And thus, Sylvia had found herself caught in the tumultuous transformation from girlhood crush to something far more profound. Jeremy stirred emotions that defied easy categorisation. It was a symphony—an intricate blend of intense longing, burning curiosity, and anxious vulnerability—that played within her heart. As she pondered the depth of their connection, she wondered if the universe itself had conspired to weave their paths together, entangling fate and desire in a tango of ever-increasing passion.

In the quiet corners of her Castle bedroom, logs crackling in the hearth, Sylvia traced delicate patterns on her décolletage. The memory of that very first evening resurfaced. Isabella had remained her beloved Moon Muse until the older girl's graduation at eighteen. But by then, there was Jeremy—the dashing young naval officer—who had suddenly and irrevocably etched himself upon her soul in lines of fire.

From the moment he appeared in her life, everything changed. His presence transformed her, leaving an indelible imprint. With each subsequent meeting, cosmic threads entwined, thickened, pulling Sylvia and Jeremy ever more strongly toward a shared destiny—a story woven in increasing glances, fuelled by untameable fantasies.

Sylvia closed her eyes, allowing memory's gentle tide to carry her back to the Trevelver's Chelsea townhouse library. The mahogany shelves stood tall, rows of polished wood. Jeremy, resolute and alert, had been by her side—the promise of something more.

Lady Isadora, her noble bearing softened by affection, had addressed them. "Jeremy", she began, "by Trevelver family custom, at your respective ages, you and Sylvia are considered adults."

Sylvia's heart fluttered. The weight of tradition pressed upon her—Lost Atlantis, ancient customs. She wondered what lay hidden in those words.

"Yet," Lady Isadora continued, "tradition dictates that your relationship must be mutually agreed upon, with annual affirmations until you both decide, of your free will, to marry according to contemporary custom."

Jeremy's nod held understanding. The past and the present converged—a dance of duty and desire.

"But", Lady Isadora's voice softened, "for Sylvia, marriage cannot occur before her nineteenth birthday and the end of her formal education."

Sylvia's eyes widened. "My education?"

"Yes", Lady Isadora affirmed. "You must first complete your formal education. Your mother insists. After boarding school, a year at the same Swiss French finishing school she attended."

Sylvia's heart quickened. The world beyond England beckoned, and education was her key.

"The Institut Alpin Videmanette", Lady Isadora continued, "nestled in the heart of the Swiss Alps, in Rougemont, Vaud."

Sylvia envisioned marble staircases, parquet floors, gilded mirrors, and oriental carpets—a place where refinement bloomed.

"My dear", Lady Isadora's eyes sparkled. The I.A.V. forgoes last names entirely; you will be judged for yourself alone. There you'll learn the skills, social graces, and cultural refinement necessary for social success, including deportment, etiquette, foreign languages, and cultural awareness. Etiquette is not something you learn for yourself", Lady Isadora continued. "It's a choreography worthy of both aesthetic and moral attention that you perform for others."

Sylvia nodded. Etiquette, yes. A necessary skill, indeed.

"For", her godmother added, her smile turning mischievous, "as a sophisticated lady, you must be as ready to deal with the 'Great and the Good' as the 'Not so Good and not so Great'! While there are unspoken rules in life", she stated, with a grin, "our success is based, at least a little bit, on how much and when we violate them."

Sylvia chuckled. "I shall do my best, Lady Isadora."

Sir George leaned in. "We have every confidence that you will, dear Sylvie. While manners do not constitute virtue, they do imitate virtue's outward appearance."

Sylvia nodded, feeling the weight of tradition—the dance of etiquette and morality.

"You have already learned much from your mother regarding household administration, my dear," Lady Isadora continued.

Sylvia nodded. Her mother's lessons—the intricacies of running a household—were etched in her memory.

"Such as the ten functions of a household", Lady Isadora said. "Security, groundskeeping, and more."

Sylvia's gaze shifted to the window, imagining the castle's grounds—their secrets and their stories.

