Is it terrible to want to RP again because Mrs. Hudson *used to be* an exotic dancer?

The fact that her husband was in drugs was always a headcanon of mine, though. 

((Hi friends! If anybody wants to plot/RP with Mrs. H, we’re totally up for that! <3))

He wanted me to tell you that it was a “team effort.” Not that I actually wanted to say that. If they aren’t too much,we can get you one. Is your hip that bad? JW

I believe you, John, dear. And I need a massage chair to fall in every time you boys come home bloodied or there’s an explosion again!

littleladyraven replied to your post: "Gram!"
"Nothin’ much yeh’d like t’ hear about…" she smiled, taking a seat.

"Oh, you know that I always want to hear about it, dear!" She smiled and started the coffee maker, tittering about in the kitchen.

tagalongsusan:

mrs-hudson221b:

Never get this wrong: Mrs. Hudson loved Ethiopian cooking class. 

Ethiopian cooking class just didn’t like her. (That is a synecdoche; it really means that the instructor was a mean person and just didn’t like Mrs. Hudson’s irresistible optimism.) As such, she was frequently assigned to make the injera, or the flatbread, while her coursemates learned to do this and that, use all sorts of spices and stuff. But that didn’t deter her inner Julia Child, oh, no. Caroline Hudson was a fighter, and fight she did in that Ethiopian class. Today, she was taking extensive notes while the injera baked, munching occasionally on the latest warm batch. 

"She’s quite strong, isn’t she?" She laughed to herself, commenting quite loud enough for her seatmate to hear. “Gosh, I don’t hate her but she hates me! The shame."

Susan glanced over at the older woman seated next to her at the counter in the corner.  She’d been banished to the injera section today after accidentally serving a doro wat so spicy that it had made the instructor cry and run out of the room.  After several apologies and an admission that she did not, in fact, taste the dish before serving it, she was lucky she hadn’t been kicked out of class entirely.

Leaning over to grab a bit of the bread, Susan nodded conspiratorially at the woman…Kathryn…no…Caroline, she seemed to remember was her name.  “You really think she hates you?  Maybe you just make the best bread?”  Flashing a hopeful smile, Susan shrugged and tried to match the woman’s cheerful expression.  She knew that was probably a complete lie, but crushing another woman’s dreams wasn’t something she was prepared to do.  At least not in cooking class.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the woman beside her and smiled her motherly smile. “That is very sweet, darling, but I’m old enough to know that you’re just being nice to me.” She popped more of the bread in her mouth and took a few more notes down. “Susan, is it? Believe me, I’ve been there. You don’t really want to break an old lady’s heart, but some old ladies have broken more hearts than you have had.” She giggled, earning a glare from the instructor again.

"Told you," she whispered. "I should probably stop eating this. Is the wat almost done?" Mrs. Hudson peered over gently, looking at Susan’s pot.

Never get this wrong: Mrs. Hudson loved Ethiopian cooking class. 

Ethiopian cooking class just didn’t like her. (That is a synecdoche; it really means that the instructor was a mean person and just didn’t like Mrs. Hudson’s irresistible optimism.) As such, she was frequently assigned to make the injera, or the flatbread, while her coursemates learned to do this and that, use all sorts of spices and stuff. But that didn’t deter her inner Julia Child, oh, no. Caroline Hudson was a fighter, and fight she did in that Ethiopian class. Today, she was taking extensive notes while the injera baked, munching occasionally on the latest warm batch. 

"She’s quite strong, isn’t she?" She laughed to herself, commenting quite loud enough for her seatmate to hear. "Gosh, I don’t hate her but she hates me! The shame."