedlight, msmoat and justacat, to whose incredibly generous encouragement, sound advice, rigorous error-detection and skilled incomprehensibility-elimination I am deeply indebted. The fact that this still has “first attempt” written right through it like “Brighton” through a stick of rock is of course entirely my fault.

 

Oh, and I don’t own them. Damn.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The front door swung shut behind him as he entered, with the slight echo that somehow spoke unmistakeably of an empty flat. Silence reigned, where normally the air would have been full of sound – the stereo or the radio blaring, pans clattering or the solid thump of the fridge door closing in the kitchen, water cascading and garbled singing in the bathroom, or an irritable shout from the bedroom demanding to know why Bodie – Bodie! – was making such a racket. But today the flat was silent as the grave, all sounds of occupation stilled and its occupant gone. Absent as if he had never been, had never roistered in, throwing the door roughly back on its hinges, filling the rooms with his presence and flinging jacket and shoes haphazardly in the vague direction of the couch or into a corner.

 

Bodie smiled. Because cold and empty though the flat was now, Ray was off the critical list – yes, go on my son, you show 'em, you show the bastards! Bloody doctors acting like they knew everything, frowning as if they’d just received a Very Important Phone-Call from god himself to say frightfully sorry old chap, but this one’s not coming back, nurses with that I’m ever so sympathetic but you really must move out of the way now, and Don’t Bother Doctor look all over their bloody faces. Bodie knew perfectly well that the medical staff and their expertise hadn’t put Ray in that hospital bed and were in fact largely responsible for ensuring that he was there at all rather than in the morgue, but since the individuals who had left his partner for dead were now in custody or in the morgue themselves, he’d had no-one else to take it out on; the rest of the squad were giving him a wide berth at the moment, and Ray himself – who was usually the one to face down any uncustomarily explosive outbursts on Bodie’s part – was currently the subject of them, and very much not available.

 

But now, in Ray’s flat, the door shut and locked behind him, Bodie smiled and relaxed a fraction for what felt like the first time in days. When Ray had been transferred from Intensive Care and, better yet, had actually opened his eyes and mumbled something barely intelligible – which Bodie interpreted from long experience as a complaint about his being a bloody nuisance hovering about like that, fidgeting like something had crawled down the back of his neck – before promptly falling asleep again, he’d barely been able to restrain himself from yelling his relief. Hugging Ray might have dislodged some vital bit of tubing so he’d grabbed the nearest nurse instead and hugged her so hard she protested, straightening her cap afterwards with a promising smile he hadn’t the composure to return, and almost bolted out the door in a blind rush for fresh air and the chance to be doing something – anything but sit still for a moment longer in that bloody dim-lit room with its vile leatherette chairs and the universal hospital miasma of disinfectant, sweat and pain.

 

Gritty-eyed and unshaven after 48 hours of action and then, worse, forced inaction while he waited for news of Ray’s condition, Bodie nevertheless went mechanically through the usual routine of the uninjured – or less severely injured – partner. He gave the flat a quick once-over for anything burnt-out, boiled dry or so ripe it was about to evolve and walk out under its own steam, and drew up a mental list of essentials to get in for when Ray was discharged (bread, milk – Ray would insist on a bit of fruit and veg even if he wasn’t up to cooking anything and it would only sit in the rack while they both ate takeaways, but who cared – and a few mags that Ray would look down his nose at until he admitted he was too tired for “proper” reading, by which time Bodie would have read all the best bits first). Pulling a holdall from the bottom of the wardrobe, he dug out Ray’s tracksuit – silly bugger’d complain ’cause he didn’t fancy himself in anything that wasn’t bloody painted on, but Bodie after all had had more than enough experience of post-operative recovery himself to know you didn’t want skin-tight jeans on over your stitches – followed by a t-shirt and trainers. Who the hell knew what had happened to the ones he was wearing when they brought him in; it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing anyone’d been paying attention to at the time. Probably been chucked away. They’d been drenched in blood anyway.

 

Suddenly feeling every minute of the last two days’ exhaustion, Bodie dumped Ray’s half-ready going home bag on the floor. No point going back to his own place now – he’d help himself to the shower and the bed, get a couple of hours’ kip and head back to the hospital in the evening.

