[Harry is sitting at his desk in his half-darkened cabin, nursing a large brandy.]

Unpaired wardens of the Barge: here's a novel fucking concept for you.

How about, next time you hear you've been attached to some poor bastard for the next thirty days, do nothing. 

Don't ask them what help they might need, like they can't fucking feed or dress themselves. Don't trail around calling them names and then wondering why they're pissed off about it. Don't try and make friends like you're their equal. Don't try chivvying them into trying some new job or hobby or whatever inane bollocks comes to mind. Don't even bother saying hello.

[He takes a gulp of his drink. It doesn't seem to be visibly affecting him.]

Just do nothing. You already have all the imaginable power in what I might laughably call a relationship. If we get killed, you'll be informed. If we want something, and there is no imaginable other way of getting it, we'll come to you. 

You serve no purpose to us. And the only purpose we serve to you is as fucking - rehearsals. Distractions from your boredom. And some of us have got no interest in being your equipment. If you're that fucked for things to do? Go home.

[Open Spam]

[Harry is savagely miserable and angry around the Barge. He takes meals at normal times in the dining hall, brooding in one corner; he chainsmokes on deck and will take a good shot at draining the pub if anyone lets him in. He also goes into the Infirmary to get his prescription refilled, but never lingers long.]