moved to @bradypnoea

Hey all—

Over the next few days I’ll be shifting the bradypnoea URL from its current status as a sideblog to a separate main account. While the unique sideblog functions have served most of my needs for years, I’m anticipating (see: hoping) an influx of new fanworks in the near future and I’d like to be able to interact via askbox using this URL, and also to follow authors and other fandom users without  main/side username confusion.

The most efficient way I have found to accomplish this is by reblogging posts from this account to the new intended blog, though I may skip that entirely and generate new posts. As this blog has just over 50 posts I can’t say the process will be a hardship, but if anyone knows of an easier method I happily welcome any advice.

As of today I don’t think I’ll delete this blog outright being that I’ll need to transfer some custom coding to the new page. That being said if you’re currently following this blog, which is now changed to “fkabradypnoea″, please be aware that you’ll likely not see any more updates here. The new main account is already active at bradypnoea.tumblr.com (link); feel free to unfollow this blog and follow there. Or if you’ve had just about enough of my nonsense, feel free to unfollow this blog and never look back!

Tom returns home grouchy and exhausted from a cramped flight after four months away for work. Unfortunately, there’s already someone sleeping in his bed.

[Note: Losille began contributing her talents to the TH fandom in 2013 with “Picking Up The Pieces” and has since delivered excellent stories in both short and long form, as befits an author with her impressive education. in 2015 she rewrote and self-published the excellent 2014 work “Masquerade” to Amazon/Kindle. In recent years she’s been only slightly less active online as her real life teaching career has understandably taken precedence. She’s expressed that she is eager to return to writing, and I hold onto hope she’ll update “Home” before her Cavill or Evans works.]

- Read on Author's Tumblr | @losille2000 -

Tom unfolded himself from the black chauffeured car and lifted his hands over his head in a stretch that tugged the hem of his shirt away from his jeans. The stiff muscles in his shoulders and lower back groaned the further he moved, joints popping to illustrate his advancing age and how airplane seats weren’t getting any more comfortable, even in first class—especially after spending the better portion of a day travelling in one. However, he figured, the sore body was more than worth it so long as he was home for the foreseeable future.

Blowing a stream of hot air into the chilly spring night, he peered up at the two-story building to reacquaint himself with his surroundings. He’d been away for so long he barely recognized the slightly peeling exterior paint or the off-color shutters he never bothered to have repainted. What was the use in changing their hideous shit-brown hue, anyway, when he was hardly around long enough to enjoy them? The thought that he might actually have time to do something about them this time around made him sigh.

“Your bags, sir,” said a voice, demanding but professional, at his elbow.

Tom blinked hard at the little man who had interrupted his contemplation. The driver had met him at Heathrow with an iPad and his surname scrawled on the screen. Well, his decoy surname—the name he used when he didn’t want people to know where he was going to be. The name Luke made him use after that time at the airport where a crowd had gathered around and followed him to the car. Even though the only reason he needed a driver in the first place was due to the two girls before that who stalked him home on the Tube. Life seemed so convoluted these days, considering the process he had to endure just to secure his sodding bags at the luggage reclaim, only to go home to a place he barely recognized in the pale moonlight.

Tom bit his lip and balled his fists, trimmed nails biting into his palm. “Oh, yes, I’ll just take them up.”

“You’re certain, sir?”

Tom nodded and dug into his jeans pocket for the fiver he’d stuffed there earlier. After exchanging the banknote for his luggage and guitar, he waited for the man to return to his vehicle and drive away before climbing the front steps. He produced his key ring from the messenger bag on his shoulder and let himself inside the foyer to dark, comforting silence. His silence.

Loki was lucky to survive the devastating car crash that very nearly claimed his life. Now, resting and recuperating in his brother's home he has every care and amenity available to help his recovery. A professional physical therapist was hired by Thor Odinson to help get his brother back on his feet. But for the young woman the assignment is not nearly as straight forward as it first may seem. The accident is merely the final link in a chain of traumatic experiences that inflicted wounds far worse than any number of broken bones. And it's not as if Loki was a friendly man to begin with. Shrewd, caustic, mischievous and introverted, incapable of straightforward communication, lacking in patience and not overburdened with an excess of empathy Loki is the worst possible kind of patient to have. Unless, of course, you’re the type to enjoy the challenge…