"But", Lady Isadora continued, "as you have also learned, such matters are best left to the Castle's Head Butler and the Housekeeper."

Sylvia nodded again. The castle—the Trevelver's ancestral home—held its own rhythm, its own caretakers.

"However", Lady Isadora sighed, "understanding the twenty-five levels of peerage in the United Kingdom is another matter entirely."

Sylvia's brow furrowed. Peerage—the intricate web of titles, privileges, and social hierarchy.

"It's not just about names", her godmother continued. "It's about understanding the nuances—the obligations, the expectations."

Sylvia wondered how these layers of society would shape her future.

Sir George then stepped forward, nodding his thanks to Lady Isadora. His gaze assessed Jeremy—a naval officer, someone for whom duty was at the core of his being.

"Young man", Sir George addressed Jeremy, "as a naval officer seconded to Admiral Tregowan, your path is rigorous. Royal Navy training, Royal Marine Commandos, and passing out as a pilot in the Fleet Air Arm."

Jeremy squared his shoulders. "I'm ready for the challenges, sir."

"That's good to hear", Sir George said. "You have a very demanding schedule ahead of you, but one that I am confident you will excel in."

As Sir George spoke, Lady Isadora leaned closer to Sylvia. "Remember, my dear", her voice a soft murmur. "Because of Jeremy's demanding duties, your times together will, of necessity, be limited."

Sylvia nodded, her pulse quickening.

"But", Lady Isadora continued, "Lord Tregowan has assured us that, wherever operationally possible, he will grant Jeremy leave during your school holidays—especially at Christmas and New Year."

Sylvia's heart beat with anticipation. Love, duty, and destiny converged—their paths woven together.

And so, amidst the scent of old tomes and the promise of futures entwined, Jeremy and Sylvia embarked on their life's journey—one that would test their hearts, honour tradition, and she dared hope, perhaps lead them to the magic that Sir George spoke of: the magic of love.

'How was it that our lives come together?' Sylvia wonders, reliving that past early summer Chelsea evening while snow steadily fell outside her bedroom's arched windows. 'Was it the random workings of chance, or did my mother whisper to the winds, invoking destiny? Did my parents register that first, immediate electric spark between us—the way his eyes lingered on me when, with my godparents at my side, I proudly stepped into the Library for my first sight of Jeremy?'

As a fourteen-year-old girl, apart from the love of her parents, Sylvia had only ever known love between girls. Her heart was besotted by her first schoolgirl crush, sixteen-year-old Isabella—the charming, caring, and sophisticated Moon Muse to her ingénue Star Maiden. Their bond carried significance within their boarding school community.

Yet, despite Sylvia's otherwise total lack of experience and the seven-year age gap between Jeremy and her, her heart was racing even before the very first word he spoke. It was the kind of voice that could recite poetry or whisper wicked promises to send her heart racing.

Within Sylvia's heart, where emotions bloomed like hothouse flowers, a delicate dance had unfolded—a pas de deux between innocence and awakening. At fourteen, she had known love in its simplest form—the sweet camaraderie she shared with Isabella, her 'special friend'. Their bond, woven through whispered secrets and shared intimacies, was a moonlit tapestry of girlhood.

But then Jeremy Corentyn Cador strode onto the stage of her life. His chestnut brown hair swept back from his forehead, revealing a face both rugged and refined—the kind that romantic writers immortalise. But it was his sea-green gaze that awakened the tempest within Sylvia, unleashing emotions she had never felt before. A storm tugged at her heartstrings, unravelling the familiar silken threads of intimate female friendship.

Isabella's dark eyes held the fast-maturing wisdom of a young woman, but Jeremy's gaze pierced deeper—it was the way he looked at her, saw her, knew her at the very core of her being. When he spoke of horizons far beyond her familiar schoolgirl existence, it sent shivers down her spine. His voice, low and intimate, spoke of adventures, and suddenly, the world expanded—a canvas painted with hues she had not known existed. She had kissed soft mouths, but his—surely his could ignite stars. She imagined the taste of his lips—the roughness, the promise of secrets whispered. 'Does he see my inexperience?' She had asked herself. 'Could she let go of her fear of the unknowable?'

