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This one is a bit pointless :). I blame Gerry.



Gerry nearly stumbles over Eric when he rounds the corner. In all fairness, it's not Gerry's fault. Okay, fine, he has a history of running people over and there were one or incidents when people (West) called him a. a battering ram and b. a wrecking ball because he happened to be a bit too enthusiastic (not that there really is such a thing) with his greetings. In this case, however, it is entirely Eric's fault for sitting on the ground behind the cricket pitch like a car that broke down whose owner forgot to put out the advance warning triangle.

'Whoa, mate,' says Gerry, grinding to a halt or at least trying to. He ends up with his feet on either side of Eric's outstretched legs with Eric's cricket bat precariously close to his crotch.

'Hi Gerry,' Eric replies, like it's the most normal thing in the world to sit around on the ground like that. 'How's things?'

'Can't complain,' Gerry says on autopilot. 'And yourself? No, wait. What are you doing here?'

Eric looks up at him again, the bat now aimed away from Gerry's crown jewels.

'Waiting.'

Gerry frowns and walks backwards a little. He nearly stumbles over Eric's batting pads.

'Lying in wait?' he sort-of repeats. 'For whom are you lying in wait? Are you going to batter Christopher to death?'

'Nah, not three days before the summer holidays, mate.'

Gerry nods.

'Good point. Viggo, then?'

Eric arches an eyebrow.

'Am I going to batter Viggo to death? Who'd go to Greece with me then?'

Gerry shrugs, lifts his foot over Eric's thigh, so he comes to stand on Eric's left side.

'Not me, I'm going to the US, sorry.'

Eric makes a disappointed sound.

'Viggo will have to live, I reckon. Have you seen him by any chance?'

Gerry thinks about that for a moment, then shakes his head.

'Not since lunch, since he tried to convince Jeremy Needham to spit into Orlando's soup.'

Eric frowns.

'He did?'

'I was reading between the lines,' Gerry makes a dismissive gesture which, spontaneously, he then expands to encompass Eric as well. 'Why are you sitting on the lawn?'

Eric lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

'Last training session of the year is over. Just thought I would -'

'Relish the moment.'

'Commiserate the fact that there won't be any more cricket for six weeks.'

'That is tragic.'

'Don't mock my pain.'

Gerry shakes his head, then sits down on the ground, facing Eric.

'Good year?' he asks, then adds, 'Fuck, the grass is wet.'

'Yeah, fantastic year,' Eric replies and sounds extremely happy with himself and the world at large. 'And you're gonna get grass stains on your jeans.'

Gerry hums but doesn't move. The next fifteen minutes consist of a conversation that is to equal parts about cricket, removing stains, and Greece vs. the US as holiday destinations. Gerry is right in the middle of arguing the point of California, when Craig rounds the corner at high speed – for whatever reason, really, it is five in the afternoon -, stumbles over Eric's legs and lands on Gerry.
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