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54 - "Destiny! Destiny! No escaping that for me!" - 'Young Frankenstein'
I was six years old when my father first brought me to the Watchers Council Headquarters in London. That morning, he had seemed in particularly gruff spirits, fussing uncharacteristically with my appearance and constantly admonishing me to be on my very best behaviour. Roger Wyndam-Pryce had never found difficulty with detailing to his young son just what sorts of hell would come down were I to dare and misbehave, and his warnings that day were most dire.
If Father's intention was to scare me half out of my wits well before the train arrived at Paddington Station, he had succeeded fantastically.
My trepidation, though, all but disappeared when we arrived. Although any decent London architect could tell you that HQ was a tall and sturdy pre-WWII era commercial building, still carrying the plaster and concrete decor on its unremarkable façade. To me and my six year-old eyes, though, it was a castle. A castle teeming with tweed-suited knights and adventurers whose calling in life was to make the world safe for damsels and children. They were good men, brave and true, and they had the courage to stand against the darkness and persevere.
Even as I sat quietly in the corner of Father's office, reading through a translated Grimorium and politely nodding and shaking the hand of whichever colleagues of my father's happened to stop by and even more politely refusing their offers of caramels and flake bars, no matter how much I really wanted them, I knew I was sitting in a place where people made a difference, a place where there were still heroes to be found.
And best of all, I knew that one day, I would take my place amongst them. Father had told me so.
(290)
I was six years old when my father first brought me to the Watchers Council Headquarters in London. That morning, he had seemed in particularly gruff spirits, fussing uncharacteristically with my appearance and constantly admonishing me to be on my very best behaviour. Roger Wyndam-Pryce had never found difficulty with detailing to his young son just what sorts of hell would come down were I to dare and misbehave, and his warnings that day were most dire.
If Father's intention was to scare me half out of my wits well before the train arrived at Paddington Station, he had succeeded fantastically.
My trepidation, though, all but disappeared when we arrived. Although any decent London architect could tell you that HQ was a tall and sturdy pre-WWII era commercial building, still carrying the plaster and concrete decor on its unremarkable façade. To me and my six year-old eyes, though, it was a castle. A castle teeming with tweed-suited knights and adventurers whose calling in life was to make the world safe for damsels and children. They were good men, brave and true, and they had the courage to stand against the darkness and persevere.
Even as I sat quietly in the corner of Father's office, reading through a translated Grimorium and politely nodding and shaking the hand of whichever colleagues of my father's happened to stop by and even more politely refusing their offers of caramels and flake bars, no matter how much I really wanted them, I knew I was sitting in a place where people made a difference, a place where there were still heroes to be found.
And best of all, I knew that one day, I would take my place amongst them. Father had told me so.
(290)
