tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86155090301608871352024-03-13T20:32:00.300+00:00KayMartLook upon my words, ye mighty, and despair.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-71314872994649248302011-12-21T13:47:00.001+00:002011-12-21T13:48:27.583+00:00A recent exchange of emails with Amazons in regard to a most distressing orange sticker<div style="text-align: center;"><img class="scaled-image" height="320" origheight="816" origwidth="612" src="http://p.twimg.com/AhCrUGdCIAA3JHw.jpg:large" width="239" /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><br />
<br />
<strong><u>MY SECOND EMAIL</u></strong><br />
<br />
12/20/11 17:08:56<br />
Your name:Tom Mitchell<br />
Order No: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx<br />
Other info:Worrying packaging<br />
Selected Order Items:<br />
V & A Museum William Morris Daisy Cream Set of 2 Mugs<br />
Comments:<br />
<br />
Amazon,<br />
<br />
If you remember, I emailed yesterday in regards to a bright orange sticker marked 'DO NOT OPEN'. I was asking why I wasn't allowed to open the box, which, as outlined above, I think contains some nice mugs for my mum.<br />
<br />
Ironically, you weren't able to open the link to an image of the sticker. Here it is again and I can confirm it works: pic.twitter.com/6IjLDIuW<br />
<br />
I want to know if I can ignore the bright orange sticker & open the box. I'd also like your assurance that nothing calamitous will befall me.<br />
<br />
If it box does safely contain my mum's mugs, I really need to get them wrapped before she arrives. Mum's not the kind of woman to appreciate unwrapped presents or bright orange warning stickers.<br />
<br />
Many thanks,<br />
<br />
Tom Mitchell<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u>THEIR RESPONSE</u></strong><br />
<br />
Hello Tom,<br />
<br />
Thank you for writing back to Amazon.co.uk.<br />
<br />
I understand your concern regarding the sticker attached to the item " V & A Museum William Morris Daisy Cream Set of 2 Mugs" stating 'DO NOT OPEN'.<br />
<br />
Your order #xxxxxxxxxxxxxx for this item, was sold by 'InStyle Products Limited'. This item was labelled ‘Fulfilled by Amazon’. Items labelled ‘Fulfilled by Amazon’ are sent to you directly from an Amazon.co.uk Fulfillment Centre.<br />
<br />
Please note that the Orange sticker should have been attached to the packaging to instruct the carrier (not to open the parcel until delivery) regarding the safe delivery of this item.<br />
<br />
In this case, I kindly request you to open the parcel and check the contents of it.<br />
<br />
If you discover that the item is damaged or any kind of issue, please let us know by replying to this e-mail and we'll do everything we can to help.<br />
<br />
If you prefer to call us, we’re available Monday to Saturday 07:00-21:00 and Sunday 10:00-19:00, local UK time. Freephone (within the UK):<br />
0800 496 1081<br />
<br />
International customers can reach us at +44 (0) 207 084 7911.<br />
<br />
I hope that you find this information helpful.<br />
<br />
Thank you for your patience and understanding, and for shopping at Amazon.co.uk.<br />
<br />
Warmest regards,<br />
<br />
Srinivasan R.<br />
<br />
Amazon.co.uk<br />
<br />
Your feedback is helping us build Earth's Most Customer-Centric Company.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-86439011408253692472011-11-30T19:31:00.002+00:002011-11-30T19:35:09.177+00:00FAO INTERNATIONAL POETRY MAGAZINESI propose the following column: <br />
<br />
Poetry based on the 'random article' feature of Wikipedia. For each column, I shall write verse inspired by THE VERY FIRST article presented by Wikipedia. I shall undertake never to load 'random articles' until a favourable one appears.<br />
<br />
The next three column subjects are as follow:<br />
<br />
a) Democratic Party of Pensioners of Slovenia (how I wish this had been the first selection);<br />
b) Bituing Marikit (a Philippine movie);<br />
c) Friends (the Led Zeppelin song).<br />
<br />
<br />
Thanks for the opportunity,<br />
<br />
Kay Richardson<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Shell Builtin</u><br />
<u>(Mr Computer, if you spot a ‘syntax error’: it’s poetry)</u><br />
<br />
Shell Builtin, you possess a word unheard<br />
(that's Builtin, friend, not shell).<br />
Your most interesting feature and really<br />
of all the Wiki entries, why ‘OS stubs’?<br />
I’ve read your entry twice and still moved to query<br />
Quite what the command term ‘bash-builtin’ does.<br />
<br />
I read a widely-used shell builtin is ‘logout’<br />
And briefly your electronic life is seen<br />
(in the belly of my Dell).<br />
You are the doorman of the computer system:<br />
And I imagine you summoned by virtual bell.<br />
<br />
You’re described as ‘simple and trivial’ but that doesn’t mean<br />
I don’t warm to you, Shell Builtin.<br />
I once had a girl of simple and trivial chat<br />
But with a body as lithe as a teenage boy's.<br />
Shell Builtin, if only I were teenage too<br />
And then<br />
(command or a function called from a shell)<br />
I may have heard of you.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-30179682107951034022011-11-30T19:23:00.001+00:002011-11-30T19:25:37.829+00:00Kebabs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/42/125979780_86b0bda2b3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/42/125979780_86b0bda2b3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Mate, it’s got to be a donner. Donner with chips. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Extra chilli – I’m fucking mad for spice, fucking love it, even though it stains like fuck. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Where's it from? South America? You buy your chillies from Chile, do you? </div><div class="MsoNormal">Don't worry about me, I'm like that McIntyre bastard.</div><div class="MsoNormal">A funny fuck. </div><div class="MsoNormal">He's got a roadshow like Radio 1, fucking Kylie Minogue.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I bet she doesn't like kebabs. You get her in here often, do you?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Salad? You're asking if want salad? You having a laugh? Do I look like I eat salad? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t answer that, bruv, don’t take the piss.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-60406601068305788902011-08-30T20:05:00.000+01:002011-08-30T20:05:38.578+01:00Ass"OMG," said Doctor Scott.<br />
<br />
"I literally LMFAO," said Kay.<br />
<br />
Kay was admitted to St Mary's hospital. There, a lovely nurse fitted him a new ass but warned that he would no longer be able to bathe or use a hottub. And his TV reception might be affected but that hardly ever happened.<br />
<br />
When Kay got home, he stood at his computer and unfollowed all those who might ever tweet funny content but especially @tommycm.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-60310484192001536482011-08-18T10:56:00.000+01:002011-08-18T10:56:33.655+01:00What next?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i579.photobucket.com/albums/ss234/Eshyn/tumbleweed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://i579.photobucket.com/albums/ss234/Eshyn/tumbleweed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-19447914424338665202011-08-03T11:21:00.000+01:002011-08-03T11:21:23.305+01:00ExtractThere follows an extract from something I'm trying to write -<br />
<br />
I should have said – I wasn’t wearing any trousers. And there was blood, a CRIMSON POOL and dark and dried about my left knee like I was a bastard soldier. No trousers. Just boxer shorts. Feet covered in plastic bags. My friend in the telephone box. And waiting for Dad. An unsual Sunday morning. That’s the set up.<br />
<br />
If you passed in your Ford Mondeo, you wouldn't see much to my face. It was blank and it was blank because I was tired and disappointed and fed up with Dave and I knew that accompanying Dad in the inevitable Volvo was an almighty bollocking.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-28004665895161414852011-07-21T12:43:00.001+01:002011-07-21T12:43:46.223+01:00Night-time Lard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XvpqRsrzMCQ/TdcSNxbtC7I/AAAAAAAAAdM/lrqDRqQNd24/s1600/Lard.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XvpqRsrzMCQ/TdcSNxbtC7I/AAAAAAAAAdM/lrqDRqQNd24/s320/Lard.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_themedata.xml" rel="themeData"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>Night-time Lard<o:p></o:p></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Dear Lard, square white of melting delight,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ignored sister of whorish butter,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I spread you on my frying pan at night.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Your naughty sizzle, your cheeky splutter.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Know I sizzle too, my Lard, for in the gloom,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know you’re melting for others’ sake.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The childish bacon, sausage and mushroom,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">How I envy their swimming in your wake,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">You hold them fully and you make them whole.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Your love is not exclusive, yes, I know,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">For I mouthed you once raw in a bowl.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And soon threw you up in the sink, although<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was both sick with love and sick with lard<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And my breakfast heart’s forever scarred.<o:p></o:p></div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-62952248047011020582011-06-15T15:41:00.000+01:002011-06-15T15:41:50.266+01:00My new project<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://thequickanddirtydirty.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/missing-cat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://thequickanddirtydirty.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/missing-cat.png" width="241" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi, gang!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've decided to write a play. There follows my amateurish effort at a first scene. I'd love to hear your reactions to it. Be ruthless in your criticism! The play's title is 'King @Tommycm', with which I'm very happy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">SCENE I. King @tommycm's palace.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Enter KENT, GLOUCESTER, and EDMUND<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I thought the king had more affected the Duke of<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Albany than Cornwall.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GLOUCESTER<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It did always seem so to us: but now, in the<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">division of the kingdom, it appears not which of<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">the dukes he values most; for equalities are so<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">weighed, that curiosity in neither can make choice<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">of either's moiety.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Is not this your son, my lord?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GLOUCESTER<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">so often blushed to acknowledge him, that now I am<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">brazed to it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I cannot conceive you.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GLOUCESTER<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sir, this young fellow's mother could: whereupon<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">she grew round-wombed, and had, indeed, sir, a son<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you smell a fault?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">being so proper.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GLOUCESTER<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">though this knave came something saucily into the<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">world before he was sent for, yet was his mother<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">fair; there was good sport at his making, and the<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">noble gentleman, Edmund?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">EDMUND<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">No, my lord.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GLOUCESTER<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">honourable friend.