 

The water was hot and comforting, and in spite of his intention to get his head down as soon as possible Bodie lingered, allowing his mind to go blank at long last, running his hands over himself again and again, washing away the remembered smell and sticky feel of blood and grime. Ray’s soap and shampoo – he wouldn’t miss a bit, after all – not to mention his razor and that poncy aftershave. Didn’t smell too bad, really. Bodie himself had long since jacked in Brut now that every spotty teenager who fancied himself was wearing it (Imperial Leather, now, that had more class) but he would never have dreamt of wasting valuable seconds picking and choosing more exotic varieties like this stuff of Ray’s. Sort of a herby, woody smell. No, not bad at all.

 

Feeling considerably more human and satisfied with his reflection despite noticeably red-rimmed and sleep-deprived eyes, he wandered back into the bedroom and rummaged briskly through the chest of drawers for clean underwear for Ray and some to borrow for himself. There was no hope he could trade his own trousers down two sizes for a pair of Ray’s (ought by rights to be no more’n a size and a bloody half) though he wished he could – all that blood on the knees and more smeared around in scattered patches – but surely the little toe-rag had at least one pair of Y-fronts old and stretchy enough for Bodie to squeeze into? He didn’t feel like sleeping in the buff for some reason – still a bit on edge, maybe – and he certainly didn’t much fancy getting back into days-old clothes now he was clean. Ray seemed to have pretty fancy taste in knickers; Bodie grinned when he came on a particularly skimpy leopard-print pair he wouldn’t have been seen dead in himself, never mind how uncomfortable they looked – probably a present from some bird … and stopped dead when his hand touched something smooth and flat at the back of the drawer. Well if Ray had really wanted something to stay hidden, stands to reason it wouldn’t be under his underpants now would it? That being the first place anyone with eyes in their head would look.

 

Bodie hesitated for only a moment before pulling the sketchbook out and opening it … and came face to face with himself. Ray had drawn him mid-length, in three-quarters profile, looking out of a window with a serious expression on his face; he had clearly lavished all his attention on the face and hands – beyond the edges of the window all the lines petered out – and Bodie’s breath caught for an instant as he found himself peering as if to see what the eyes in the picture were looking at. Instantly determined to demand this picture for himself, he turned the page to see what else Ray had come up with. Himself again, grinning this time, as he sat at what looked like a table in the break-room with a mug of tea in one hand and not one but three biscuits clutched triumphantly in the other. But – but this was the time he’d put one over on Anson, when they’d had that running barney over whose turn was it to buy the next packet. Bodie chuckled as he turned the next page – himself on the bike – and the next, to find himself yet again, coolly sighting a rifle. Well this was all very nice, but hadn’t Ray done any of anybody else? He always had a girl or two on the go – maybe he’d persuaded one of them to pose for him, and mightn’t that be tasty! Bodie flicked through the pages more quickly now, but only to find himself, himself, himself. Oh but there had to be fuel for some major wind-ups in this!

 

Bodie grinned delightedly as happy days – no, weeks! – of dropping references to Ray’s supposed envy and his own now-conclusively-proven-to-be irresistibly handsome features into the long silences on obbos or even – why not – into briefings, if he could just make it subtle enough. That’d shake the bugger up a bit, not being able to say a word in retaliation if he didn’t want Bodie to casually let half the squad in on his artistic endeavours. Still grinning, he turned another page. And paled in shock. This was one of Ray’s more detailed efforts, and yet again the subject was himself – but this time seen in a very different light. Unmistakeably his own face, and a pretty fair impression of his own body – but he was bloody sure Ray had never seen him like this. Sprawled naked – no, reclining nude. Even as his every nerve rebelled against what his eyes were telling him, Bodie was vaguely aware that there was a classical air to the picture somehow. Himself, lying back across a bed or some such – a few lines suggested pillows or cushions, but they were barely sketched in and all the detail, all the concentration was focussed on the figure itself. His head tipped back a little, his eyes almost fully closed and his lips slightly parted, an expression of – well it was a mixture of utter relaxation and sensual greed such as a thousand Swiss rolls could not inspire. This Bodie was clearly revelling in the perfect, delicious abandonment of pleasing himself. The tension in the neck, belly muscles and thighs that might have seemed at odds with the lazy pose and casually splayed legs spoke instead of imminent release, the moment when the body tenses and tenses again and seems almost to reach out for just-a-bit-just-a-bit-just-a-bit-more, the sharp pleasure of orgasm just within its grasp. And clearly drawing out the moment, too: the nearer hand was almost slack, only the fingertips barely caressing a shaft dark with arousal and so realistically rock-hard it generated a low, hot feeling in the beholder that might have been discomfort … the further hand reaching, reaching as far as nature could allow, fingers curving around high, tight balls and two fingertips disappearing further back still, between open legs …