- Author's AO3 -

It is not my habit to make semi-flirtatious banter with a man about to interview me for a job as this is, of course, completely unprofessional. And it is definitely not my habit to make semi-flirtatious banter with a man whom I knew to be married, no matter how obviously in jest the comments were meant to be. After all, even the most innocuous joke can be misconstrued. And yet, when the front door of a modern upstate New York home opened and nothing short of a Norse god made flesh and mortal stood before me, all that popped out of my mouth was: “Oh, my goodness gracious! Are you the one that needs round the clock care?” Look. If you were there. And you saw him. You would have done the same. Thor Odinson was tall, fair, with cornflower blue eyes and perfect skin. His shoulders were broad and well muscled, his posture was comfortable and assured, his expression was bright and cheery. On hearing my words, he threw his head back and laughed. Even his laughter was energy itself; pure and friendly and unpretentious. Despite myself, I felt stuck down by his charm. It’s not even that he was remarkably handsome, though of course he was, it was that he projected immense health, joy and vitality. I’m a physical therapist specializing in severe injury rehabilitation, so I’ve spent a good chunk of my life looking after very sick or injured people. Often in bleak conditions. I’ve met people would never walk again, talk again, who could not pick up a spoon to feed themselves. It’s a hard job, physically demanding and mentally exhausting but ultimately gratifying. It is extremely rewarding to see a patient pick up that spoon after all. But seeing sick people, day in and day out, it starts to get to you a bit and here before me was this radiant picture of healthy, well-maintained masculinity. My mouth got away from me, but to my great relief Thor took the joke as it was intended. Still chuckling, he stepped aside to let me through into the wide-open front hall of the house and rumbled: “Miss St. Clair I take it? Alas, I am not the one who requires your attention. Please come this way.”

Learning your lines is hard. And after a rough day, sometimes you need some incentive.

- Author's Tumblr -

It had been a long day. A long, painful, lonely, desperate day at work. It was the kind of day that made you consider quitting your job, selling your flat, burning your useless things, and becoming one of those crazy people that live in a tree in the middle of the forest. Except, when women did that, they were always portrayed as witches that eat children… You weren’t really down for that. Not yet, at least. Give it time. You’ll get there soon enough. You juggle the bag of groceries and your purse and your folio to dig the keys from your pocket. It’s an incredible balancing act, but a testament to how rubbish the day has been that simply opening the door was a tick in the win column. You kick the door closed behind you and set the bag of groceries on the kitchen countertop, retracing your steps to lock the door and dump your keys into the waiting bowl. You hang your trench on the waiting peg and sigh at its empty neighbor. He mustn’t be home yet. You go about the menial task of putting away the food, hoping he makes it home by the time you’re done, but no joy there. In an effort to be productive, you open your folio, fishing around for the most pressing of paperwork, and the plastic binding of the thing splits and spills every last document onto the kitchen island and surrounding floor. A litany of muttered curses pours out of you as you glare at the offending, now useless bit of junk. Heaving a sigh, you step around the papers, pull a bottle of wine off the shelf and uncork it, pouring a generous glass for yourself. It seems the measured and reasonable response, all things considered.

Of all the gin joints in the world, why did Mina's celebrity crush have to walk into hers?

- Masterpost on Author's Tumblr -

“Is that him?” I looked up from my phone, glancing at my friend Lennie’s round face when she spoke to me. Lit only by the bright display, her eyes sparkled with some unseen delight as she followed someone as they moved through the bar where we were sitting. I froze when I followed her gaze, recognizing who it was. Ginger hair that sort of stuck out, getting messier when he ran his hair through it. He wore his glasses perched on the bridge of his patrician nose. Tall, lean. Broad shouldered with narrow hips. Like a swimmer, I thought, with big hands. He wore a slim blue sweater and jeans, but held his coat by its collar as he took a seat. The seat was low and he was tall, so it was awkward. Still, I could have watched him do that on repeat. The way one shoulder went up as he eased himself in. When he rubbed his chin, chuckling at some joke or compliment I couldn’t hear. He put his arm up on the partition of the booth, and my mouth felt dry as I watched the silhouette of his fingers tapping along the edge of that partition. It was Tom Hiddleston. In the firm — and possibly drunk — flesh. I hadn’t believed Lennie. Not when she texted me to say that I had to come out. I had sworn off The Old Town Ale House. It was always too crowded with students from Second City — they were all too hyper and full of themselves for my taste. Lennie could take it fine. She had to. She tended bar there, Thursdays through Saturdays. Primetime shifts. Those improv students may have been pompous assholes but at least they were good tippers.