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">EDMUND<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My services to your lordship.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I must love you, and sue to know you better.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">EDMUND<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sir, I shall study deserving.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GLOUCESTER<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">He hath been out nine years, and away he shall<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">again. The king is coming.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Enter KING @TOMMYCM, CORNWALL, ALBANY, GONERIL, REGAN, CORDELIA, and Attendants<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GLOUCESTER<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I shall, my liege.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Exeunt GLOUCESTER and EDMUND<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Give me the map there. Know that we have divided<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">In three our kingdom: and 'tis our fast intent<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To shake all cares and business from our age;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Conferring them on younger strengths, while we<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Unburthen'd crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And you, our no less loving son of Albany,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We have this hour a constant will to publish<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters,--<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Since now we will divest us both of rule,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Interest of territory, cares of state,--<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Which of you shall we say doth love us most?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That we our largest bounty may extend<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our eldest-born, speak first.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GONERIL<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">As much as child e'er loved, or father found;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Beyond all manner of so much I love you.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">[Aside] What shall Cordelia do?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Love, and be silent.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">@TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We make thee lady: to thine and Albany's issue<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">REGAN<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sir, I am made<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Of the self-same metal that my sister is,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And prize me at her worth. In my true heart<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I find she names my very deed of love;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Only she comes too short: that I profess<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Myself an enemy to all other joys,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Which the most precious square of sense possesses;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And find I am alone felicitate<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">In your dear highness' love.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">[Aside] Then poor Cordelia!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love's<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">More richer than my tongue.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To thee and thine hereditary ever<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">No less in space, validity, and pleasure,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Than that conferr'd on Goneril. Now, our joy,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Although the last, not least; to whose young love<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The vines of France and milk of Burgundy<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Strive to be interess'd; what can you say to draw<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing, my lord.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">According to my bond; nor more nor less.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a little,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lest it may mar your fortunes.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Good my lord,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Return those duties back as are right fit,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Obey you, love you, and most honour you.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Why have my sisters husbands, if they say<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Half my love with him, half my care and duty:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To love my father all.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But goes thy heart with this?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ay, good my lord.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">So young, and so untender?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">So young, my lord, and true.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Let it be so; thy truth, then, be thy dower:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The mysteries of Hecate, and the night;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">By all the operation of the orbs<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">From whom we do exist, and cease to be;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Here I disclaim all my paternal care,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Propinquity and property of blood,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And as a stranger to my heart and me<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous Scythian,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or he that makes his generation messes<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and relieved,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">As thou my sometime daughter.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Good my liege,--<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Peace, Kent!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Come not between the dragon and his wrath.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I loved her most, and thought to set my rest<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">So be my grave my peace, as here I give<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Her father's heart from her! Call France; who stirs?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">With my two daughters' dowers digest this third:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I do invest you jointly with my power,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Pre-eminence, and all the large effects<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">With reservation of an hundred knights,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The name, and all the additions to a king;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">This coronet part betwixt you.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Giving the crown<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>KENT</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Royal @tommycm,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Whom I have ever honour'd as my king,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Loved as my father, as my master follow'd,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">As my great patron thought on in my prayers,--<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Let it fall rather, though the fork invade<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">When @tommycm is mad. What wilt thou do, old man?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour's bound,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And, in thy best consideration, cheque<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgment,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Reverbs no hollowness.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Kent, on thy life, no more.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My life I never held but as a pawn<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To wage against thy enemies; nor fear to lose it,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thy safety being the motive.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Out of my sight!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">See better, @tommycm; and let me still remain<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The true blank of thine eye.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, by Apollo,--<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, by Apollo, king,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thou swear'st thy gods in vain.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">O, vassal! miscreant!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Laying his hand on his sword<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>ALBANY CORNWALL</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Dear sir, forbear.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Do:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Upon thy foul disease. Revoke thy doom;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I'll tell thee thou dost evil.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Hear me, recreant!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">On thine allegiance, hear me!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Which we durst never yet, and with strain'd pride<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To come between our sentence and our power,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Which nor our nature nor our place can bear,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our potency made good, take thy reward.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Five days we do allot thee, for provision<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To shield thee from diseases of the world;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And on the sixth to turn thy hated back<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day following,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The moment is thy death. Away! by Jupiter,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">This shall not be revoked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KENT<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That justly think'st, and hast most rightly said!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To REGAN and GONERIL<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And your large speeches may your deeds approve,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That good effects may spring from words of love.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">He'll shape his old course in a country new.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Exit<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Flourish. Re-enter GLOUCESTER, with KING OF FRANCE, BURGUNDY, and Attendants<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">GLOUCESTER<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Here's France and Burgundy, my noble lord.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My lord of Burgundy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We first address towards you, who with this king<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Hath rivall'd for our daughter: what, in the least,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Will you require in present dower with her,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or cease your quest of love?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">BURGUNDY<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Most royal majesty,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I crave no more than what your highness offer'd,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nor will you tender less.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Right noble Burgundy,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">When she was dear to us, we did hold her so;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">If aught within that little seeming substance,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Or all of it, with our displeasure pieced,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And nothing more, may fitly like your grace,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">She's there, and she is yours.