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Many things have been put forward as evidence for the hidden hand of Satan (or at least Crowley, who works longer hours and for lower wages) interferring with the works of mankind. Some of them were gathered together as supporting evidence in a book.
The one that often gets left off of the list is committee meetings and the working theory for that is that it’s because every single committee starts out with the overwhelming belief that, this time, things will be different. Agendas will be shared beforehand, people will stay silent when any other business is called, and minutes will be taken with some degree of accuracy. The problem might even get addressed, every now and then.
Six thousand years of experience is still, currently, losing the battle against a bit of enthusiasm and some really good plans.
Currently, the battle is a small room over a carpet shop in Whickbar Street, Soho. There are six shopowners who would rather be doing tax returns at fifteen minutes to deadline than sit through another hour of this, an angel (albeit unknown to everyone else in the room, although Nina has some doubts) who isn’t listening to a word the humans say, and Mr Brown.
His first name is Robin, although he often seems to have forgotten that he has one. The ‘Mr’ suited him like a pair of handmade shoes. Which, incidentally, are what he’s wearing. He believes it’s important to support local businesses.
The cobbler, like most of the other local businesses, would be more grateful for the support if if wasn’t offered with the belief it should be mutual.
Oh, this street has always been an outlier amongst highstreets. It is still a highstreet, for one. But even before that, it was a weird one. Shops on it didn’t tend to end up in pricing wars. They’d never been affected by floods or riots, and traffic calming measures and congestion charges seemed to appear for a few days and never show up again. Certainly, people went bankrupt or suffered disasters at a much lower rate than normal. Given the fact that it had survived the entire Blitz without so much as a scratch to any paintwork, it seemed to be longlasting.
Mr Brown wasn’t arrogant enough to claim any credit for that. He also didn’t claim any credit for the fact that, even amongst streets in Soho, Whickbar had a reputation for being a safe place for anyone who needed one.
What he would currently like to claim credit for was the Traders’ Association. Shop local schemes, encouraging people back to the shops rather than shopping online, working on schemes to increase footfall… a whole raft of exciting projects.
Mr Brown could best be described as a man who enjoyed a good gannet chart. And a spreadsheet. And forward planning projections. And sometimes, even, a little collaboration. All of which had helped his business immensely.
However, there was a reason why most of the traders in said association were independent ones.
At present, Mr Brown’s attempts to develop a plan for the Christmas Lights Display - which had already been awarded capital letter status in his mind - could possibly be described as herding cats. If the cats had already all decided to do their own thing, and some of them were possibly sabre tooth tigers, and one of them was smiling in entirely the wrong way.
‘So,as you can see, there are many social and economic benefits to running our own display and I would like to spend -’
It would also help if the one with the entirely wrong smile wasn’t also the entirely most handsome person in the room.
A smile like that could derail a whole Tube line’s worth of trains of thought.
‘I believe, Mr Brown, we already established at a previous meeting that further increase in customer footfall was not to be encouraged? Especially in the vicinity of my bookshop.’
Mr Brown is vaguely aware that that is not normal shopkeeper behaviour. He’s also aware that 1) it is entirely normal A Z Fell behaviour and 2) he shouldn’t really know the man that well to be aware of being aware about that.
‘I think you’ll find that other members are very much in favour of increased trade and footfall,’ he responds sharply. There’s a few nods of support. Careful ones. A Z Fell is strange enough and well liked enough that no-one really wants to argue with him.
‘Christmas lights are, however, not the way to go about it,’ A Z Fell states calmly.
Mr Brown has a spreadsheet to prove otherwise.
It’s received with the sort of groan mostly heard by teachers assigning essays over the first sunny weekend in spring, and a careful studying of the agenda in case there’s any chance of a challenge and therefore escape.
However, he’d long ago learnt the truth of the statement that the person who controls the agenda and the minutes controls everything.
The committee stagger tiredly onwards. Most of them are mouthing and nodding agreement, although that may just be the habitual longing to make it end faster and get home to their beds. Or someone’s beds at least.
All of which makes it a huge surprise to Mr Brown to realise, summing up his arguments at the end of the session, that he was arguing against the Christmas lights. As was everyone else. A Z Fell appeared to be smiling, but it might have been a trick of the light. It seemed to be shining rather a lot above his head.
‘Ummm. Well. Motion proposed.’ He blinks at the sound of his own voice, proposing something he doesn’t have a clue about.
‘Motion seconded,’ says A Z Fell before anyone else has a chance to respond. He sounds entirely too smug. So smug that it cuts through the handsomeness and leaves annoyance in its wake.
Angels with the ability to twist and turn any long-winded committee meeting nonsense to their whims can also be counted as evidence for Crowley’s influence in the affairs of men. Or at least, Aziraphale’s desire to have a really good story to share with his lover the next time they meet up.