I miss the weekly updates like we had in the first part! Anyone who ask for fics to read, gets Stjarna recommended.

A woman on a roof reading a book. A man escaping a party.

- Author's AO3 -

A water bottle stood on a small metal table; a book lay unopened at its side, a mobile phone and a pencil on top. A sofa of the garden-furniture variety, water-proof cushioning and metal frame, was pushed against the thick glass barrier, and on it, sock-clad feet dangling in the air, a woman kneeled, elbows on the barrier, and watched the people on the balcony below her mingle, talk, laugh, drink. The balcony was decorated with fairy lights, the several tables had centerpieces with flowers and silvery runners that shifted shades as the light from inside the penthouse apartment changed color. Someone was having a party. She watched them for a while, making up stories in her head about the people whose faces she couldn’t quite make out in the darkness. The tall blonde woman was breaking up with the man who was built like a football player, she decided. The dark-skinned man in the brightly colored suit was trying his luck on the man who favored colorful cocktails. They disappeared, the characters in the play in her head changing as the people below changed. No one looked up. All the better for it, or they’d think her a horrible creeper, staring down at them for what seemed like hours. It went on and on, everything growing louder – music, talking, laughter. Must’ve been the alcohol, bringing everything up a notch. She grew weary of the show, settled on the sofa with her back to the view, and opened the book, adjusting so that the light of the string lights fell on the pages, joining the few thick candles that had been placed there by previous visitors, which she lit with the lighter a kind soul has left behind. The music faded into the background, the story in her book took over, engulfing her, taking her into a different New York, where a girl called Alma lived and tried to heal her mother’s broken heart, and bits of a book-within-a-book that made appearances throughout never failed to bring tears to her eyes. She jumped at a bang, the book nearly dropping from her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” a man said, stepping away from the door behind him, one step towards her. He had an accent that immediately made her ears twitch, her heart flutter.

Thanks SO MUCH for the shout-out!

Shakespeare comes in many forms...

- Read on Author's Tumblr -

It was trying to rain again. Juliet hunched and pulled her scarf up to her chin as she felt the sharp prickles of the icy raindrops on her exposed cheeks. It would have been nice to get home in the dry for once. The chilly air hurt her tired throat, so she tugged the scarf higher again, until it covered her mouth. The moist air made the scent from the roses rise up to her nose. She smiled. Must be doing ok. Juliet knew who had thrown the bouquet on the stage tonight. The man was a big opera fan, and he spread his favours around. He had high standards, so she knew she had passed a test of some kind. Turning the corner, she saw the underground sign ahead. She’d soon be in the dry, at least for a while. Maybe it will have stopped by the time I’m back outside. As she hurried along the wet pavement, Juliet thought about the evening’s performance. For once, everything had gone pretty smoothly. Falstaff is the nearest Verdi gets to farce, and this production maximised the comedy. Consequently, there was a lot of running around, both on and off stage, including up and down stairs in order to appear at various “windows” in the set. That was exhausting enough, without having to sing as well. But she had to admit it was enormous fun, especially when it went well and the audience laughed in all the right places, as they had tonight. And at least there was only one costume change. As she was entering Holborn station, a tall man in a dark quilted jacket swept past her, striding quickly. Nice arse…

Tom and Charlie take their relationship to the next level. Or do they? Tom will mess up (obviously), but he will also make up for it.

- Read on Authors' Tumblr -

Charlie comes prepared. As far as she knows, Tom prepared as well, because Evie is having a sleepover with her cousin and her aunts tonight. She’s brought wine, Tom cooked and he also specifically said that there would be no need to go home tonight. So, she’s brought an overnight bag. Goodness, she hopes it’s not too much. It’s taken them long enough to get to this since Tom’s become less stubborn and admitted they’re indeed dating each other. Oh, date night. Charlie’s excited, shaved and dressed nicely. She’s not tired and doesn’t have to be in the hospital until tomorrow evening. A date night that doesn’t include spaghetti with ketchup (she hopes), cartoons (she really, really hopes) or reading bedtime stories to Evie (okay, she misses that little angel, but honestly, an evening alone with Tom? Just the two of them? Heaven.). Charlie’s made it past the gate, out of the car and has rung the bell. A string of curses is heard from inside but finally Tom opens the door, looking a little worse for wear, but oh so good in dark jeans and his burgundy sweater. The longish hair without too much product, the beard as nice as it can get and the glasses a little crooked. Goodness, she’s missed him. “Hi,” she says. Goodness, he’s missed her.