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">BURGUNDY<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know no answer.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Will you, with those infirmities she owes,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Dower'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Take her, or leave her?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">BURGUNDY<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Pardon me, royal sir;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Election makes not up on such conditions.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I tell you all her wealth.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To KING OF FRANCE<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For you, great king,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I would not from your love make such a stray,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To avert your liking a more worthier way<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Than on a wretch whom nature is ashamed<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Almost to acknowledge hers.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING OF FRANCE<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">This is most strange,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That she, that even but now was your best object,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The argument of your praise, balm of your age,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Must be of such unnatural degree,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fall'n into taint: which to believe of her,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Must be a faith that reason without miracle<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Could never plant in me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I yet beseech your majesty,--<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">If for I want that glib and oily art,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I'll do't before I speak,--that you make known<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">No unchaste action, or dishonour'd step,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That hath deprived me of your grace and favour;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But even for want of that for which I am richer,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I am glad I have not, though not to have it<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Hath lost me in your liking.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Better thou<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Hadst not been born than not to have pleased me better.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING OF FRANCE<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Is it but this,--a tardiness in nature<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Which often leaves the history unspoke<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That it intends to do? My lord of Burgundy,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">What say you to the lady? Love's not love<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">When it is mingled with regards that stand<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">She is herself a dowry.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">BURGUNDY<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Royal @tommycm,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Give but that portion which yourself proposed,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And here I take Cordelia by the hand,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Duchess of Burgundy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">BURGUNDY<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That you must lose a husband.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Peace be with Burgundy!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Since that respects of fortune are his love,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I shall not be his wife.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING OF FRANCE<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Be it lawful I take up what's cast away.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My love should kindle to inflamed respect.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Can buy this unprized precious maid of me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thou losest here, a better where to find.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING @TOMMYCM<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That face of hers again. Therefore be gone<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Without our grace, our love, our benison.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Come, noble Burgundy.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Flourish. Exeunt all but KING OF FRANCE, GONERIL, REGAN, and CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">KING OF FRANCE<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Bid farewell to your sisters.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And like a sister am most loath to call<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Your faults as they are named. Use well our father:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">To your professed bosoms I commit him<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But yet, alas, stood I within his grace,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I would prefer him to a better place.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, farewell to you both.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">REGAN<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Prescribe not us our duties.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GONERIL<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Let your study<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Be to content your lord, who hath received you<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">At fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And well are worth the want that you have wanted.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Well may you prosper!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">KING OF FRANCE<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Come, my fair Cordelia.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Exeunt KING OF FRANCE and CORDELIA<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">GONERIL<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sister, it is not a little I have to say of what<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">most nearly appertains to us both. I think our<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">father will hence to-night.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">REGAN<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">That's most certain, and with you; next month with us.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GONERIL<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">You see how full of changes his age is; the<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">observation we have made of it hath not been<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">little: he always loved our sister most; and<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">appears too grossly.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">REGAN<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">'Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">but slenderly known himself.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GONERIL<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The best and soundest of his time hath been but<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">rash; then must we look to receive from his age,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">that infirm and choleric years bring with them.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">REGAN<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Such unconstant starts are we like to have from<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">him as this of Kent's banishment.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GONERIL<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">There is further compliment of leavetaking<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">between France and him. Pray you, let's hit<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">together: if our father carry authority with<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">such dispositions as he bears, this last<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">surrender of his will but offend us.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">REGAN<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We shall further think on't.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">GONERIL<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We must do something, and i' the heat.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Exeunt<o:p></o:p></div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-48505092325132541682011-06-13T20:51:00.003+01:002011-06-13T20:54:02.308+01:00One Man And His Dog<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;">There follows a silly something that was shortlisted for a BBC-organised competition at the start of this year, but never got any further. Apologies for weird spaces/poor humour etc ...</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;"><br />
</span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 1. INT. LIVING ROOM – DAY 1 [10.00]<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> LIES ON HIS LIVING ROOM SOFA. HIS SPEECH STARTS WITH A CLOSE SHOT OF HIS FACE AND WE MIGHT IMAGINE HE IS ON A PSYCHIATRIST’S COUCH. AS THE SPEECH CONTINUES, WE DRAW OUT TO SEE HE LIES ON A TATTY, LONG SOFA. HE IS A MAN WHO COULD BE EITHER SIDE OF THIRTY. HE WEARS CLOTHES THAT ARE ALMOST TRENDY. HIS GLASSES, THICK-RIMMED, CONSTANTLY SLIDE DOWN HIS NOSE. HE SMILES LOTS. WE LIKE HIM, DESPITE HIS SLIGHT PRETENTIOUSNESS.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 67.7pt; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 70.9pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Of all the girls with whom I’ve fallen in love, not one has lacked a big nose. Even those for whom my feelings were only fleeting, each and every one possessed huge noses. I’m not normal. I am a pervert. A nose pervert. I love the noses. I remember once meeting a girl, through work, I might have told you about her and her name was Sonia. Stop panting. She was beautiful. Sweet Sonia. Great fun. She once unscrewed the top of all the saltshakers in the canteen. How we laughed over our salty green leaf salads. And she liked me. I mean, really liked me. She was beautiful, model quality. Not catwalk model but cider advert type. Happy in a pub. She asked me out. And we dated and, you know. But I knew nothing would come of us. Why? Guess, Shaggy. Hers was a pretty nose, a cute nose. An artful thing. And we split up and when I told her the reason, because her nose was too pretty, it was because I wanted to be honest because, really, the reason was flattering. She was really pissed off, more than you’d think. Is it Freudian? Does my mother have a big nose? You’re drawling. I knows it’s not as simple as that, but Mum’s nose is ordinary. It’s neither pretty nor ugly. I had no traumatic experiences with noses when I was young. I can’t think of any past incident to forever link sex with noses. I’m strange. I’m ill. And if I see a pretty girl with a huge nose, I’m putty in her hands, her wish is my command, I do as she wills. I act strangely, Shaggy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">THE CAMERA HAS PULLED BACK SO FAR THAT WE SEE HE IS TALKING TO <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b>, HIS DOG. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY </b>SITS IN AN ARMCHAIR, LOOKING NONPLUSSED.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Why am I telling you this? You’re only after one thing. You don’t listen because you care. You listen because you must. You dog. As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, shoughs, water-rugs and demi-wolves, are clept all by the name of dogs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> SPEAKS WITH AN EXTREMELY RICH, UPPER CLASS VOICE, PERFECT FOR 1950S SHAKESPEARE. HE MAY NOT BE AN ACTUAL DOG AND MIGHT BE PLAYED BY AN ACTOR WHO LOOKS LIKE A DOG.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">(V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Henry Rowbottom, my master, an out of work actor, and a bastard. He needed help. I needed a walk. I needed feeding too. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">WE HEAR THE DOORBELL. