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Epilogue
The Bingo Hall Kitchen
Paste-pot calliaphone limps into the kitchen, looking battered but triumphant. glowing with pride (oh, wait, that may just be bruises) she hands Bruce a piece of paper, and a melted ice-pack.
Paste-pot calliaphone: Bruce examines both items, with a hrmphh. “What's this?” He says, “Dojo-headed paper, two gold stars,Commendation for Effort?” He looks at Callia. “Well now.”
Paste-pot calliaphone just lifts her chin, and glows a little brighter.
Bruce hrmphhs a bit more, and then says, “And I suppose you're feeling proud of yourself are you?”
Paste-pot calliaphone nods, and hands Bruce a colour-code for next time.
Bruce hastily takes the colour-code with a sharp look for Callia in case she's being cheeky. Her innocent expression must be unusually convincing, because after a bit more hrrmphing he simply says, “And quite right too. I think a celebration is called for.” Turning to the fridge, he affixes Callia's certificate to the door with a large magnet bearing an image of Bernard in emerald-speedos standing barefoot on the GERM logo.
Paste-pot calliaphone snrrks, then covers it with a cough.
Bruce gives her another look, but she's still managing to hold onto some semblance of innocence, so he returns to his theme. “Like I say, a celebration. What say you to cookies?”
Paste-pot calliaphone always says “yes” to cookies. Her glow turns into a beam. she says “YES TO COOKIES!”
Bruce nods. “In that case, I'd better see what I can find.” And he reaches down a large tin from on top of the fridge. Opening it up, he offers it to Callia.
Paste-pot calliaphone boggles. Such riches she never had imagined! She dives into the tin. There is much rummaging about, and at length she emerges. Her cheeks are bulging, her hands are full and her heart is overflowing.
Paste-pot calliaphone attempts to convey her LOVE by means of blinking and eyebrow-waggling, since she's a little stuck for speech just now. And then she offers Bruce one of the cookies in her hand.
Bruce is taken aback - that's not how things usually go around here. But he takes the cookie, and puts it in his apron pocket, hrmmphing a great deal suddenly.
He gets up, covering up the tin. “Now scram, g'wan, I can't work with you under my feet all day long.” But as Callia turns to go, he says, irritably, “Wait, wait.” She waits.
Bruce reaches into the freezer, and pulls out a bag of frozen potato-newscaster roasties. He hands this to Callia with an admonition not to eat them.
Paste-pot calliaphone grins crumbily. Taking the frozen roasties, she gingerly applies the packet to her various bruises. Then, with a wave and a trip and a stumble, she is gone.