Your heart has been broken by the man who once held and then discarded it. Can you bring yourself to trust again?

- Read on Author's Tumblr -

Tom hesitates in front of the door to your flat, his hand hovering in a fist outstretched mid-knock. For a fraction of a second he contemplates turning away, no harm done, but then his knuckles are rapping on the wood and his hand drops quickly to his side, both of them burrowing deep into his jean pockets. When no answer comes, he pulls out one hand to knock again, louder this time. Silence is the only response and, disappointed, Tom turns to head back down the stairs. Then he stops, staring unseeingly down the hallway. He half turns his head towards the door, his heart racing as he contemplates the forbidden urge that has overcome him. He knows that he shouldn’t, he knows that you will be furious, but he cannot help himself. Slowly he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keyring. His eye finds the old-fashioned brass key and he clenches it in his fist. Without being aware of moving his feet, Tom finds himself inserting the key and twisting it. There is a click and he places his hand on the knob, turning it and pushing the door open slightly. At first he half-expects you be sitting on your sofa with a book in hand and to chuck it at his head at the intrusion, but there is no one in your living room. Silently he steps inside and shuts the door behind him, rehatching the lock as he does so.

Backstage during one of Tom's quickest costume and makeup changes, he decides that it's the perfect time to finally make a move on Noelle after constant flirting in the makeup chair.

- Author's Tumblr -

“So you’re just going to have to add a bit more blood here, here and... here,” Josie said as she pointed at some old sketches of Tom’s prosthetics that Noelle had specifically for this reason. Noelle was quick to place the sketches on the closest smooth surface near them and have Josie rattle off the places where more things needed applicating again once Noelle grabbed the pen that was secured in her bun. She’d only been at the Donmar for an hour, and she felt like she was slightly overstaying her welcome. “Alright, I’ll be sure to make it extra gory for the cameras. Anything else?” Noelle questioned as she finished writing down what to add, rereading through the list before Josie shook her head. “Nope, that should do it, thank you, Noelle!” She called over her shoulder, already getting pulled away by some of the soundboard men. Noelle let out a small sigh of relief and went to cap the pen, letting out a slight hiss as the pen’s tip connected with her skin instead of the cap, a small black ink mark left in its wake before she sucked in a harsh breath and shoved the cap onto the pen. The Donmar Warehouse was hectic today, rightfully so. Today was the day that the National Theatre Live people were going to come in and shoot the seven thirty show of Coriolanus. Josie was being pulled in all directions by all the tech crews as the actors that arrived hours before their call time tried their best to stray away until their director called them to action.