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> PULLS HIMSELF FROM THE SOFA AND LEAVES THE ROOM. STILL FOCUSING ON THE MOTIONLESS DOG, WE HEAR <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b>’S OFFSTAGE EXCHANGE WITH THE PIZZA DELIVERYMAN.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 67.7pt; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 70.9pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (O.O.V.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Henry! Little early for pizza, mate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (O.O.V.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">What time is it?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (O.O.V.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Half ten and you’re gonna get fat. You should run. I run. Running’s good. Run in the mornings. Out in the streets. Got some good streets around here. Long streets. Good for running and mopeds. Long streets and little pedestrians. Good for running. Got to get some running. That’s what London’s about. The streets. The long streets and little pedestrians. Good for running. You’ve got to buy the right footwear, mind. You’ve got to have quality footwear. Look at these. Ninety quid, they cost. They are my moped shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (O.O.V.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Thanks for the advice. Nice shoes. Keep the change.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN:</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">(O.O.V.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Twenty pence? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">SOUND OF DOOR CLOSING. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> REAPPEARS IN THE LIVING ROOM WITH TWO PIZZA BOXES. HE OPENS ONE TO CHECK ITS CONTENTS.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Meat Feast. That’s yours. Do you want a plate? A beer?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 67.7pt; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 2. EXT. URBAN PARK – DAY 1 [11.00]<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY, SHAGGY </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">AND <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">GIRL </b>SIT TIGHTLY ON A PARK BENCH. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> READS FROM A COLLECTION OF PLAYS. HE WEARS JOGGING CLOTHES, A SWEATBAND, TRAINERS. HIS MOUTH IS STAINED BY PIZZA SAUCE. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">GIRL</b> IS UNSURE WHETHER TO TALK. SHE NERVOUSLY EYES HIS STAINED MOUTH. SHE’S EXTREMELY PRETTY, A MODEL.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 67.7pt; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 70.9pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">You know you’ve got sauce around your mouth?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> DOESN’T RESPOND. NOT BECAUSE HE’S RUDE BUT BECAUSE HE’S SO ENGROSSED IN THE PLAY.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Excuse me?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> DOESN’T RESPOND. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">There comes a time in every dog’s life where he must bark not for himself but for his master.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">, AFTER SOME TIME, BARKS. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> JUMPS, ALMOST DROPPING HIS BOOK. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b> NOW LOOKS AT <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">GIRL</b>, SO <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> FOLLOWS HIS GAZE AND SMILES WITH SUDDEN EMBARRASSMENT AT THE ATTRACTIVE NEIGHBOUR.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Hi.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">WE ZOOM IN SLOWLY TOWARDS HER PRETTY NOSE. HENRY CONTORTS HIS FACE IN DISGUST, SHAKING HIS HEAD.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Hello.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">You’ve got something around your mouth. Is it blood? Are you a vampire like Robert Pattinson?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">LICKS IT OFF.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Pizza sauce.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">My master is never comfortable in the presence of women, big-nosed or not.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL: <o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">You have a very well behaved dog. I only wish my Buster was as … stoic. That’s a good word, isn’t it? Stoic. He must be extremely well bred. Stoic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Buster’s your dog?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Ha! Yes. Look! There he is.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> POINTS. AHEAD OF THE BENCH, IN THE DIRECTION THE CHARACTERS HAVE BEEN FACING, IS A FOOTBALL FIELD OF MAD DOGS – ALL BREEDS AND SIZES AND COLOURS. THEY RUN AROUND IN A MAD FURY, BARKING AND YAPPING AND RUSHING THROUGH DOG LIFE. THIS COULD BE STOCK FOOTAGE – VERY OBVIOUSLY NOT CLOSE TO THE BENCH.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">He’s the white one. Do you see? He’s frolicking. He loves to frolic. But don’t we all?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">That sure ain’t frolicking, lady.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I like you. Do you want my phone number?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Your phone number?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">WE SEE A VERY STYLISED REPRESENTATION OF <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b>’S IMAGINATION PLAY OUT: THE GIRL LEANS OVER TO KISS HIM, BUT HE IS FOCUSED ON HER NOSE. TERROR. FROM HIS POV THE NOSE APPROACHES AND HE RECOILS, SHOUTING. SNAPPING BACK TO REALITY, HE SITS WITH HIS FACE CONTORTED IN DISGUST.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Aren’t you going to note it down? Do you have a telephone on which to store it? The digits. Numero telephono.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I don’t own a phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Not at all? How will you call me?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> SHRUGS.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">It’s 07971234563.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">OK.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">You’ve got that?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Yep.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">GIRL:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Holler it back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">0 …<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HE CAN REMEMBER NO MORE.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 3. INT. LIVING ROOM – DAY 2 [10.00]<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> LIES IN HIS CONFESSIONAL POSITION ALONG THE LENGTH OF THE SOFA. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY </b>SITS IN THE ARMCHAIR, LISTENING.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Did you hear how she described her job? ‘An erotic ballerina’, she said. I don’t know what an erotic ballerina is but it sounds … erotic. Did you hear that, Shaggy? Did you hear the woman say that? ‘An erotic ballerina’. It is a girlfriend job about which you boast to friends down the pub over a game of pool. And plenty of beer. Lads. The lads. Going down the pub to watch the footy. Have you any cocaine? Nah, mate. I bet she’s able to cross her legs over her head and back again and scratching her own back with her toes and all sorts. Imagine sharing a bath with her. Imagine the loafer possibilities. The loafer possibilities. It sounds like the name of band, that’s how good it sounds. The lads. Alright, mate?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Henry had no friends with whom to go to the pub. And I didn’t hear the girl use the phrase ‘erotic ballerina’. I did hear her call my master ‘a knobhead’ and I did see her slap my master around the chops. I did see her storm from the bench as fast as her killy stilettos allowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">The friends at the pub. Bob, Casper and Tony. Those would be their names. And they’d disown me; call me ridiculous, a gaylord perhaps. But the broad’s nose. Did you see it? Exquisite. Hollywood doctors could use it in cosmetic surgery catalogues. Not for me. She was cavalier about her dog too, letting it run about like that. Dogs catch diseases from other dogs. Or is that children? Dog shit? What is it? Dogs catch diseases from men when they sneezes? Is that a saying?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">A King Charles’ Spaniel. That would explain the woman’s cavalier attitude.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">No, Henry. It was good for someone to be friendly. That’s a start. Speaking to people is good. Al Pacino. I recognise that. Robert De Niro. Acting is social. Social interplay. The ladies. Lads!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">SITS WITH A LEASH BETWEEN HIS TEETH. THE DOORBELL SOUNDS.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">For walks, you’ll have to wait, my friend, for that is the sound of newly delivered pizza.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 3. EXT. URBAN PARK – DAY 2 [11.00]<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">WE FOLLOW <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> AND <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b> AS THEY ARPPROACH THE CHAINLINK GATE ENTRANCE TO THE PARK. IT LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING FROM THE BRONX. PERHAPS IT COULD BE – STOCK FOOTAGE AGAIN. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY </b>IS LISTENING TO LATE ERA ROXY MUSIC ON HIS IPHONE. THE SOUND BLEEDS FROM HIS THICK HEADPHONES. HE SINGS ALONG IN A VOICE VERY SLIGHTLY OFF KEY. WHEN MAN AND DOG REACH THE GATE, THEY PAUSE. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">WE SEE THE FOOTAGE OF MANY HUNDREDS OF DOGS RUNNING ABOUT AND <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY </b>LOOKS DOWN TO <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b>. PATTING THE DOG’S HEAD, HE TURNS TO WALK FROM THE GATE.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt; text-justify: inter-ideograph;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">How about we try another route today, Captain?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 70.35pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> IS ALREADY WALKING AHEAD.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 4 EXT. SUBURBAN ROAD – DAY 2 [11.20]<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> WALKS <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b> ALONG A SUBURBAN ROAD, LINED WITH CARS AND HOUSES. HE CONTINUES TO SING TO BRYAN FERRY. A VINEGAR-CHEEKED WOMAN PASSES AND SHAKES HER HEAD IN DISDAIN. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> IS OBLIVIOUS. HE’S ONLY REALLY HAPPY WHEN LISTENING TO ROXY MUSIC. HE MAY PASS FURTHER UNHAPPY PEOPLE. UPHEAD, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b> HAS STOPPED. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY </b>TROTS TO CATCH UP.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:</span></u></b><u><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">What is it, boy? What’s got you spooked?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> FOLLOWS THE DOG’S EYES UP TO THE FIRST FLOOR WINDOW OF A NEARBY HOUSE. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">(V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">If only I’d not stopped. If only I’d walked on. A lamppost, a distant bottom to sniff. If only … but I knew what I had spotted would surely break, or make, my young master’s heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">THERE IN THE WINDOW OF THE FIRST FLOOR IS A WOMAN. THIS IS <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">JERRY</b>.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>FINALLY, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> SPOTS HER. SHE’S WEARING A TSHIRT WITH A HUGE PINK HEART. IT’S SYMBOLIC. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Oh my days.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">WE FOCUS ON HER NOSE. IT’S MASSIVE.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Note well - she had a very big nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 1.1pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 1.1pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 5. INT. LIVING ROOM – DAY 2 [16.00]<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> LIES ON HIS SOFA. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY </b>WATCHES ON.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:</span></u></b><u><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">And her nose and that t-shirt and the …<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">(V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">When he wasn’t talking of her, he was walking me past her house.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 6 EXT. SUBURBAN ROAD – DAY 3 [11.20]</span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> WALKS PAST THE HOUSE WITH A RAISED EYEBROW. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">JERRY</b> STANDS FROZEN AT THE WINDOW.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 7 EXT. SUBURBAN ROAD – DAY 4 [11.20]<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">IT IS HEAVY RAIN. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> WALKS PAST THE HOUSE WITH A RAISED EYEBROW AND A SMILE. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">JERRY</b> STANDS FROZEN AT THE WINDOW.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 8 EXT. SUBURBAN ROAD – DAY 5 [11.20]</span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> WALKS PAST WITH A RAISED EYEBROW, A SMILE AND WAVING. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">JERRY </b>STANDS FROZEN AT THE WINDOW.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Courier;"><b><u><br />