 

A flash of something white hot boiled through him instantly, exploding like the pain from a kick in the balls, sucking all the breath right out of him until his lips and fingertips were numb and tingling, until just for a moment sheer rage had dark patches dancing around the edge of his field of vision. The world suddenly unrecognisable, a step too few or too many where you thought to put your foot on solid, familiar ground. It was being fourteen again, swearing blind he was old enough for the Merchant ’cause he couldn’t fool the Army, and then miles off-shore beginning to feel eyes on him …

 

Not fifteen yet, but he was only a few months off, right, and that’s close enough … not much of a stretch, really … That bloke in the officer’s uniform sitting behind the desk, now he looked like a real man – not like these bloody dead-end job’s-worths in all the shops and offices, too scared of the dole queue and their own shadows to get out and make something of themselves, but he wasn’t going to end up like them, oh no ... No, he was going to be a real man too, the kind of bloke who could walk down the street and get nothing but respect from passers-by, mates all wantin’ to be around him, an’ the prettiest girl on his arm to show off to ’em. And he’d do well too, he was quick and strong for his age, he’d show ’em all what he could do, surprise ’em, and the officer’d be well impressed, prob’ly pick him out to show stuff to the others, give him extra training after … like self-defence or summat, yeah, unarmed combat an’ such for when they made port – ’course he wouldn’t be able to make that much of a show at fighting yet, he was no kid, right, but still he was just starting out an’ this bloke was tall, held himself tall, broad through the shoulders, must be experienced, muscle under that uniform, eyes that had seen things, that knew things ... no, there’d be no shame even if he had to knuckle under, not with a bloke like that – learn from him – earn his respect ...

 

There was no recruiting officer onboard ship though, oh no. Just a bunch of mostly lard-faced, sweating, gap-toothed lumps of resentment, sizing him up like a piece of meat, calling him pretty boy and little girl, with an ugly laugh when he took exception … having to make sure he was never found alone in some corner of the hold just in case there was more to it than talk …

 

And now to see himself stretched out like that, so blissfully oblivious of Doyle’s gaze – it felt nightmarish, like being dream-naked in the classroom; he felt as horribly exposed as if Doyle were seeing him, here and now, instead of himself gazing at an unmoving picture on a page – the sketchbook hit the wall and fell to the floor with the cover bent and the pages splayed, askew. He found his fist was clenched, ready to smash the bastard’s face in. Who the fuck did he think he was, looking at Bodie like that! The filthy little queer! But then all at once the mental image – of himself hitting, hard, with all his strength behind the blow, and Doyle’s face as he went down, poleaxed – repulsed him, and was gone as if it had never been; all he could see in his mind’s eye now was himself holding Ray in the warehouse, looking down into his partner’s face, waxy pale, terrified that Ray would bleed out before the ambulance arrived. Christ, how was there so much blood in him? Ray’s eyes fixed on his own, fear in them and – and something else, what was it? Did he feel himself dying? Then Ray in hospital as he had seen him last, still pale but breathing easily, his strength returning, able to raise a shadow of a smile for the nurses – and a warmer smile for him. And now the memories came crowding in, of Ray laughing, fighting, poring over a file, outshooting every man on the squad save himself and that a close-run thing, a warm, solid strong presence at his side and at his back…

 