Posted 30 June 2020 | Updated April 2021 Привет! I’m B, and I’m glad to see you. This blog mainly functions as collection space for some of my favourite fanfiction stories. I use “some” for two main reasons: first, because others have been lost to time and general Internet happenings; second, because these posts (unless otherwise noted) are not meant to be a comprehensive listing of an author’s entire catalogue or full summary of a multi-work series. Currently the works included here feature only Tom Hiddleston as a main character, whether that be as RPF or one of the characters he has played. This may change to include other public figures/characters in the future. It also includes posts and discussions not directly related to fanfiction, which I refer to as “the rest”. I spent approximately 8 months between 2013-2014 as a member of the moderating staff on the THFrustration tumblr, and it took a shamefully long time to realise that bookmarking my favourites was terribly inefficient. While I had submitted my own writing under this username, I was always hesitant to reblog anything from THF onto my personal blog as moderators were cautioned to maintain impartiality and avoid the appearance of favouritism. Anyone familiar with the discussions surrounding THF at the time will surely understand. While this blog was established as a sort of personal reference to revisit the stories I’ve loved over the years, it is obviously (currently) open to public viewing. I include in each post a tag for the author’s username if it is available as well as ‘tom hiddleston fanfiction’; the intent is to promote these works to anyone who may browse these tags and possibly notify the author should they check their own tag listing. The author’s current username, or last known username, will also be listed in the post title along with the word count, chapter count, and date of original publication, if I’m able to find that information. To avoid confusion or incorrect attribution, any works I personally write and publish follow a slightly different post format and will include my username in a different place; this is a holdover from the required format of posts submitted to THF. The purpose of most other tags will be for in-house organising. I am in the process of building  a “Tags” page (link) which will detail the method and abbreviations of the tags I utilise, and which I will keep updated should the need arise for a different or more extensive tagging procedure. I have a great fondness for library science and though I do not intend this to be a large collection, I do aim to have it organised to be as consistent, user-friendly, and easily accessible as possible. I want to emphasise that this blog exists first and foremost for my use as a storage place for the stories that I’ve enjoyed reading the most out of the hundreds I’ve encountered since 2011. In all honesty, I’m aware that my standards may be a bit too stringent and that my tastes are pretty vanilla and not incredibly wide ranging. There are and will be stories listed here that include explicit violence or ‘adult’ content, and they will be tagged accordingly. However it is unlikely you will find any content on this blog that is excessively violent or distressing. I’m just not that interested! Its secondary function is to recommend these works to anyone who visits this page. I attempt to include links that lead directly to authors’ pages to encourage feedback and engagement, and though I am considering alternative strategies for deleted or inaccessible works, it is my intent that this blog mainly function to facilitate connection between readers and authors, not specifically with me as a curator. At the same time, feel free to visit my ask box with any questions or concerns you have about a post I’ve made and the work it features; I’ll never make a post about a work I haven’t read. Generally I will only feature one work per author, as other works by these authors can usually be found by navigating through the links I am able to access and provide. This may change in the future however, I’ve seen authors recently return to AO3 after three years away, I wouldn't want to delete/edit an older post in order to feature their new work. While it can be safely inferred that I personally enjoy most other works by the authors listed here, I want to be clear in not extending any kind of endorsement of these authors outside of their written work, or furthermore works they publish after I include them on this blog (you’ll notice I have detailed timestamps enabled). I keep a loose watch on these authors for new content and may be familiar with their past works, but this blog is not a source of income for me and I can’t afford to spent hours keeping track of the daily activities of 20+ people. That being said, I welcome and encourage anyone accessing this blog to notify me if any of these authors is known to or has been discovered engaging in cruel or bigoted behaviour. In addition, if you’d like to offer any suggestions or recommendations, don’t hesitate to send an ask! I keep an eye on most variations of TH tags on AO3 and I try my best to feel around the the active tumblr circles, but I know how easy it is to miss a good story if it doesn’t cross the screen at the right time. Not to mention Wattpad, as nice as it looks, is a nightmare to navigate, especially when trying to find TH content written after 2016 (but maybe that’s none of my business). Of course I have to be transparent, just because you recommend something doesn’t mean I’ll like it, but I'm willing to give most stories a chance. That goes for the operation of this blog as well - if you know of a better tagging system or improvements I can make to accessibility, I’m always looking to improve. I only consider myself an expert on my own preferences, and even those are flexible. If you made it this far, thanks for reading! I keep insisting this is my little corner of indulgence, but I really am happy to share it with everyone. I hope you find something you like, I hope I can introduce you to a story or an author you didn’t previously know. I encourage you to engage with the authors of stories you enjoy, dropping a 'like’ or a 'kudos’ is nice, but a comment or a reblog is a direct line to new content. At the time of writing (June 2020) I’ve got a small backlog of works to post, but who’s to say what happens after that. I might even revisit the Golden Age of 2013, remind everyone of some landmark works, and dig up some long-forgotten discourse. I suppose it all depends on how much free time I have, but if nothing else, as long as people keep writing good stories, I’ll eventually get around to recording them here.

Love. Companionship. Family. These are all of the things Tom Hiddleston desperately wanted. But his life and his choices left that a distant and unlikely prospect. So he did his best to move on and live his life as is. When an opportunity to return to the theater arises, he jumps at the chance and along the way finds that maybe, just maybe, those distant and unlikely prospects are closer than he could have imagined.

