I came across a cute little list of writing prompts on tumblr – 26 in all, one for each letter of the alphabet. I twisted it into a writing exercise for myself. Here is 'A':

Amuse Me: A funny drabble about one character trying to cheer another up.

I'm going to start things off with a rather silly one. Very silly. Too silly. Enjoy.

Lady Grantham had made yet another colossal change to their plans for the upcoming house party and Mrs. Hughes had grown quite weary of reworking her timetable, only to have it made obsolete the minute she'd finished. She trudged up the stairs to the servant's wing in search of Mr. Carson. She didn't like the idea of disturbing him one hour into his half day, but if he was still in the house than she knew he would want to be informed immediately.

As she approached his bedroom she heard a strange sound echoing in the deserted corridor. It was a song. A quiet, rhythmic tune that came from the room at the end of the hall. Mr. Carson's room. She recognized his voice now, humming merrily away.

Curious and amused she tiptoed to the door, which was barely open, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him before he noticed her. When she spotted him her mouth fell open. He wasn't just singing to himself – he was singing to himself while juggling apples. She could hardly believe it. He had five of them going in the air at once and was so focused that he didn't notice her push his bedroom door open.

"Does Mrs. Patmore know you're hording her apples?" she asked, stepping gaily into the room. He gave a start and promptly dropped the apples, sending them rolling in all directions.

"Mrs. Hughes!" he sputtered, looking very abashed, "I didn't see you there."

"Clearly," she remarked brightly, helping him gather the wayward fruit.

He turned redder than apples as she handed them back to him. He lined them up neatly on the table, unable to meet her eye in his embarrassment. When he could fuss with them no more he was brave enough to address her. "I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes, I didn't mean for you to see that."

"I'm sure, but it's hardly the most scandalous thing in the world now is it?" she remarked lightly. She didn't see the harm in such a pastime, though she had not thought it something he would want to do. He'd been very adamant about no longer being the man that once made up half of the Cheerful Charlie's. He didn't even like that part of his life being alluded to.

Her easy words reassured him that she wasn't appalled, but his discomfort was no so easily set aside. "Perhaps not, but I'd rather you not mentioned to anyone."

She nodded. "Of course not," she assured him, "but I do have one question."

"Yes?" he asked, apprehensively.

Mrs. Hughes regarded him carefully, trying to assess the best way to address her query without making him feel more vulnerable than he already did. "It's just…I thought you preferred to forget that chapter in your life."

"I do," he said firmly, "but I wanted to see if…if I still could…never mind it was a foolish fancy that I never should have indulged."

"I see," she said carefully. "And what brought on this foolish fancy of yours?"

"That's two questions."

"Technically, the first one was a statement."

"Technically," he admitted, casting his eyes around the room.

"And you're avoiding the question," she pointed out. He seemed sad, or if not sad, very pensive. She was keen to understand the source of his distress. Something was bothering him beyond his embarrassment at being caught, she was sure. Mr. Carson thought for a long moment and then motioned for her to sit down on the chair. She obliged silently, sensing he was on the verge of a confession.

He took a seat on his bed opposite her. She had asked and he would answer, as honestly as he could. "I suppose I'm feeling old, Mrs. Hughes."

That hadn't been what she expected. Old? "That's not something I thought I'd hear you on about," she said, surprised.

"Well, it's true. I am. I feel it, more and more everyday in my legs and my back and my shoulders. I'm slowing down, Mrs. Hughes, there's no denying it."

She had to actively stop herself from letting her eyes roam over his body as he described it to her. She's felt the feeling he described, perhaps not quite as acutely as he felt it now, but she did understand.

"It got me thinking," he continued, "wondering if I could still do everything I used to be able to. Which led me to-"

"Juggling," she finished for him.

"Yes," he said abashed. What a fool he thought he was. What did it matter if he could still juggle? Did he think it would prove he wasn't old?

"Well can you? Juggle like you used to?" she asked, casually.

"You know perfectly well, seeing as you caught me. Must you ridicule me as well?"

She opened her mouth to protest that she hadn't meant to ridicule him at all, but he cut her off. "Save your speeches on my honour and integrity, Mrs. Hughes. I know you think so, but I am also aware of how undignified I was. How undignified I am."

He looked like a kicked puppy and Mrs. Hughes wanted to cross the room shake some sense into him. She had a better idea, however. "I was going to say, Mr. Carson, that all of us are permitted to have some…undignified talents at you would put it."

"You're one to talk," he muttered, still very dejected. "You're one of the most dignified women I know, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Carson, but you don't know everything about me," she remarked lightly. "Wait right here. I'll be back in half a minute."

"What?" he said stupidly, rising from the bed.

"Stay," she implored him, sweeping out of the room.

She returned a moment later bearing a dusty shoebox. Mr. Carson looked at her in utter confusion. What on earth was she about? She shut the door firmly behind her.

"Mrs. Hughes, what-" he began, appalled at the idea of her shutting them alone together in his bedroom. In the middle of the day no less! It was odd enough to have such an intimate conversation here when the door was open, but this seemed entirely inappropriate.

"Hush!" she chided him, slipping off her shoes. "No one will notice, and this will only take a minute." She flipped open the shoe box and pulled out a very old, very worn pair of tap shoes. He frowned in confusion.

"I can tap dance," she said simply.

He snorted, but she was being dead serious. "You can do what?!"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "I told you, you're not the only one with undignified talents, Mr. Carson." She stepped into her tap shoes, which remarkably still fit, and grinned at his flabbergasted expression.

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll murder you," she said firmly, before launching into a series of shuffle steps. Mr. Carson stared in amazement as she tapped in a little circle around the room, finishing with an exaggerated curtsy.

"Where on earth did you learn to do THAT?" he asked, enchanted and positively shocked.

"From an American woman, in the village where I grew up." she explained, laughing as his jaw dropped even further. "These were actually her shoes at one time. She taught me in secret, my mother never would have approved."

"I should think not. I doubt she wished her daughter having aspirations to be a vaudevillian."

"In my defense, I knew nothing of Vaudeville growing up, so there was never any danger of that. I just liked the sound of the steps. I haven't tried it since I went into service, but I kept the shoes as a reminder."

"It's impressive that you remember so much since it's been that long," he remarked.

"Thank you," she said, taking a step towards him. "Now, do you find me hopelessly undignified and ridiculous?"

He regarded her with delight. Just when he thought he knew all there was to know about her, she managed to surprise him. "Perhaps a little bit," he teased, taking her hands in his, "but thank you."

"For?" she asked coyly.

"For cheering me up," he said, kissing her swiftly on the nose. Now it was her turn to look flabbergasted.

"I'm sorry, was that too ridiculous?" he said mischievously.

It took her a moment to recover, but when she did she tugged at the lapels of his jacket. "No, you missed," she replied, pressing her lips to his. He pulled her closer, kissing her deeply and letting his hands roam up and down her back. When they finally broke apart he grinned at her and she beamed back. Charles Carson thought perhaps there wasn't anything wrong with being a little cheerful.