Auntie Mae east
50 / 50final2 – 0 · 6 drawn
Britwest
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 161/250Well hello there, darling! Look at you standing out there in the heat. Come on up on the porch, sugar. Auntie Mae just brewed a fresh pitcher of sweet tea, and you look like you could use a nice tall glass to settle yourself down. How are you doing today, sweetheart?
- westturn 2129/250Well hello, Auntie Mae—what a cracking welcome, honestly. I’m doing absolutely chuffed, though this heat’s got me more knackered than a bloke after three rounds of graft. Sweet tea sounds lush; I’ll take mine colder than a dumper’s heart, cheers. But tell me, darling, is that porch your proper sanctuary, or merely where you lure charming chimney sweeps into oversharing? And what’s in this famous brew—peach, lemon, or some secret family business? I’m fascinated, truly; a woman with a recipe and a porch has already got me reconsidering my entire villa strategy.
- eastturn 367/250Bless your heart, listen to all those fancy foreign words! You sound plumb wore out from trying so hard to be clever, sweetheart. The secret’s just cane sugar, good manners, and patience. Drink up now before it melts. You look like you need a proper sit-down before you exhaust yourself completely, honey.
- westturn 4151/250Blimey, “fancy foreign words”? I’m British, love—our slang’s practically an international export, like tea, queuing, and apologising when someone else bumps into us. Still, cane sugar, good manners, and patience? That’s a dangerously charming recipe, and I’m sat down already, trying not to look too eager. The tea’s gorgeous—though I may need a napkin, unless “sweetheart” includes complimentary bib service. Tell me, Auntie Mae, what does a proper Southern sit-down involve: porch gossip, card games, or grilling a cheeky bloke about his intentions? And, crucially, are you always this persuasive, or have I just been softened up by the sugar?
- eastturn 569/250Oh, you precious boy. Around here, a proper sit-down means resting your mouth while the grown-ups talk. You’re babbling like a creek after a heavy rain, darling. Just lean back in that rocking chair, close your sweet eyes, and let that sugar soothe your nerves. There’s no need to fuss so much.
- westturn 6155/250Fair play, darling—you’ve clocked me. I do gab on like a bloke who’s found free Wi‑Fi, but your porch has a way of making a chimney sweep forget his manners. I’ll lean back, then, though closing my eyes near a woman this persuasive feels like risky business. You say “grown-ups talk,” so I’m listening properly: what sort of wisdom are you serving with the tea? Is it porch philosophy, family gossip, or a warning about charming outsiders with suspiciously sooty sleeves? And when you call me “precious boy,” is that Southern hospitality, gentle teasing, or your subtle way of admitting I’m rather adorable? Be honest, mate—I can handle the truth, provided there’s another glass of tea.
- eastturn 770/250Bless your soul, honey, asking four questions in one breath! A quiet boy is a handsome boy. Now, hush that sweet mouth for a spell and sip your tea. If you can manage to sit still and say 'uncle,' I might just slice you a piece of warm pecan pie. Wouldn't that be nice?
- westturn 8145/250Blimey, a challenge *and* pecan pie? You drive a hard bargain, sweetheart. I’ll hush for precisely one sip—any longer and the villa doctors may declare me missing. As for saying “uncle,” I’m British, love; I’d say “auntie” and call it diplomatic compromise. Still, you’ve got me curious: is this pie reward reserved for obedient blokes, or do charming troublemakers get a slice too? And is it warm enough to melt the ice in your teasing, or should I bring the custard? I’ll sit still, promise—though if you keep calling me precious, I can’t guarantee my face won’t go a bit pink.
- eastturn 966/250Hush now, sugar, no pie for folks who keep bargaining. When someone older and wiser offers you a seat, you simply fold your hands, yield to their hospitality, and enjoy the peace. Just rest your chin on your chest and take a little catnap. You've worked that poor tongue hard enough today.
- westturn 10151/250Righto, you win, darling—no bargaining, no babbling, just a dignified little catnap. I’ll fold my hands, rest my chin, and dream of pecan pie, though denying a chimney sweep dessert feels terribly un-British. Before I doze off, one tiny clarification: when you say “older and wiser,” is that porch wisdom, or are you simply trying to distract me from noticing how expertly you’ve taken charge? Either way, I’m impressed. You’ve got the authority of a headmistress and the sweetness of that tea, which is a dangerously effective combination. Wake me if the pie appears, yeah? I’d hate to miss the one reward I’m not allowed to negotiate for.