</u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 10. INT. LIVING ROOM – DAY 7 [11.00]<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> LIES ON HIS SOFA. PIZZA SAUCE SURROUNDS HIS MOUTH. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY </b>WATCHES HIM. HIS MUZZLE IS STAINED RED TOO.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:</span></u></b><u><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">There’s got to be something I can do. I’ve waved. I’ve had t-shirts printed. I’ve waved. At the window, she waits. Does she wait for me, Shaggy? For whom does she wait? Why is her vigil?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">BARKS.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I had intended my bark to signify solidarity. I wanted to show empathy. It is a dog’s life to want the unattainable. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea’ – that’s what I wanted my bark to mark. I understood Henry. I’m not sure Henry understood me. All the barking in the world was impotent. It only strengthened his resolve.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> STARES AT <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b>’S MUZZLE. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b> BARKS. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b>’S EYES LIGHT WITH A PLAN.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Great Scott! That’s it! Shaggy! You’re a genius. A plan!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 36.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt; text-indent: 36.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 70.9pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">At least, I consoled myself, I would be at his side. He wouldn’t be shamed alone. It was the duty of a dog to provide such support.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">CUT TO:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SCENE 11 EXT. SUBURBAN ROAD – DAY 6 [11.20]<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> RUSHES ALONG THE SUBURBAN STREET WITH <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b> PULLING AT THE LEAD BEHIND HIM. (<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY </b>WOULD RATHER EVEN BE AT THE VET’S THAN HERE.) WHEN HE REACHES THE HOUSE, HE LOOKS UP TO FIND <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">JERRY</b> STANDING AT THE WINDOW, IMPASSIVE AS EVER. TODAY, HOWEVER, SHE WEARS A TSHIRT ADORNED WITH THE FACE OF BRYAN FERRY. THIS CAUSES <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> GREAT JOY.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Ferry!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Second only to his love for big noses was his passion for Roxy Music.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 108.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> COMMANDS <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY </b>TO SIT AT THE PAVEMENT AND STRIDES INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD. THERE, HE TAKES A BOTTLE OF KETCHUP FROM HIS TROUSERS. AFTER SOME DIFFICULTY, HE MANAGES TO SMEAR THE SAUCE OVER HIS FACE. WHEN HE IS HAPPY WITH THE COVERING AMOUNT, HE REPLACES THE BOTTLE, TAKES A FINAL LOOK UP INTO THE WINDOW AND DROPS TO THE ROAD, MAKING AS IF HIT BY A CAR. WE SEE THE FRONT WHEEL OF A MOPED APPROACH HIS HEAD. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b> TROTS OVER. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PIZZAMAN </b>SLIDES OFF HIS MOPED.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Henry! Why do you lie in the road with tomato on your face?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> DOESN’T RESPOND. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PIZZAMAN</b> PUSHES HIS FOOT AGAINST HIS HEAD. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b> BEGINS TO THE LICK THE SAUCE FROM <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b>’S FACE.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Go away! Both of you! I command it!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I can’t. You lie in the path of my moped. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I’ve been hit by a car. Tell him, Shaggy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (V.O.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">But, of course, even if I had wanted to lie, I could not.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> BARKS.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">I saw you take your place. There was no car. Why do you have pizza sauce on your face?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">It’s ketchup. Blood, I mean. It’s blood. Not ketchup.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">POKES HIS EXPENSIVE LOOKING TRAINERS AT <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b>’S FACE.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Well … this is a very peculiar set of circumstances. A peculiar set of circumstances indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Is there a big-nosed woman watching from the window of the closest house?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">STRAINS HIS EYES TO LOOK. WE SEE ONLY AN EMPTY WINDOW.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">There is no woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">SITS UP.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">No woman?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY</span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> BARKS. WE HEAR THE DIESEL ENGINE OF A BUS. IT PASSES ACROSS THE IMAGE OF OUR THREE CHARACTERS. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">JERRY</b> PASSSES TOO. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b>, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHAGGY</b> AND <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PIZZAMAN</b> FOLLOW HER PROGRESS AS SHE REACHES THE ADJACENT BUS STOP AND BOARDS THE BUS. THE BUS DEPARTS. THIS ALL HAPPENS IN AN EFFORTLESS BLUR OF RED AND EXHAUST.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">SHAGGY:</span></u></b><u><span style="font-family: Courier;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">The girl with the big nose waited for a bus, watching for its arrival from her bedroom window. This was no amorous maiden. This was a workaday commuter.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">PIZZAMAN </span></b><span style="font-family: Courier;">DRIVES OFF ON HIS MOPED, SHOUTING UNINTELLIGBLY. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> STANDS, ATTEMPTING TO WIPE THE KETCHUP FROM HIS FACE.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Can dogs ride buses?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">A CAR APPROACHES BEHIND <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> RAPIDLY. INSIDE IS A PAIR OF OLD WOMEN. THEY GESTICULATE WITH INAPPROPRIATE VIOLENCE FOR <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HENRY</b> TO GET OUT OF THEIR WAY.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">HENRY:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">Come on, Shaggy. Let’s go home. To consider buses. The buses. What a piece of work is bus. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, waiting for a bus. Some are born buses, others achieve buses and some have buses thrust upon them. She was waiting for a bus, mate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 106.35pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">THEY BEGIN THEIR WALK OF THE PAVEMENTS HOME. THE SOUNDS OF MORE THAN THIS BY ROXY MUSIC PLAY AS THE IMAGE OF OUR TWO HEROES FADE.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">OLD LADY:</span></u></b><span style="font-family: Courier;"> (O.O.V.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><span style="font-family: Courier;">And he had sauce all over his chin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 72.0pt; margin-right: 67.7pt; margin-top: 0cm; tab-stops: 347.3pt;"><u><span style="font-family: Courier;">END OF EPISODE<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-35812247660645503472011-05-18T17:59:00.000+01:002011-05-18T17:59:59.264+01:00Found Poetry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.auwalgene.com/poetry/images/privatePoetry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.auwalgene.com/poetry/images/privatePoetry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I found some more old stuff for your delectation. One of these poems was actually published. Imagine that. Apologies for the rough language*, but I'm a foul sort.<br />
<br />
*I changed two words to avoid offence.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><u>‘Your Dog’</u><br />
<br />
Your dog shat on my lawn, I watched from bedroom window.<br />
Its orgasmic grimace, tight muzzle, thin hot eyes, tail erect and quivering.<br />
Nothing accidental about this shit.<br />
I saw you stand at pavement edge of lawn.<br />
A cigarette edged to your mouth<br />
Smoke curled to the apathetic sky and my fingers itched<br />
For an Uzi, I could shoot your face through my window and<br />
Kill you much faster than lung cancer.<br />
Put you to sleep.<br />
Put you down.<br />
<br />
You directed your dog central to my lawn, I watched.<br />
A mouth pointing, a finger instructing, a cold sneer of command (but cigarette undisturbed).<br />
If my grass were a dartboard, this dogshit would hit<br />
Dead centre, red eye, 50 points.<br />
My grudging respect for command of animal is all you score.<br />
<br />
I watch your face, like dog, intense.<br />
<br />
<u>‘Love Poem’</u><br />
<br />
You keep a head in a fridge<br />
Like Patrick Bateman*.<br />
Stubble on your upper lip.<br />
Catches sweat.<br />
A proud rugger shirt.<br />
And racism as easy<br />
As a baby cries.<br />
Venom to a snake.<br />
You drink Vodka Martini<br />
Because you think it sophisticated.<br />
You have both the hair and accent of a bastard.<br />
You rattlesnake snore and boast of violence<br />
Against animals and the homeless.<br />
<br />
In March, you left me in Kettering.<br />
Without money or car.<br />
And you said ‘fuck’ in front of my Gran.<br />
Your eyes are hot<br />
And your thighs wide.<br />
<br />
But I love your mouth.<br />
<br />
*literallyKay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-28400499821504441862011-05-14T18:37:00.004+01:002011-05-15T21:36:00.215+01:00Jeffrey Archer<i>I wrote this when I was young and imagined a future writing stuff. Jeffrey Archer, for your reference, was/is a Tory politician/writer of books. He came to speak at my school and I was tasked with reviewing his novel for the school magazine/London Evening Standard. It was all very exciting. I got my picture printed in the London paper and a photographer travelled to school to take a photo of me standing next to a tree with an arm full of books. I think that I wrote subsequently wrote this as a response to the whole episode. </i><i>I only post it now because, having thought I could update the blog more regularly, I found this story in an old email today. Yes, I'm experiencing a dull weekend.</i><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Jeffrey Archer</b><br />
<br />
I’m always breaking eggs on the bus back from the supermarket. Eggs that are purchased only to be broken. Eggs. The irony doesn’t help clean up the yolky mess. The irony doesn’t help placate the bus driver who’s shouting about his eggy bus. Irony.<br />
<br />
At home: <br />
<br />
“Would you like soldiers?” you cry. “Would you like some Sunny D?” <br />
<br />
On the bus: <br />
<br />
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I’ll pay for everyone's tickets or something.” <br />
<br />
I can’t buy eggs without breaking them. Why? Because they remind me of the bald woman who stole my heart. I haven’t had eggs for breakfast since four Fridays ago. I haven't had eggs for fear of spoiling my memory of the bald woman.<br />