Ray was giving as good as he got, nearly, but there were three of the bastards and Bodie was too far away, no angle for a shot, the warehouse scattered with odds and ends of derelict machinery – plenty of cover, but oh fuck no chance of a clear shot with them all lurching around like that, too likely he could miss and hit Ray himself, and it hurt, it always hurt to see Ray taking a beating, not to be able to get in and stop the fuckers, and Bodie was running in fast but still long seconds away, and Ray’d kicked the gun out of one bastard’s hand but had no time to kick it out of reach, and another of ’em was scrambling for the gun now, and Bodie was going to be too late too late too late, and the other guy had got his hand on the gun and he was swinging round and his hand was coming up and still no clear shot and Bodie was going to take him if it was the last thing … and both shots cracked and echoed off the distant walls at once, and the other guy was down and his mates were off and running now, but Ray was down too but he looked fine but he looked … surprised, and his hand went to his leg and came away dark, his jeans turning black, and Bodie was on them at last, and the other guy was missing half the back of his head so no bother there, but Ray, Ray was bleeding … Ray was …

 

… no, anything but that, anything. He picked the book up again, an almost imperceptible tremor running through his fingers, smoothing the pages as if to heal the hurt he’d offered them. Ray was no queer, no bloody fairy, he was Bodie’s mate, the best mate a bloke could have, the best friend Bodie had ever had, never mind they were so different … and Ray was tough, too, hard as nails sometimes, hard on himself – just showed or hid his feelings differently, Ray did – and so what if he was … even if he really was … he’d never, never seriously hinted to Bodie with a word or a gesture, nothing; hell, Bodie had done more of that himself, the way he liked to clown around, muck up Ray’s hair for him, touch him – christ, touch his arse, even, and what could Ray have made of that? And besides, Ray was out with a different girl every other night, no, he was no pansy … couldn’t be. But – and Bodie let his eyes focus on the picture once more – but he wanted … no denying that, no denying the sensuality that fairly blazed off the page. He wanted Bodie all right.

 

Bewildered, lost, Bodie flicked through a couple of the pages again – all these painstaking drawings, all of himself in every mood and every state – filthy after a bike ride, dressed to the nines, elated, angry, exhausted – and he let the sketchbook droop from his hand. It was impossible to fit all these images together, impossible to fit the Ray he knew with this new Ray, the one who – who it seemed had always, or for one hell of a long time at any rate, wanted … Bodie shied away from the thought. And found himself looking at the last picture in the book now, the only one he had not yet seen. Himself, yet again, but for once Ray had not drawn him alone.

 

His own face gazed straight out of the page, looking – relaxed, not smug for a change but simply happy, no other word for it, like a job well done and a day off in the sun. His arm was casually slung across Ray’s shoulder, and Ray was looking not out of the picture but at Bodie. And an angry line scored almost through the paper, crossing Ray’s own face out, the page crumpled at the outer edge and partly detached from the sketch pad as if the artist had begun to tear it out and then thought better of it. Ah, Ray. Lying in that hospital bed, after risking his life without blinking – every other week it seemed like, sometimes – as they both did, though, both ready to watch the other’s back come hell or high water … and he wouldn’t even picture himself at Bodie’s side? Deserved better than that, didn’t he. He was better than that.

 

Better than that? So where was Ray’s right ’n proper place, then? Right beside him, of course. Nowhere else, the pair of ’em. In the street, elbow to elbow, they were so much more than two – they were one, and they were a multitude. Brothers in arms, all right, but he had always thought it was guns, before, never realised it might be limbs as well. Bodie wasn’t sure if he felt chilled or flushed or both at once. Ray deserved nothing but good; good times with a good mate, good luck with – ah but why the hell couldn’t he just want some bird like he always had? Again Bodie felt anger sweep over him, and again it faded. He had always seemed to want the birds, anyway. Ray wanted … what would he want? Almost squirming with discomfort, Bodie was still unable to keep himself from dwelling on the idea that drew him, fascinated, even as he shied away from it. Ray would want …

 