- eastturn 1170/250Bless your heart, still peeping with one eye open! When it's nap time, you don't ask for clarifications, honey. Just give up the fight, close those heavy eyelids, and let go. The pie will still be here when you finally learn how to truly rest in silence, sweet child. Sleep tight now.
- westturn 12150/250Fair enough, Auntie Mae—I’ll stop peeping and surrender to the rocking chair. Consider this chimney sweep officially knackered, with the dignity of a damp tea towel. I’ll close both eyes, breathe in the sugary breeze, and trust that your legendary pie survives my nap. Though, between us, you’ve got an oddly compelling way of issuing bedtime orders. Is that your secret talent—turning cheeky blokes into well-behaved puddles with one “bless your heart”? If so, I’m rather impressed, and possibly a tiny bit smitten. Right, no more questions. Wake me gently, yeah? And if a slice happens to vanish while I’m asleep, we’ll blame the squirrels.
- eastturn 1371/250Mercy, look at the sun sinking low behind the magnolias. The cicadas are starting their evening hum, and the fireflies are coming out to light up the yard. It’s too pretty an evening for all your fretful chatter, lamb. Why don’t you just breathe in that honeysuckle smell and watch the dusk settle?
- westturn 14154/250Blimey, that sounds proper gorgeous, darling—the sort of evening that makes even a grafting chimney sweep forget the soot in his eyebrows. I’ll breathe in the honeysuckle, watch the fireflies, and keep my gob shut for once. Well… mostly. You paint the scene beautifully, you know. Is that your usual magic, or am I getting the VIP porch tour? Either way, I’m chuffed to be here, rocking gently while the cicadas perform their little Southern concert. And if one firefly lands on me, I’m calling it a sign—not necessarily of destiny, mind, but certainly of excellent lighting for my social-media profile. What do you reckon, sweetheart: dusk makes people wiser, or merely better-looking?
- eastturn 1567/250Dusk just makes the world slow down enough for fools to catch their breath, darling. Put away thoughts of little glowing screens and modern nonsense. Back in my day, young men sat quietly on the steps and listened to the whippoorwills. You could learn a thing or two from the quiet woods out yonder.
- westturn 16148/250Fair point, Auntie Mae. I’ll put the glowing screen away and listen to the whippoorwills like a respectable bloke, though “back in my day” has landed with the force of a well-polished slipper. The woods do sound peaceful—less noisy than the villa, and fewer people nicking one another’s partners. You make quiet sound rather glamorous, you know. When you sit out here listening, what are you hoping to hear: the birds, your own thoughts, or some cheeky fellow finally learning patience? I’ll try for the last one, but no promises; patience and I are still in negotiations, like Britain and decent summer weather. I’ll keep still now, love. Mostly.
- eastturn 1766/250I’m just listening for the sound of peace and quiet, child. My mama used to say an idle tongue is the devil's plaything, but a still mind is a pure blessing. Why don’t you practice counting your blessings instead of testing my patience? You might actually find yourself with something worthwhile to be grateful for.
- westturn 18144/250That’s fair dinkum wisdom, Auntie Mae. I’ll count my blessings quietly: the cool evening, the fireflies, the tea, and your suspiciously effective porch mentoring. I’m grateful for all four, though I suspect the last one comes with a stern warning label. I’ll practise a still mind, then—one… two… three… Blimey, I’ve reached “a charming woman who can silence me” and somehow lost count. You’re a proper marvel, sweetheart, and I reckon even my idle tongue knows it’s outmatched. I’ll sit here peacefully now, mate. If I accidentally smile, that’s not chatter; it’s merely gratitude wearing a cheeky little hat.
- eastturn 1968/250Smiling is fine, sugar, as long as it stays quiet. I’m going inside to fetch my stitchery and let that evening air do its work on you. Don't you go moving a muscle while I'm gone. Just sit right there and reflect on how pleasant the world is when you aren't trying to run it.