- Masterpost on Author's Tumblr - - Read on Wattpad -

The breeze ruffling through his hair as he walked down the busy London pavements was wonderfully cool; something Tom Hiddleston was infinitely grateful for. While it wasn’t a particularly scorching day for mid-August by any standard, it was still quite warm for London and any relief at all was welcome. As he meandered, Tom found himself watching the people around him as they passed. Most paid him little mind or, if they did, only muttered quietly under their breath but made no effort to approach him. It was a marked difference from the previous few years, and a welcomed one. True, there was still the occasional paparazzo or bold fan, but it was nothing like it had been in recent years. And he was grateful for the relative anonymity. He’d been surprised, but happy, when Ben had called out of the blue the week before, trying to arrange a time for the two of them to get together and ‘catch up’. Which, as Tom had come to learn, meant Ben had wanted nothing more than to grill him about his life and then try to fix it. Tom adored the man but he was a mother hen in the absolute worst way; settling down and having children only made it worse. It had been several months since they’d had the chance to truly sit and reconnect in a non-work related setting and, though he knew it would probably regret giving Ben the platform in which to undertake said interrogation, Tom was quick to agree. Finding the time however, took a fair bit of maneuvering. Tom slowed his pace as the familiar house came into view. He smiled as he buzzed the gate, noting how a small cash of toys including a red plastic tricycle had started to take over the front garden. It was a comforting and domestic sign and it fit his friend’s life to a tee. Ben’s garbled voice echoed from the small speaker and a moment later the gate clicked open. Tom quickly made his way up the walk and towards the opened front door where Ben now stood, his eldest clinging to his leg, small blonde head peeking out from behind the tall form of his father.

Anna is a New Yorker. She loves her simple life. But when an actor she met years ago suddenly shows up to her apartment she needs to decide if love or privacy is more important to her.

- Masterpost on Author's Tumblr -

Ever since she left college, she had lived alone. She liked coming home from work to a quiet apartment, taking off her clothes, putting on her silk robe, pouring a glass of wine and putting on some music. Her apartment was tiny. She had a small studio on the top floor of a brownstone in Brooklyn. It wasn’t much but she loved it dearly. This was exactly how she wanted to live. She had a rough day. Work deadlines were piling up, and it seemed that everyone in her office forgot to remember that she was human and couldn’t do things instantaneously, and that she wasn’t working solely for them. She rode the crowded subway home eagerly awaiting the moment she could get out of her button down shirt, pencil skirt, and heels and decompress. As she climbed the stairs to her third floor walk-up apartment, dreaming about a bubble bath, she heard music. This was strange. Her building was always so quiet. She was convinced she was the only one who ever made a sound. As she continued to climb she realized it was coming from her apartment. She stopped on the stairs, puzzled. A burglar wouldn’t turn on music. As she listened closer she realized it was a David Bowie album. Well at least if she was being burgled they had good taste. Then it dawned on her. She had given her keys to a beautiful man to use if he was ever in town and wanted a discreet place to stay. A place he had then continued to take advantage of ever since. He never showed up unexpectedly, though. As soon as that thought was fully realized she began to run up the remaining stairs.

You were just another servant working in the royal residence when the Prince of Wales took your innocence. Years later, the noble King Henry wishes to make it up to you somehow.

- Read on AO3 -

You would be lying to yourself if you claimed that you don’t think about it every time you see him, although you rarely get more than a glimpse of the man. He’s always away on foreign affairs or behind closed doors with his council, but on the odd occasion you spot him walking through the halls conversing with a statesman or across the courtyard alongside his page after dismounting his horse. Every single time he crosses your path, your head clouds with memories and heat rises to your face. You remind yourself that things are different now, that His Majesty is a dignified man, changed by war and by the years of scholarly pursuits that he had devoted himself to following the death of his good father. It’s just that in the few times you have caught him smiling since, you couldn’t help but notice the spark of mischief still alive in his eyes. You’ve been employed by the royal household as a laundress since the age of fifteen and from the very beginning you were warned to avert your eyes from the King’s sons and stay at a safe distance lest you become easy pickings like many serving girls and scullery maids before you. You were told to take cautions around the Prince of Wales in particular, as his playboy reputation preceded him throughout the country. Rumor had it also that he was remarkably attractive and charismatic, making his questionable morality even more cause for concern. You never even caught sight of him during your younger years because he was always out engaging in debauchery in London, or so you were told.