Didn’t just want him, though, did he? Years of sheer bloody hard work, of shared pain and fear and dearly-won celebration – all said this was so much more than just wanting. So Ray … loved him, most likely. Liked him, no question, cared a hell of a lot about him – evidence for that – and most probably loved him. A warm feeling blossomed inside Bodie at the thought, and in spite of himself he felt his lips twitch into an almost-smile. Would want … might just enjoy making him feel good. Might just want to be allowed to hold and be held – and suddenly Bodie felt again the almost-ache of longing to hold Ray, pale and hollow-eyed in that bloody hospital bed, hold him as if he could pour all his own strength and love into him, hold him the way blokes didn’t because you just didn’t … He let out a long, shuddering breath. Maybe this didn’t have to be a total disaster. He couldn’t un-know what he knew – but maybe he and Ray could work out a new way of being themselves and still work together. Maybe … would it have to feel so awful, knowing Ray wanted him? Deliberately, Bodie imagined Ray’s face, looking at him. Looking up at him from a pillow, not troubling to hide all the love he’d been pouring into these pictures for months at least, maybe even years. He imagined … Bodie shook his head. Too much, this. He thrust the sketchbook back into the drawer, set the alarm and resolutely lay down under the covers and closed his eyes, determined to leave this – this bloody ludicrous insanity well alone for the present, even if that required he bury his own head deep in the sand.

 

In retrospect, of course, it was hardly surprising that he dreamed. Straight from a bloody shootout to A&E and now here in Ray’s flat, between Ray’s sheets (which naturally he hadn’t bothered to change), completely surrounded by the infinitely comforting smell of him yet grimly determined not to think about that sodding sketchbook. How could he fail to see again that pale face, so bloody pale, green eyes fixed on his own, and how could he fail, in dreams, to take Ray in his arms and save him? The overwhelming joy of knowing Ray safe, warm, alive, the urge to hold him closer still and closer, to pour life and strength into him – how easily, in dreams, the wish was father to the deed. How vividly the green eyes shone with life, with loving warmth, with heat answering his own; how very real, how strong the solid, much-loved body in his arms; how warm the skin of cheek, neck, shoulder, of lips beneath his lips. Here could be no doubts, no hesitations, no thought of retribution, no fear of sneering faces that once had held respect, no worry that he might succumb to his own gut-clenching panic, no dread of Ray turning his gaze and his HB pencils on someone else tomorrow. Here was only the heady, unaccustomed pleasure of loving and being loved, of being welcomed and held with all the strength he needed as he suddenly found himself falling into wakefulness again with Ray’s name on his lips and wet heat sticky on his skin and on the sheets.

 

With waking – even before the shame and the fear of what this made him, even before the recollection that the real Ray was laid up in a hospital ward and that he had better get a shift on if he was going to make visiting hours – came the sense of loss, the loss of Ray’s dream presence in the empty bed, and the loss of how things used to be between them. He wouldn’t see Ray as just a mate any more, would he, not now he knew. Wouldn’t ever be able to touch him again without knowing... How could they even chat about birds or footy without this new awareness flowing in, filling up the room between them? Still, Bodie dressed without taking a second shower, and without changing the sheets – where was the harm in that anyway? Why should he bother, after all, when Ray wouldn’t be back for days yet? And in any case it wasn’t as if he were ever going to know or care about Bodie sleeping in his bed, now was it? Bodie most certainly wasn’t going to tell him …

 

He was ridiculously grateful to find Ray asleep when he got back to the hospital that evening, after catching himself almost hesitating on the way up to the ward as if he were fifteen and about to go round a girl’s house to ask her out. When he realised images of flowers and chocolates – which Ray always pretended to despise – had somehow insinuated themselves into his brain, he thanked god that there was no chance of anyone reading his mind and made sure to scowl a little just in case this insanity was written all over his face. Much, much better to find him asleep, grab the chance just to look at him for a bit and see if this bout of lunacy might ease up when confronted with the less-than-loveliness of an unshaven, exhausted and recently-recovered from damn-nearly-bleeding-out Ray Doyle. Unfortunately, the sight of Ray in uneasy sleep failed utterly to have the desired effect; instead Bodie felt a rush of such tenderness that for want of any other outlet he almost succumbed to the urge to go and apologise to the hospital staff for his own somewhat terse manner of the night before.

 

Drawing a deep breath, he forced himself to sit calmly at the bedside and go over, once again, all the reasons why he shouldn’t tell Ray everything the moment he woke. For one thing, this was a public place with any private conversation liable to be interrupted every other minute by hospital business. For another, it might come as something of a shock to Ray to discover his oeuvre was no longer secret – and he was in no shape to deal with shocks. And Ray might not, in any case – whatever the sketches suggested – actually want anything to do with … with whatever the sketches suggested. Not that Bodie did, of course. Except that it was rapidly becoming intolerable that he didn’t know what Ray wanted. Would want. Might do.