<br />
People break eggs (at home) for breakfast. Very seldom are they used for cakes. Cakes are made by huge Supermarkets and frozen for our convenience. We do not have time to make cakes unless we are bored housewives. Very few of us are bored housewives. I am not a bored housewife. I am a highly-respected IT developer. I help design programmes for companies whose headquarters are made from glass and steel.<br />
<br />
And I cried when I last broke breakfast eggs. Why? Because I knew that the breakfast meant that the best evening of my life had finished. The breakfast was like the fullstop at the end of the sentence. That is a simile. I am more than a highly-respected IT developer.<br />
<br />
And what was the sentence’s content? <br />
<br />
Sex. THAT WAS ITS CONTENT. The 's' word.<br />
<br />
I wiped away the tears with my shirt. It stank of the previous night – stale beer, caustic fags and somebody else’s aftershave. This made me even more upset – I prefer to smell of washing powder. <br />
<br />
“Would you like soldiers?” I cried. “Would you like some Sunny D?” <br />
<br />
The woman didn’t turn from the kitchen window. She shook her head. A black wig perched upon it like a witch’s familiar. I knew it was a wig, and not a tragic haircut, because I saw her put it on. She’d done that in my bedroom. She’d also allowed me to watch her dress. I had been half-eyed, wondering suspiciously. The ladies.<br />
<br />
As her arms bent ludicrously to zip up the dress’s back, she told me that I was ‘a dream lover’ and not to ask further questions. <br />
<br />
I hadn’t yet asked any questions. <br />
<br />
Her voice was halfway between a train announcer and poorly synthesised computer speech.<br />
<br />
I rubbed the hair on my stomach with contentment, happy not to consider her voice.<br />
<br />
She told me to make breakfast, but to ensure that I washed my hands beforehand. I respected that. Too often are visitors slack with their personal hygiene. Too often do visitors cough without covering their mouths etc.<br />
<br />
Tall, she was. And angular. Like the letter ‘k’. <br />
<br />
Hands were washed, eggs were scrambled. <br />
<br />
“Serve them upon a white plate,” she purred, facing the window still. “I’ll take three quarters of the eggs.” <br />
<br />
She ate standing; she didn’t thank me. My quarter of the eggs tasted of strength and milk.<br />
<br />
As this is a story, I shall provide you with a description of the morning weather:<br />
<br />
It was sunny.<br />
<br />
“Where are your keys?” <br />
<br />
I pointed through the open kitchen door to my chinos, lying still in the centre of the lounge floor, a proud fragment of last night’s lovemaking. <br />
<br />
“Trousers?” she asked. <br />
<br />
I explained the keys would be in the back pocket, where I always kept them. They would be protected by a 'Legoland' fob. Secret - I'd never been. The fob was a gift from my mother. I understood that the bald woman did not need to know this.<br />
<br />
Out, she marched. A sharp, mechanical, inhalation of air, and she swept her long left arm to take the cream trousers from the floor in the manner of a horse-mounted cowboy picking up a calf from the dusty prairie floor. (Yes.) The keys were extracted by her spider-like fingers, the jeans were abandoned and I was told not to leave the flat, that she’d be back very soon. <br />
<br />
I stood unmoving until her footsteps faded in exterior hall. Decision made that she had definitely left, I sprinted to my bedroom, dived upon bed and shot hands to top of bedside table. Really, I couldn't have moved any faster. There my bastard fingers fell upon their target – my smartphone. <br />
<br />
I’d missed six calls. Eight text messages sat unread. I didn’t open them; no need – I knew what they’d all say. Instead, I expertly traversed the menus to create a new message: <br />
<br />
I HAVE HAD THE MOST AMAZING WOMAN. YOU WILL ALL BE SOOOO JEALOUS. FULL SEX. HONESTLY.<br />
<br />
“Hand me that telephone.” <br />
<br />
Her voice boomed from the hall. I craned my neck to look from bedroom through lounge to hallway. She stood (halfway down the hallway) like Lara Croft. Her shoulders were thrown back, projecting bosom towards my eyes. Her right hand held a large, albeit thin, suitcase – a suitcase I hadn’t seen before. <br />
<br />
I smiled. She repeated her order. I threw the phone towards her. It was quite a throw - all the way through the living room, spinning as it went. I hoped that this display of athleticism would impress her enough to prick further her sexual desire. And she would find the message. And her morning frost would surely melt upon reading such complimentary communication.<br />
<br />
Her left arm darted skywards and plucked the telephone from the air. With a flick, it disappeared into her back trouser pocket. <br />
<br />
Slowly, she began to move towards me and the bedroom. The pace of her walk and the metal of her stare were in no way sexual. This was in marked contrast to the previous night. <br />
<br />
Reader, did I gulp? Reader, I did.<br />
<br />
Where there was once erotic intent, there was now steel threat. I edged away, across bed. She stopped at the threshold of the room. Her left arm moved quickly to the door handle, and with a blur of motion, I was shut in my bedroom, quivering at cream-painted wood. <br />
<br />
What was 'occurring'? I had read on the internet of women who enjoyed ‘role play’. Was this it? Should I join in and act all freaky? Should I be excited? I thought of my mother. She would disown such a dirty child.<br />
<br />
It seemed too normal to be true, the whole sex thing – before the night previous, sex happened to other people in movies and the like. Perhaps sex was always like this? Perhaps women were always slightly passive/aggressive in the morning? I was unsure, but such doubts didn’t prevent a stirring of johnson under boxer-shorts. I tried to recall exactly how I had come to sleep with this sexy eccentric.<br />
<br />
The night previous:<br />
<br />
I arrived at 2000 in my corner of the Wetherspoons, my local public house. It had been the fourth successive night of meeting with Clive at 2000 in my corner of the Wetherspoons. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday had passed like any other night in my corner of the Wetherspoons. Clive and I would talk (largely about Formula One), we would drink (not to excess – four/five pints of bitter) and we would tread home, alone, to sleep, heads pleasantly fuzzy.<br />
<br />
Not Thursday, though. I arrived at 2002 and Clive wasn’t there. There was only a space where he should have been sipping. This was unusual for Clive. The man placed greater emphasis on good timekeeping than personal hygiene (of which he placed little emphasis). <br />
<br />
I ordered a Mild, and sat in the corner alone. <br />
<br />
I noticed her shadow fall across the beer. I looked up and gulped. (NB - I don't normally gulp so often.)<br />
<br />
Staring down was the most beautiful face I had ever seen (in the Wetherspoons). Her features were perfect, as if sketched on CorelDraw. I couldn’t have imagined a woman that I would find more attractive. She even wore a mole underneath her left eye – something I’ve always thought sexy. Her skin was flawless and seemed to throw off a dull yellow, light. <br />
<br />
“What is your name?” she said. I told her, voice faltering with embarrassment. “Good,” she said and looked over her shoulder. “Your friend Clive could not arrive.” <br />
<br />
And before I could quiz further, she was sitting in Clive’s seat and we were kissing. Time hadn’t even reached half eight before we were back in the flat and I was hunting for a clean duvet and finding one and having sex with her on the clean duvet. I was like James Bond or something.<br />
<br />
And so, next morning, I found myself shut in my bedroom with my green duvet and a ‘role-play’ playing stunner. <br />
<br />
The me of yesterday might not have left the bedroom. I would have assumed that the woman hated me after all and the sex had been some kind of mean trick. I was the victim of a rude hidden camera show. But, and I remember it clearly, in the middle of the night she had told me that ‘I was a superlative performer’ and asked if I had enjoyed sex on many occasions in the past. I told her that I had, of course. I’d learnt from popular culture that cool men always lied to women.<br />
<br />
The morning-after saw a me newly invested with confidence, however. I did leave the room, quietly, playing along with her mock-violent threat-making and icy stares and strangeness with my mobile and sudden large suitcase. <br />
<br />
I crept along the hallway and I turned into the lounge on my tiptoes. All my weight on my tippy-toes. Silent, silent, stalking like in Metal Gear Solid.<br />
<br />
The image with which I was met will be forever burnt into my memory if not my eyes as well.<br />
<br />
There she was, not waiting for me. She was crouched upon one knee at the opened until now unopened lounge window. Last night’s jeans were pulled tightly across her perfect bottom. The suitcase lay empty at her feet. Under tight t-shirt, her breasts ebbed and flowed with her taking of breath. And in her arms proudly was a rifle. Pushed up against right shoulder, barrel resting in right hand, left hand tightly gripped around stock and trigger. I know my weaponry. This was no gun I had ever seen. This was no gun that ever existed. The whole weapon throbbed with neon pink energy. Guns shouldn’t throb with neon pink energy. I know this much.<br />
<br />
Her head steeled above the rifle’s barrel. She searched through the sight. <br />
<br />
I decided to creep back to the bedroom. I'd try returning to dreams unencumbered by sci-fi guns. But the moment I took one silent step backwards, she spoke. <br />
<br />
“Do not move. Do not speak. Do not look.” <br />
<br />
I did as I was told. She was holding a gun. I closed my eyes. <br />
<br />
Such was the stress, I cannot accurately gauge how much time elapsed before the gun blast. I half expected to be shot myself. The explosion rocked the room, the sound of a car crash. A tiny amount of urine escaped. My ears buzzed with the shot's resonance.<br />
<br />
A broken horn sounded from the real world outside and didn’t stop sounding. Voices shouted. <br />
<br />
“You may look now,” she spoke. <br />
<br />
I opened one eye. She stood at window still, a titan. A sexy woman with her hair and her body and her gun.<br />
<br />
The shouting and banging outside continued. In the distance sounded a siren. <br />
<br />
“I have been sent from the future,” she continued. <br />
<br />
I smiled wetly. <br />
<br />
Slowly, like the child from the Exorcist, her head turned owly 360 degrees. When it returned to face me, she spoke: <br />
<br />
“You see? I can rotate my head. I am electronic. You cannot rotate your head. You are not from the future.” <br />
<br />
I asked if she meant a robot. <br />
<br />
“Yes,” she replied. <br />
<br />
I asked who she had shot. <br />
<br />
“Jeffrey Archer.” I nodded. I had never liked him. “My weapon fires a pulse that causes instant coronary failure by means of furry energy. Do not worry. You will not be suspected.” <br />
<br />
I asked how she knew that Jeffrey Archer would be driving without a chauffeur past my window at that exact time. <br />
<br />
“I am from the future.” <br />
<br />
She picked her suitcase up, asked me to move from the doorway, and left the flat. <br />
<br />
I went back to the bedroom and slept for eight hours. Upon waking, I had hoped that I had been dreaming. I could still taste her futurey breath upon my lips, however, and, sure enough, upon checking the internet, Jeffrey Archer had died – crashing his car outside my house after suffering a heart attack and that.<br />
<br />
I regret not asking her why an ‘electronic life form’ might want Jeffrey Archer dead. Perhaps, one day in the future, it shall all be revealed, my friends.<br />
<br />
Clive messaged to apologise for missing our Thursday pub meeting. He had met a statuesque (and wig wearing) woman in Forbidden Planet and they had spent the afternoon having sex. He had awoken at ten o’clock to an empty flat. And I wasn’t answering my mobile. And he’d assumed that I’d gone home. He was right, of course.<br />
<br />
Hers was a sexy plan indeed. I still try to comprehend why. Maybe I sent her back? Maybe Clive? The future is indeed mysterious. It is full of unknowns. Much like women, my friend, much like women.<br />
<br />
That evening Clive and I met in the Wetherspoons. We spoke largely of F1 and little of Jeffrey Archer.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-34880897768895508142011-05-01T12:44:00.000+01:002011-05-01T12:44:26.143+01:00Extract<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/15/69492277_ec392e62fc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/15/69492277_ec392e62fc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Here's an extract* from my new project. I'm after feedback.<br />