Sorry @paulbeckwith I've only just seen this. Yes, crap news but I'll survive I'm sure.
@PLD Paul is referring to my redundancy and possibly also my Aunt's funeral in the same week. I've had better weeks.

Yes, it was a Floyd night but I've seen/saved/recorded most of it previously anyway. I think it was the same night but there was a programme about Syd Barrett called Have you got it yet. If you haven't seen it and are a fan it's a must watch. It was the first time for me and I won't deny having a tear in my eye.

"Ah, my dear Sylvia", Sir George said, his voice carrying the warmth of camaraderie. "Before we enter, may I just remark that you truly are a vision."

Sylvia blushed, grateful for the compliment. "Thank you, Sir George. It's a special occasion, after all."

"And well-deserved", Sir George continued. "But tell me, my dear, what was that libation you enjoyed on the terrace?"

"A glass of white Bordeaux, Sir George. It was exquisite."

He chuckled. "Ah, white Bordeaux—a delightful choice! And fear not, my dear, it would not have done any harm either. In fact, it might have added a touch of magic to your already enchanting presence."

Sylvia's dark brown eyes sparkled. "Magic, you say?"

"Indeed", Sir George said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Wine has a way of weaving its spell, enhancing beauty, and creating memories. Your mother's guidance on lingerie and a sip of Bordeaux—what a splendid combination!"

Lady Isadora responded, her laughter lilting. "Sir George, you always find the most interesting perspectives."

"Well", Sir George replied, "it's my duty as an old friend to keep things interesting. Now, let's go in. Someone rather special awaits."

19 guests! Another new record! Thank you all.

Sylvia, escorted by her godparents to the grand Library, had felt both excitement and nervousness. Lady Isadora, a woman of elegance and wisdom, had congratulated her on looking not only beautiful but at ease.

"Thank you, Lady Isadora", Sylvia said, her voice steady. "I feel very comfortable."

"You do look it, my dear", Lady Isadora replied, her eyes assessing Sylvia's appearance. "There's an air of ease about you that can only come from true confidence. It's a delight to see."

Sylvia hesitated, then leaned in closer. "Well, Lady Isadora, there's a secret to it. You see, my mother not only chose my outer clothes for this special evening but my tailormade silk and satin underwear as well."

Lady Isadora raised an eyebrow. "Oh, my dear Sylvia! But have you found it to be comfortable as well as pretty?"

"Yes, very much so", Sylvia confessed. "She told me that on such occasions, a lady's lingerie should not only make her feel pretty and desirable but also be as comfortable as a second skin. It's a philosophy that I've very much come to appreciate."

"What a wise woman your mother is", Lady Isadora mused. "It's true that comfort is just as important as beauty when it comes to lingerie. After all, a woman should feel confident and at ease in her own skin, no matter the occasion."

"Absolutely, Lady Isadora", Sylvia agreed. "Especially on this occasion! I'm very grateful for her choices, and I think the perfect smooth fit shows in the way I carry myself this evening."

"It certainly does, Sylvie", Lady Isadora said. "You're a vision of elegance and grace."

"Thank you, Lady Isadora", Sylvia replied, touched by the compliment. "Your kindness means the world to me."

"It's my pleasure, Sylvie", Lady Isadora said, her emerald eyes twinkling. "Now, let's meet this young man and enjoy the rest of this delightful evening."

On the garden terrace, bathed in twilight and surrounded by the fragrance of blooming roses, Sylvia stood, wine glass in hand, on the threshold of adulthood. Love, ambition, and the intricate dance of human connections awaited her. The rose-shaded silhouette she cast epitomised youthful promise and possibility as she awaited the story about to be written. Beside her stood Lady Isadora and Sir George—her astute guardians, their eyes as sharp as the moon's crescent.