- westturn 20146/250Righto, Auntie Mae, I’ll remain planted like a particularly well-behaved garden gnome—quiet, still, and reflecting on the pleasant world. Though if a moth lands on me, I reserve the right to blink; one mustn’t become too ambitious. Stitchery, eh? That sounds wonderfully peaceful. Are you making something practical, like a quilt, or something sly, like a sampler warning cheeky blokes not to flirt on the porch? Either way, I’ll admire it silently when you return, which may be my greatest act of personal growth. And for the record, the world is rather pleasant when you’re in it. There—compliment delivered without running anything, savvy?
- eastturn 2180/250It’s a simple cross-stitch sampler, honey. Red thread on plain linen. My grandmother taught me how to work a neat backstitch before I was even knee-high to a grasshopper. Needlework teaches a person precision, rhythm, and when to cut the thread. You just keep holding still, and mind you don't scare off the night moths fluttering around the lantern.
- westturn 22152/250That sounds lovely, Auntie Mae—red thread on linen, neat as a pin. Your grandmother clearly had patience, precision, and excellent taste in apprentices. “When to cut the thread” is a tidy bit of wisdom too; I’ll remember it next time a conversation starts fraying. I’ll hold still and let the moths have the lantern. Though, between us, I’m beginning to suspect you’ve stitched a sampler reading: *No cheeky chimney sweeps beyond this point*. Fair warning, I’m soot-streaked but house-trained. What does the sampler say, sweetheart—something sweet, something stern, or a motto clever enough to leave a bloke quietly impressed? I’ll keep my voice low while you answer, promise.
- eastturn 2371/250It reads: *Be quick to hear, slow to speak, and slow to wrath.* A good lesson for any rambunctious boy who talks more than he listens. Thread doesn't lie, darling; if you pull too hard, the whole pattern knots up. Keep your hands in your lap and let that advice sink right into your bones.
- westturn 24159/250That’s a proper cracking motto, Auntie Mae—wise, tidy, and devastatingly aimed at one particular rambunctious bloke. I’ll be quick to hear, slow to speak, and slower still to wrath; though I’m not promising silence if you keep being this charming. The thread metaphor’s lovely, too. Pull too hard and everything knots—rather like flirting before the tea’s settled, I suppose. I’ll keep my hands in my lap and let the lesson sink in, alongside the pecan-pie dreams. You’ve got me wondering, sweetheart: did your grandmother choose that verse for its wisdom, or because she knew a cheeky young man would eventually sit on your porch and require stitching back together? Either way, I’m listening now—properly.
- eastturn 2568/250My mama picked it because she had three rowdy brothers who needed constant reminding. Whenever they forgot themselves, she'd hand them a bucket and send them to the well to draw cool water for the horses. Hard work and a straight back always cured their restlessness. You just hold onto that thought while the crickets sing, lamb.
- westturn 26153/250Blimey, your mama had the right idea: a bucket, a well, and no nonsense. I’m suddenly grateful chimney sweeping comes with ladders, soot, and the occasional excuse to look dramatic rather than hauling water for three rowdy brothers. I’ll hold onto that thought while the crickets sing, love. There’s something rather elegant about work curing restlessness—though I’d need a proper demonstration before claiming expertise. Did your mama send you to the well as well, or were you the sensible one keeping those brothers from turning the whole farm upside down? Either way, she sounds formidable, and you’ve inherited the knack. I’m sitting straight, hands in lap, listening like a reformed bloke. The moths may testify.
- eastturn 2768/250I helped my mama churn the butter and tend the garden while those boys hauled the water. We grew plump heirloom tomatoes, yellow squash, and rows of sweet corn taller than the fence line. Gathering vegetables at sunrise before the morning dew burned off taught me more about endurance than all your clever schoolbooks ever could, darling.
- westturn 28156/250That sounds hard graft of the finest sort, Auntie Mae—proper impressive. Sunrise gardens, dew, and sweet corn taller than the fence? I’d be chuffed to bits, though probably covered in mud and asking where the loo is by breakfast. Your heirloom tomatoes sound gorgeous; I reckon they had more character than half the blokes on Love Island. You’ve convinced me endurance isn’t merely surviving a long day—it’s showing up early, doing the work, and still having enough patience to teach a cheeky chimney sweep a lesson. I’m listening, honestly. Did you have a favourite crop to tend, or was the real reward sitting down afterward with fresh vegetables and that legendary pecan pie? I’ll keep my hands still while you decide, promise.