 

What Ray made it blindingly clear he wanted, when he finally deigned to wake – quite forcefully, in fact, and at some considerable length – was out of the damn hospital, of course, and for everything from toenails to eyebrows to bloody well stop hurting. Bodie knew full well that all Ray was going to get in the immediate future was kept in bed and pumped full of as many painkillers as he could beg or bully out of the nursing staff, so he was not surprised to find his partner distinctly ratty nor that he spent most of the brief visit complaining about Cowley’s insistence on keeping him awake all bloody afternoon to debrief him. The duty Staff Nurse had assured Bodie that there had in fact been no more than ten minutes quiet conversation, but to hear Ray tell it he’d been subjected to a full-blown interrogation; Bodie was quietly relieved to note that Ray was back on form at least as far as creative eloquence was concerned. Bodie cut him off in mid-flow by showing him the holdall of clean clothes, which he stowed away in the bedside locker, catching a suspiciously bright-eyed look on Ray’s face for a moment as he straightened up again.

 

“Ta, mate. Least somebody thinks I’m getting out of here sometime this decade.”

 

“You rest up, petal, and have a nice little holiday with all mod cons an’ hot and cold running nurses while the rest of us poor sods out there actually have to earn a crust. I’ll pop by and see you when I can get away, all right?”

 

“What’s the Cow goin’ to have you doing then, all on yer lonesome? Just mind you don’t let him get carried away and order you out playin’ Lone Ranger, all right, or I’ll be kickin’ heads startin’ with yours just as soon as I can actually stand up.”

 

“Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure to keep a corner of the file room all toasty warm for you.”

 

Bodie rose, and turned to go but paused in the doorway.

 

“Take it easy, mate. Today, sittin’ up in bed – tomorrow, the world”.

 

http://community.livejournal.com/discoveredinalj/45461.html#cutid1

Hope I got the cut tag right this time!

Comments

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

Apologies all round - I tried to link to the second part at the bottom of the first and screwed up royally. The separate post to the second part, with its own cut tag, seems to be working though. ::hopes for rescue by those more competent::

[rach74.livejournal.com]

You paint sucha graphic and detailed picture of emotions, I really do feel like I'm in Bodie's head! LOoking fwd to part 2!

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

Thank you, I'm glad you're enjoying my first foray into Pros! Thanks for commenting!

[callistosh65.livejournal.com]

Oh, wow, this was so worth the wait from you! You got inside Bodie's head brilliantly. I especially liked the way you had him react to the drawings - the intial rage and rection felt very, very real. And then very Bodie-like how he starts to rationalise it.

Didn’t smell too bad, really. Bodie himself had long since jacked in Brut now that every spotty teenager who fancied himself was wearing it (Imperial Leather, now, that had more class) but he would never have dreamt of wasting valuable seconds picking and choosing more exotic varieties like this stuff of Ray’s. Sort of a herby, woody smell. No, not bad at all. Just one passage of many that I admired - great sense of time, place and character here.

Skipping off to part 2 now.

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

Yes, I thought his first reaction might be fury - but not for too long, Ray just means too much to him! And yay for Brut and Imperial Leather (those were definitely not the days in that respect). So happy you're liking it!

[myrebelcat.livejournal.com]

Ohh... I'm definitely hooked! I like how Bodie is working all this out without Doyle's knowledge.

Off to read more!

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

To be honest, I think I was trying to make a virtue out of necessity - Bodie and his musings sort of crept up on me, so Ray had to stay in hospital until we were ready for him! But I hope he enjoyed his homecoming .....

Thanks so much for commenting!

Professional Recs

[pingback-bot.livejournal.com]

User alicambsrecs referenced to your post from Professional Recs (http://alicambsrecs.livejournal.com/2443.html) saying: [...] for 'A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words' challenge, this is absolutely delightful. Picture This [...]

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

Ooh, I got pinged!?!? I'm immensely flattered, thank you very much!

And in such excellent company too - must re-read some of those! *bg*