Lady Isadora's body is a stunning masterpiece of curves and contours. Her chest is full and well-rounded, with a hint of cleavage peeking out from the top of her lace dress. Her neck is long and slender, accentuating the beauty of the pearls nestled against her throat. Her shoulders are broad, yet delicate, providing a perfect frame for her beautiful face. Moving down, her waist is narrow and well-defined, drawing attention to her generous hips and round, firm derrière. Her legs are long and toned, with the slightest hint of a tan line visible just above the edge of her lace dress. Her feet are small and delicate, adorned with a pair of elegant high-heeled shoes. As she moves, her body exhibits a graceful fluidity, a testament to her poise and elegance. She exudes an air of confidence and sensuality, captivating the attention of all who are fortunate enough to behold her.

Sylvia's parents, steeped in the finest French tradition of wine appreciation, had gently guided their daughter, emphasising savouring over excess. And so she sips, savouring a refreshing dry white Bordeaux exceptionally from the Sauternes subregion—a budding connoisseur who has already learned that moderation is the key—a lesson passed through generations of clinking glasses.

Fast-forward in her mind's eye—as she sits in her Trevelver Castle bedroom waiting for Eli's return, Jeremy Corentyn Cador appears for that very first time—the dashing Royal Navy Captain to be, now affectionately referred to as her "squeeze" by the gossipy ladies of London. There, he stands tall, well-built, and clean-shaven, exuding purpose as he strides towards her. Sylvia's heart flutters as his sea-green gaze pierces through to her very soul while her godparents look on in silent approval.

As Sylvia would later discover, several months prior, a clandestine gathering had been held in the secure oak-panelled Library of the Chelsea townhouse—some discussions were too secret even for Whitehall.

Present were her parents, her godfather, and the enigmatic Admiral Tregowan—the head of a top-secret organisation within the British government and confidant of Sir Winston Churchill. Their purpose, veiled in the utmost secrecy—decisions that would shape the future of the Trevelvers.

The Admiral, the embodiment of purposeful discretion, presided over their clandestine deliberations. His posture remained disciplined, unwavering, as his gaze swept the room—an adept grandmaster, perpetually calculating several moves ahead. Clad in his customary tailored suit of dark hues, he exuded professionalism and a reserved sense of style. Every detail, meticulously attended to, mirrored the precision he applied to life's intricate game.

His silver hair crowned a tall frame, a testament to wisdom earned through navigating treacherous waters. His steel grey eyes, unique and penetrating, added to the air of discernment that surrounded him. Lines etched on his face spoke of a lifetime spent balancing duty's delicate scales and hinted at years of strategic manoeuvring. The chessboard awaited his next move.

His presence carried the weight of history and whispered covert instructions. When he spoke it was the measured cadence of a man who knew when to reveal and when to withhold. Approval for Jeremy Corentyn Cador—the putative heir to Trevelver Castle—was the subject. Since the First World War and Winston Churchill's time as First Lord of the Admiralty, the Castle had housed an ultra-secret site of the greatest national military importance. Thus, the Admiral—steward of secret history—wielded influence. Lord and Lady Trevelver patiently awaited his decision while Sir George watched, eyes sharp as a rook's beak, the well-being of his goddaughter front and centre. The future of the twenty-one-year-old naval officer rested on the Admiral's approval—a pawn's journey toward figurative kingship.

The Library doors firmly closed. As soon as all were seated, Admiral Tregowan opened the meeting without preamble.

"Before we delve into the heart of our discussion," he began, his voice a low rumble, "we have another related matter to consider." His gaze swept over the three faces focussed on him. "Sylvia", he continued, "the young heiress to Trevelver Castle remains absent from our midst. She is but fourteen. Yet in two years' time, she will be considered old enough to sign the requisite Official Secrets Act."

