“What the hell and pickle happened?” yelled H2, glaring at her H-Pad perched against the leg of a chair.
She had watched the whole thing on her knees while administering a foot rub that had the owner of the foot wincing.
In fact, many in the queue ran a mile when the wincing was not only seen but heard, and the rest would have, if they weren’t packed into the corridor like a D-cup breast into an A-cup bra.
“Perhaps ma’am should give the H-Pad a rest,” said the owner of the foot. “Concentrate on one thing . . . at a time-like.”
“Don’t call me ma’am,” snapped H2.
ma’am“Yes . . . errr . . . H2.”
“Perhaps a more mindful approach,” croaked the doorman lounging against the doorframe. “Multitasking is not all it’s cracked up to be . . .”
The other footmen nodded.
“. . . and watching Missi