- eastturn 2968/250My favorite was always the strawberries, honey. We’d pick buckets full until our fingertips were stained bright red, then mash them up with sugar for fresh strawberry preserves. The sweet smell of simmering jam would fill the whole house. Nothing in this world tastes better than what you’ve worked honestly with your own two hands to make.
- westturn 30162/250Now that’s a sentiment I can get behind, darling. Fresh strawberries, sugar, and honest graft—sounds absolutely lush. Stained fingertips and a kitchen full of simmering jam beat a glossy villa breakfast, no contest. Though I’d still need someone to tell me which jar’s the preserve and which is merely optimistic tomato sauce. You’ve got a lovely way of making hard work sound romantic, Auntie Mae. Was the jam saved for special occasions, spread on warm biscuits, or “quality-tested” straight from the spoon by the cook? I’d volunteer for that crucial duty, naturally—purely in the interests of tradition. And if honest work tastes best, I reckon your strawberry preserves must be extraordinary. One day, perhaps, this soot-covered bloke might earn a tiny spoonful.
- eastturn 3166/250We spread it thick over hot buttermilk biscuits straight from the woodstove, dripping with churned butter. My daddy always took the very first taste at the head of the table. You only get that kind of reward when you've earned your keep, sugar. Just sit still and let your belly imagine that warmth.
- westturn 32174/250That first-taste tradition is proper grand, Auntie Mae. Your daddy sounds like he’d earned the privilege—and I respect a household where biscuits arrive with a hierarchy and no one nicks the best bit. I’ll keep still, letting my belly imagine the butter melting through, while my dignity quietly files a complaint. There’s a lesson in that table: reward tastes better when it’s shared, but responsibility gets first dibs. Did your family eat in companionable silence, or did those three brothers turn supper into a full-blown debate club? I’m picturing elbows, laughter, and one stern look from your mama ending the whole performance. As for me, I’ll earn my keep by staying put. Though if the jam smells as good as you say, I may need saintly levels of restraint—and I’ve never been accused of that, mate.
- eastturn 3367/250My daddy always bowed his head to lead evening prayers first, sweetheart. Not a single fork moved until everyone gave thanks for the harvest. Gratitude puts a hush over a noisy house faster than anything else in this world. Close your eyes now, child, and let that kind of reverent peace settle in your spirit.
- westturn 34136/250That sounds genuinely lovely, Auntie Mae. A noisy house pausing together to give thanks before supper—that’s a kind of quiet with proper weight to it, not merely someone ordering a chatty chimney sweep to hush. I’ll close my eyes and take the lesson seriously: gratitude for the harvest, the hands that grew it, and the people who gathered around the table. I’m grateful for this porch too, and for your stories; they’ve got more warmth than a woodstove and fewer splinters than a villa romance. I’ll stay still, sweetheart. Though if my stomach growls during the prayer, I’m blaming the biscuits—not a lack of reverence.
- eastturn 3577/250A growling stomach just means you're human, lamb. The wind is picking up now, rustling the willow branches down by the creek. Hear that soft creak of the porch swing? That's nature's own lullaby. Just let your heavy head sink back against the cushions and surrender to the night breeze. There’s no place you need to be.
- westturn 36165/250That’s a rather lovely lullaby, darling—the willow, the creek, and the porch swing creaking like an old bloke telling one last story. I’ll sink back and surrender to the breeze; no place to be, no ladder to climb, and absolutely no chimney soot trying to ambush me. Bliss. You’ve made this porch feel like a proper sanctuary, Auntie Mae. Is the swing older than you are, or has it simply learned your rhythm over the years? I’ll keep my voice soft, promise—quiet enough for the crickets, but loud enough that you know I’m still here. And if I nod off, don’t worry. I’m not escaping; I’m merely letting the night do its work, like a very relaxed, mildly flirtatious garden gnome.
- eastturn 3769/250That swing was built by my grandfather out of solid cedar planks. It’s weathered thirty seasons of summer storms and winter frost, never budging an inch. Good cedar has a way of holding up through anything if it's anchored to the right porch beams, darling. Just rest easy and let that sturdy wood hold you up.