<br />
EXTRACT:<br />
<br />
"The boy wore no trousers."<br />
<br />
What do you think? Let me know. Writing, as the writers say, is rewriting. And I'm not going to write a bastard word further until I've nailed this opening sentence.<br />
<br />
*In actual fact, this represents the entire project so far. I'm yet to decide upon a title, although I'm rather taken by 'The Sound and the Furry'.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-72101823897385925212011-04-23T22:24:00.000+01:002011-04-23T22:24:53.805+01:00Beards (inspired by a recent trip to Williamsburg where I suspect I was refused entry to an ‘indie dance party’ not because I was ‘roaring drunk’, as was stated, but because of my naked cheeks)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://design-milk.com/images/2008/04/beard-font.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="http://design-milk.com/images/2008/04/beard-font.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><w:trackmoves><w:trackformatting><w:punctuationkerning><w:validateagainstschemas><w:donotpromoteqf><br />
</w:donotpromoteqf></w:validateagainstschemas></w:punctuationkerning></w:trackformatting></w:trackmoves><br />
<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Introduction</span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></u><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Beards: we’ve all got one. But how do we know which variety to cultivate? A sad truth about existence is that, unlike sea monkeys, we can’t bring facial hair instantly to life (unless your face is magnetised and you have access to iron filings but this probably creates more trouble than it’s worth).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Indecently fierce beards demand a decent amount of thought. And as you were busy in your checked shirts, talking soccer and rolling your own cigarettes, I did the thinking. Ever notice that the pals with nice hipster girlfriends have beards? No? Well, read on and ponder. I’m here to empower your face.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">(Facial hair comes in a myriad forms, there follows merely a sample of those observed in the wild.)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Underpass chic<o:p></o:p></span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Mad, Rasputin locks that descend fully to your chest and surround your mouth in wiry joy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">As seen on: ‘E’ from the Eels, the guy that shouts at cars from the side of the freeway.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Pros: You’re too cool to fiddle with scissors and razors. You let your hair do as it wills. Often works best with a short haircut – it’s all about the juxtaposition, brother. You may well collect enough spare change to buy the new Animal Collective lp.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Cons: You may be refused entry to dubstep clubs for fear you’re homeless. You will lose possessions in your beard. Doors & beard = chin hurt.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">RAF moustache<o:p></o:p></span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Although not technically a beard, it’s present on the upper lip of those determined to be more eccentric than their brethren/can’t grow hair anywhere else. Proud and bushy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">As seen on: My grandfather, Tom Selleck (a bit).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Pros: You can twiddle your moustache when deep in thought. It also soaks up beer otherwise spilt.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Cons: The effort (probably) of shaving your cheeks. It adds twenty years – not a problem if a teenager, major calamity if thirtysomething and hanging onto youth by the skin of your teeth. Nazi fighter pilots will attempt to shoot you down.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The AJ<o:p></o:p></span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">A thin line from ear to chin and around mouth. The form of beard you may doodle on a photograph of a celebrity/mistake for a chinstrap.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">As seen on: AJ Soprano, 1990s RnB artistes.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Pros: N/A<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Cons: You’re a knobber and this is confirmed before your mouth is opened or gold chain necklace noticed. The thin lines of hair need precision shaving. Not good if you’ve got the DTs or a degenerative muscular disorder. Your face may ruin the final series of ‘an American landmark’ (cf the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i>).<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Pencil moustache<o:p></o:p></span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It’s thin. Like it’s been drawn on BY A PENCIL. Again, not a beard but let’s not be bound by semantics.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">As seen on: Inter-war pimps, Vincent Price, the guy from Sparks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Pros: Indie cool. Lovers don’t get their hands stuck in beard. Can be easily disguised, if so desired, by a finger over your top lip. It serves to underline your nose, making sneezing more profound.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Cons: You may be mistaken for an inter-war pimp. Will still have to shave the majority of your face. It serves to underline your nose, making sneezing more profound.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Indie Rock<o:p></o:p></span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Full beard. From ears to mouth. But with beard-hair kept short. The logical progression from stubble.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">As seen on: The indie band de jour. Carpentry teachers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Pros: You’re unable to grow a full beard, but are pubescent enough to have hair appear on your face. Can be grown in a few days (with sufficient testosterone). Not hairy enough to put off lovers, but sufficiently hirsute to be mistaken for the bassist in that band Pitchfork awarded a really high score.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Cons: Patches – there’s LITERALLY nothing worse than an incomplete beard. Your beard may be mistaken for a ‘five o’clock shadow’ – a feature that famously cost Nixon the 1960 presidential election - ergo your beard may cause you to lose a presidential election. Your girlfriend may complain that you appear ‘scruffy’. Mark these words - there is a thin line between ‘indie rock’ and ‘bum fluff’.</span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Conclusion</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">We need an app that adds beards to face images. More so, we need fake beards of premium quality. Although shaving is a drag, it takes more effort than you might imagine to successfully carry a beard (like keeping a dog). Inventors of America! Heed our call! Give us bogus beards of premium quality (mind you, they don’t have to be too realistic - the darker the bar, the hipper it is). Everyone wants to be trendy nowadays – the demand for fake beards will create a new industry and the stimulated economy will carry the Western world out of recession. We’re talking heavy shit here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Failing this, ask your mother what she thinks about your face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-71019627570222706662011-02-12T17:11:00.000+00:002011-02-12T17:11:10.474+00:00Loquaciousness on the Train or Why it's Better to Travel American.Want to know the most-commonly remarked statement you make when I'm 'on vacation', my American cousins? No? I will tell you regardless.<br />
<br />
“Chicks must go mad for your accent.”<br />
<br />
(You don't really say 'chicks' but I thought the word more American than 'women' or 'birds'.)<br />
<br />
Alas, it's not only the female huddled masses that are driven wild by my rich vowel sounds. All you Americans love my accent. Verily, it's like catnip. Sadly, a particularly platonic catnip. With every hit, my sexual inadequacy becomes more oppressive. If only I didn’t possess such a hideous face. <br />
<br />
I often travel to America (waiting for the day my accent finally works a fruity angle) and not through business. As a teacher, my opportunities to travel with work extend no farther than the Thames Barrier or British Museum. And, yes, the Mummies are terrific.<br />
<br />
But I am observant. When abroad, the important details are those you notice only after visiting a country more than once. America! Witness your cut-away doors to toilet cubicles, your awkwardly-sized newspapers, the way ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ is so casually employed. It’s an DVT-inducing eight hour flight from my London (England) and although we share a language (fanny/pants confusion notwithstanding), a visit to Stateside is far more alienating than holidaying in France, Germany or Russia. It’s the details, yes, but it’s far more than this: it’s the conversation on trains.<br />
<br />
I hear your protestations. You’ve read all this before or, more likely, heard it spat from hoary stand-ups. I’m sure a shared US/UK cultural truth is that when a comic has run out of hysterical comparisons between men and women, he’ll move to juxtaposing New York and London. New Yorkers are rude! Londoners like drinking! Hell, even the early-20th century's answer to Ricky Gervais, George Bernard Shaw, made his ‘two nations separated by a common language’ gag.<br />
<br />
I don’t want to write about the inequality of portion sizes. I don’t want to talk pizza dough. I don’t even want to describe the time a Texan couple accosted my girlfriend and me in Bloomingdale’s and asked if we’d ever met the Queen. No. I want to write about the most profound difference, one that’s never mentioned and one that pulls me back to the States – the conversations on public transport.<br />
<br />
Although I don’t subscribe to the tick-box form of travelling that my Facebook friends promote with their alphabetically-sorted photo albums, I know that I should soon visit Brazil or sub-Saharan Africa. I know that I'm missing out. A work colleague recently visited Iran. She claimed the holiday ‘life enhancing’. She possessed a faraway look in her eyes that meant I believed her. I could travel on the underground (or metro or subway or whatever I’m supposed to call subterranean transport in the States) in Rio or Tehran but to what end? Sure, I’ll reach my destination but by speaking no Portuguese or Persian, I’ll experience no joy in the journey. I may as well be in London, travelling silently between North Greenwich and Green Park.<br />
<br />
Is it our natural reticence that sees us Brits sit mute in the underground carriages? Are we really 'naturally reticent'? What does this mean when applied to a nation? Our youth aren't 'naturally reticent'; they're always shouting with their mobile phones and hoodies. Recently, I saw a woman lean across the aisle to ask a fellow commuter where she’d bought her bag.The interviewee looked startled. She gabbled ‘Topshop’, and then made an ostentatious show of inserting earphones. The whole carriage winced in acknowledgment of the social faux pas. It’s a cliché, it’s a stereotype, but I’m living this every time I travel into town for afternoon tea. It’s real, America.<br />
<br />
But not so for you.<br />
<br />
Taking an upstate train from Manhattan, I thought that I’d been accosted by a fellow with mental health problems when my neighbouring passenger turned, having secured his briefcase, offered his hand and asked what I did. At the very least, I expected him to be selling something. I was wrong. We spent twenty minutes discussing Edgar Allan Poe. And it felt ... natural.<br />
<br />
I have spoken of teaching on a suburban commuter train in Chicago. I have explained the difference between the British accent and the Australian accent on the Hollywood subway. In Milwaukee, I angered a man by telling him I preferred English beer. The one place in which I sat in English silence was the ferry between Hyannis Port and Nantucket. Having walked around the boat, it became clear why this was – it was tourist season and there were very few Americans onboard.<br />
<br />
Your national chattiness doesn’t always create positive situations. On a horrific flight from London to LA, myself, a friend and a pretty health worker from San Francisco were the only three in our section of the cabin who weren’t teenagers from a rough school in Central England. Her natural loquaciousness was charming. I abandoned my friend, Clive, to picking his nails and watching his onboard entertainment. Having grown up British, the attention, the questions, that this girl offered could mean only one thing – she wanted access to my trousers (pants). Alas, I was wrong. She was only being friendly. She was only doing what one was meant to do during long journeys – making conversation.<br />