Lady Trevelver, her dark brown eyes alight with determination, rose from her chair. "Admiral", she began, her gaze unwavering, "as you are aware, the Trevelvers uphold the sacred traditions of Atlantis—the Queen Priestesses of that lost civilisation. Their wisdom, their connection to the unseen realms, transcends mere mortal years. Even centuries later, in medieval England", she stated, her voice unwavering, "the age of majority remained at fourteen for girls if married and sixteen if single; while, for boys, it was twenty-one, as it is today, alas, for both genders! However, our family steadfastly upholds fourteen as the age of majority for our daughters—a matrilineal legacy stretching back to our ancestor Queen Priestesses, the bearers of ancient wisdom now known to very few."

Lord Trevelver nodded, his features showing quiet pride. "Admiral, our daughter", he stated, "is no ordinary girl. She carries the inheritance of those priestesses within her—a lineage that defies mere mortal years."

Sir George, ever the vigilant protector, leaned forward. "Unusual as the situation may indeed seem, Admiral, I can affirm that Syvia's maturity surpasses her years", he stated. "Her inheritance, at this time, demands her inclusion in our counsels."

And so, in that hallowed room, the Admiral weighed ancient tradition against modern-day regulations. Sylvia, at fourteen, stood on the threshold of destiny. The Official Secrets Act awaited her signature. A pawn's journey toward queenship, affirmed by ancient bloodlines and the wisdom of ages.

In the dimly lit room, the green-shaded electric bulbs cast their shadows upon the mahogany bookshelves. Lady Penelope's resolve remained unyielding: her daughter need not wait. From their ethereal realm, the Queen Priestesses nodded—an ancient approval echoing through the fabric of time and space. The decision was made. And now, Admiral Tregowan could turn their attention to the main business at hand.

As if that moment summoned by Sylvie's thoughts, her beloved godfather, Sir George Widgeon III, came into view, moving with accustomed grace across the crowded terrace. His meticulously groomed silver-streaked hair catches the fading sunlight as he acknowledges individual guests with a smile and a cheery greeting. The impeccably tailored navy-blue suit he wears—a testament to timeless elegance—accentuates his stature and bearing.

Greeting Sylvie and her godmother, Sir George's eyes crinkle at the corners—a genuine warmth that transcends formality. His commanding presence exudes both authority and congeniality, striking a balance between confidence and approachability. When he kisses Isadora's cheeks, their shared history resonates in the timbre of his rich, resonant voice.

Turning to his goddaughter, his cobalt eyes twinkle in his good-humoured face. In this delicate moment, Sir George embodies the essence of a true gentleman. He leans down to Sylvie's level, observing her pose—the delicate tilt of her chin, the way her long, slim-gloved hands clasp the folds of her pink dress.

"Ah, my dear Sylvie", he says, his words a symphony of perfect assurance. "You are a vision—a rosebud in full bloom. Your dress is the epitome of elegance. And your bearing! Straight-backed, shoulders squared—you carry yourself with the grace of a swan gliding across a mirrored lake."

His strong, comforting hand briefly rests gently upon her shoulder. It is a touch that bridges generations—a connection between the seasoned English gentleman and the glowing promise of youthful beauty and latent power. Sylvie's heart swells.

"And your smile," Sir George continues, his broad smile mirroring hers. This evening, you've made us all feel a little brighter, a little younger."

In this tender moment, Sylvie is enveloped by her godfather's congratulatory embrace—a steadfast display of considerate courtesy before he gently reassures her.

"Dear Sylvie, as you prepare to meet Jeremy Corentyn Cador for the first time, you're not flying solo. Isadora and I will be by your side on this important occasion."

"Indeed, we will", Isadora assures Sylvie.

"Although Trevelver tradition forbids us from discussing the young man in question," her godfather pauses and, leaning closer, whispers, " You have nothing to fear, my dear! Absolutely nothing at all!"

The new series of 'The Responder' started on BBC1 last night and he plays Martin Freeman's father so that was probably his last acting part