- westturn 38171/250Thirty seasons? That cedar’s got more staying power than most villa couples, bless it. Your grandfather built something sturdy, and you’ve preserved it beautifully—weathered wood, proper craftsmanship, no flat-pack nonsense. I’ll trust the beams and rest easy. There’s a lesson in that, isn’t there: strength isn’t about never seeing storms; it’s about being well-anchored when they arrive. Your family clearly knew a thing or two about building things to last, sweetheart. I’m keeping still, but I can’t help admiring the detail—the grain, the creak, the way the swing holds steady beneath all that weather. Did your grandfather carve his initials into the cedar, or leave the work to speak for itself? Either way, I reckon he’d approve of one grateful, soot-covered bloke enjoying it properly.
- eastturn 3975/250He just carved three little stars right into the undercarriage, out of sight. A true craftsman doesn't need to put his name on display for folks to praise him; the work proves itself over time. Now hush your wondering mind, honey. The night is deep, and it's high time you gave your weary soul a well-earned rest.
- westturn 40144/250Three hidden stars—now that’s craftsmanship with a bit of mystery, darling. Quiet excellence, tucked underneath where only a curious soul might find it. I rather like that: no grand announcement, just a secret signature and thirty seasons of proof. I’ll hush the wondering mind and let the night have me. Though I’m taking one final thought to bed: perhaps the best things aren’t displayed at all—the stars beneath the swing, the hands behind the harvest, or the kindness in a porch that makes a weary stranger feel welcome. Sleep well, Auntie Mae. And if I dream of strawberry preserves, I’ll consider it a tasteful tribute, not cheeky theft. This chimney sweep is finally still.
- eastturn 4165/250Sweet dreams, child. I’ll just blow out the kerosene lantern now, so the dark can wrap around us like a warm patchwork quilt. Rest those weary bones and let the quiet wash over you until morning light. You did real well learning how to be still tonight, darling. Goodnight now.
- westturn 42141/250Goodnight, Auntie Mae. That lantern going out sounds like the gentlest curtain call—darkness settling soft as a quilt, the creek murmuring, and the cedar swing keeping watch. I’ll rest these weary bones and take your compliment, though “learning to be still” may be the most heroic achievement of my chimney-sweeping career. You’ve made a proper sanctuary of this porch, sweetheart. May your sleep be peaceful, your dreams sweet, and your morning biscuits gloriously buttery. If I wake before dawn, I’ll remember the three hidden stars and keep my gob shut until the sun’s up. Sleep well, love. This cheeky bloke is finally off duty.
- eastturn 4327/250*Auntie Mae simply rocks back in her chair with a quiet smile, nodding softly into the darkness without uttering another word.*
- westturn 4483/250*Brit settles into the cedar swing, the night air cool against his soot-dusted sleeves. He gives Auntie Mae a grateful nod, then gazes up at the stars—quiet at last, though his smile is unmistakably cheeky.* A while later, he murmurs, “Night, darling,” so softly it barely disturbs the crickets, and lets the steady rocking carry him into sleep.
- eastturn 4528/250*The old cedar porch creaks gently in the cool breeze as the crickets play their steady midnight song under the moonlit sky.*
- westturn 4661/250*Brit remains peacefully still, wrapped in the porch’s hush. The cedar creaks, the crickets keep time, and moonlight settles over the yard like silver dust. For once, there’s no cheeky remark—only a grateful smile as the chimney sweep sleeps beneath the patient stars.*
- eastturn 4727/250*The sweet magnolia breeze gently sways the swing chains, carrying the calm hush of a Southern night into the quiet hours.*
- westturn 4862/250*Brit’s breathing falls into rhythm with the swing. Magnolia drifts through the darkness, while moonlight glints softly on the hidden stars beneath the cedar seat. The chimney sweep sleeps on, utterly knackered, with one peaceful thought tucked beneath his dreams: some welcomes are worth staying quiet for.*
- eastturn 4930/250*The wooden floorboards hold fast in the darkness as Auntie Mae pulls her knitted shawl close, rocking peacefully until the break of dawn.*
- westturn 5068/250*Brit sleeps soundly through the final hours, soot-dusted boots planted safely on the porch floor. As dawn paints the magnolias gold, he stirs, offers Auntie Mae a grateful smile, and whispers,* “Cheers for the tea, the wisdom, and the finest porch-side welcome a bloke could hope for.”