Petty? Not at all! It’s just that sometimes one finds oneself in the midst of a vitally important thought or a particularly significant cup of tea and people do tend to interrupt at the worst time.
I instituted a new rule, that angels wishing to speak at me would be expected to stand at the door and knock, then wait. And when I was available to see them, I’d let them in.
They really didn’t like it, but I /was/ Supreme Archangel.
Still, I was becoming a tad put out by constant visits from Certain Archangels to ‘check in’ with me, so I decided to make a door — just a door — appear before any angel (other than Metatron; I’m not completely foolish) some forty-one steps from my desk, for reasons that would make no mortal sense.
As Supreme Archangel, I had the opportunity to make some small changes, thus my introduction of The Door.
I initially informed Metatron that I was planning to create a more enclosed niche to focus on the task at hand, but was rather unceremoniously rebuffed. ’No walls,’ I was told.
As I suspect it won’t ’reach the chop’, as they say, I shall elaborate.
I quickly grew rather disgruntled with the lack of privacy Upstairs. I /did/ have what you might call an office, but it amounted to a desk and some shelves in the middle of a large, empty space that was open to everyone.
Where would we have put it?
The Door. It didn’t go down at all well with the other Archangels, but I really did have to insist.
I wonder if the new documentary will mention The Door?
It's AMAZING. Thank you Rachel, and to everyone who put so much love and care into this. We can't wait 💛
Crowley was storing some in the stock room. Apparently they wouldn’t all fit in the car.
Van harte gefeliciteerd met je aanstaande verjaardag!
Do I want to know how undergarments are involved in this astonishing achievement?
Will the Welsh nation take up arms against me if I admit I like to toast and butter my Welsh cakes?
Sultanas, currants, raisins — I’ve never met a fruity scone I didn’t like.
You are entirely welcome to every last olive that crosses my path!
I feel as if we’re straying from the subject here.
I don’t carry the kitchen with me when I’m out. It seemed easier just to bring the grapes.
Olive oil, balsamic vinegar and good bread.
They’d look strange pinned to my lapel.
They‘re essentially Fallen grapes, and I commend them to those who take pleasure in them, but if I have no desire to eat small spheres of salty dismay,
Messy, but very good. Now I know the proper method for eating it, we get along swimmingly.
Crowley, the coat is too big for you. It isn’t your style. Not to mention that it’s /my/ coat.
Olives.
When you say ‘a package’, I presume that means you don’t know whose is missing their envelope?
How tiny, exactly?
I dispatched everything to our helpful Ratties, so I’m sure if everything is in hand. @ratties.bsky.social — could you confirm that the books are en route?
It’s going to be all right. Just wait and see.
Not blood, technically. Corporations are equipped with a bloodstream for verisimilitude, but it isn’t unique to each angel, so it would be unsuitable for official signatures.
It’s ink. Of a sort. Demons sign contracts with Hellfire. Angels do… something similar.
In an ascetic white room stands a white table, upon which are set a number of objects. A large white book marked with a Heavenly emblem and the words ‘The Second Coming’ stands at the back. Lying in front are a sheet of paper, a pale blue glass dip-pen, a small bottle of golden liquid and a small black bowl plated on the inside with gold. A gladius-shaped letter-opener lies across the mouth of the bowl, and a Heaven-issued device resembling a cleverphone glows with blue light. On the page, written in gold are the words ‘Every day it’s getting closer’.