<br />
I think the scale of American cities can make it easy to feel lost and insignificant. Such disconnection from the urban landscape is remedied by social interaction – conversation. The sooner that us Brits realise this, the better. I shall continue to holiday in America. I shall continue to shun car hire. Amtrak: if I speak loudly enough, often enough, there waits conversation.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-33529603801969994792011-01-30T19:38:00.004+00:002011-01-30T20:17:48.403+00:00Writing<link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_themedata.xml" rel="themeData"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><b><u>Attention, miscreants! This is something on which I've been working. Read it!</u></b></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><b><u>(All typographical errors and slips of style are intentional.)</u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Similarities between Jonathan’s girlfriend and his bookshop: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">(These are not unreasonable observations for he often compared the two.) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><u>Both were small.</u> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The shop was built to sell newspapers. In the 19th Century, a family named Fox established the town's only newsagent. In 1982, a WH Smith’s opened and the great-great-great-grandson Fox sold up. Between 1982 and 1993 (when Jonathan's father bought the place with inheritance money) the walls had supported a flower shop, coffee shop and butchers. Jonathan imagined, especially in winter, he could smell dead meat. It wasn't an unpleasant smell. Jonathan enjoyed the sweetness, even though he was unsure of his nostrils. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The space remained as it was originally designed - the ideal dimensions for selling papers. When full of bookshelves, it became oppressive and Dickensian. On the occasion that two customers passed between the shelves, they were forced to turn shoulders and decide the best combination of back/groin. Relationships had been formed as a result of such manoeuvres.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The trapped smell of browning pages was overpowering for the casual visitor. The smell was an alarming anachronism, a scented poltergeist. But not for Jonathan. It relaxed his nerves and summoned images of lazy summer teenage reading. Nothing is as evocative as scent. (And nothing is as reassuring as the scent of a newly printed book.) During miserable morning shop openings, as he breathed the musty air, the pain of modern living melted. He forgot terrorism, flu epidemics, the economic downturn and Anna. He was 17 again, listening to Morrissey. Behind the counter, there could be nothing more urgent than ordering stock and paying rates. He owned an old computer. It possessed an Internet connection that was more likely to fail the greater Jonathan’s need. On a shelf above the cash register was a kettle. Stored in a tin shaped as an old-fashioned red phone box were tea bags. He wanted for little but space. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><u>Jonathan once half-loved the shop, but now resented it. </u><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Similarly, the relationship between Anna and Jonathan was based on mutual convenience rather than the profound spiritual connection found in books. They were of the same age. They had attended Wellington School at the same time, but had not been friends. Anna had been sporty and pretty. Jonathan: not so much. When Jonathan returned to Somerset to take ownership of the bookshop, she was one of the first customers. Providence, they once laughed, as she had little interest in literature.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">(He hadn't wanted to move to the West Country because he was scared of becoming a cliché. But he had no job and his father was persuasive.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">"We have already lost Mother. Don't let us lose the shop. Shape the business as you wish.")<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Anna was a notable first customer as she was female and under thirty (although she looked as if made from iron painted the colour of skin).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">"You don't have any Candace Bushnell," were her fist words, veritably spat. Jonathan didn't know whether it was a question or a statement. She quickly added: "Are you Jon Keats?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Jonathan,” corrected Jonathan and, initially, found Anna’s unnecessary aggression attractive. She was a woman. He didn’t meet many women. They arranged a drink and so fucked. He introduced her to friends. The moments when she asked ‘what do you do?’ with disdain were embarrassing (she wore her law degree with the subtlety of a Chelsea Pensioner’s medal collection), but the sex was ample compensation. Jonathan had been resigned that his move to Somerset would mark a new chapter of chastity. He had been wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">There came a succession of dates. They walked on the Blackdown Hills with hands held and took alcoholic lunches in Taunton and drove to Exeter to amble along the renovated docks, ignoring the water for each other's eyes and lips. They acted like this because it was how young couples were meant to act. Soon, because there was little else to do, Anna moved into Jonathan's pretty terraced, just-off-the-town-centre cottage (bought by father). From the building’s exterior, you might imagine its inhabitant as a scatty middle-aged woman taken to flower-pressing, but when stepping into the house there was no mistaking the domain of a fading bachelor. Packed bookcases and discarded newspapers stood where vases and pretty sideboards should rightfully be.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">What did Anna and Jonathan have in common? They enjoyed not being alone. They spoke of buying a Labrador.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">What differences?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Shit loads (Anna abhorred swearing). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><u>Both shop and Anna were attractive in a paint-peeling, seen-better-days manner. </u><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Neither shop nor Anna was stunning and both required a level of considered engagement before their esoteric charm could be discovered. But it was there - definitely - in both cases. Problem and most people's first observation: Anna's face appeared deflated. In six-month cycles, she grew rapidly in weight and then punished her indulgences with extreme exercise, dumb-bells and all. As a consequence, her skin had adopted a Clingfilm malleability. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The most attractive thing about her, all agreed, was her laugh. It sounded as high notes from a piano made of gold or stardust or poetry. Or a platinum harp. Thing was - she didn't much laugh. Not in company, anyway. Not since moving in with Jonathan. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Consider one trip to London in the good old days: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">There was no rain and it was one of those London nights where all pubs displayed flowerboxes and those people lining the pavements only wanted to smile and make new friends. At Fulham Broadway underground station they met with ‘planned engineering works’ and, leaving the carriage, Anna spoke of work, looped arms, pulling Jonathan close. Like a proper couple, they walked the platforms. Anna spoke. They moved to change lines. Stepping from the top of an escalator, Jonathan turned to dance for his new girlfriend as the silver steps descended. He thought it funny (they’d drunk and he once had a weakness for silliness) but his shoelace ran ahead to become caught in the descending steps. With one hand on the metallic alarm box at the top of the stairs, he strained muscles as the force of the machinery tightened the lace, foot and leg. His body formed a star shape. As his flesh grew tight with tension and his lace refused to snap, Anna pointed and laughed. She cupped her hands over her mouth and bent her back and nodded to passers-by who asked if Jonathan were OK. You could see by the taut muscles of his face that he was not. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The lace broke. Safe at Anna’s feet, Jonathan fell to his knees.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Their relationship would fail regardless of the Factory test or Anna’s death. The bond had run its course. As Woody Allen says in Annie Hall, relationships are like sharks. They've got to keep moving or else they die. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Anna reminded Jonathan of a basking shark. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Although his father offered money for the bookshop to be decorated, Jonathan hadn't bothered. He half-enjoyed the routine (and solitude) of opening and closing the place each Monday to Friday, but possessed a vague hope that Internet custom would eventually destroy the need to own any premises other than a stockroom. An artful friend had created an attractive website worth visiting in its own right. There were colours and swirls and text of such compulsion that Jonathan was sure he remembered a traffic report stating one in every ten visitors bought a book. As far as numbers go, this was an impressive statistic (if true). The nebulous plan, considered every Sunday evening: shut the shop, move back to London, and do nothing but administer the website. He would not own an alarm clock or a suit. He'd don tracksuit bottoms and t-shirts and drink orange juice straight from the carton just like Anna hated. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Painting the shop's exterior or erecting a new sign did not enter into this vision of the future. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><u>A final point of comparison:</u><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Neither the bookshop nor Anna would survive the year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-61290878037420085292011-01-20T16:36:00.000+00:002011-01-20T16:36:39.107+00:00Some lines on Twitter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.stephaniepiro.com/moby%20Dick%20ahab%203%20low%20res.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="http://www.stephaniepiro.com/moby%20Dick%20ahab%203%20low%20res.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Twitter, to me, is like the sea.<br />
And I a whale and you a sail<br />
of a tiny ship. I'm Moby Dick.<br />
<br />
I do intend your mast to rend<br />
in many pieces, your life it ceases.<br />
Twitter, verily, is like the sea.<br />
<br />
Your corpse, it floats. A white whale gloats.<br />
For I'm the winner and you my dinner.<br />
Twitter, you see, is like the sea.<br />
<br />
Your tweets, however, do not satisfy my hunger.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-2132535804977659912010-12-27T13:25:00.000+00:002010-12-27T13:25:18.856+00:00A suggestion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://moonandbackmusic.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/indie-christmas-monkey-400w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://moonandbackmusic.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/indie-christmas-monkey-400w.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
In lieu of anything interesting happening here, I suggest you follow @tommycm on Twitter.<br />
<br />
That is all.<br />
<br />
Kay<br />
xKay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-81314766840441224092010-10-21T09:40:00.001+01:002010-10-21T09:40:32.234+01:00The sleep of a drunkard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://images5.yandy.com/Products/Sexy-Wizard-Halloween-Costume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://images5.yandy.com/Products/Sexy-Wizard-Halloween-Costume.jpg" width="191" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I slept the sleep of a drunkard. The irritating phone burst of Wagner lurched me into the waking world. It was 0925 and Tom was calling.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Having spoken to him (my voice hoarse from an alcohol-blurred sleep), I concluded that he called for <u>two</u> reasons:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">To tease me (my drunken desire for drugs and group sex);</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">To tell me of the open call to audition that was happening in Soho.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">My brain was too raddled by sleep to respond to his provocation. The women may have been Australian. I may well have been very drunk. But I’d seen Tom in similar situations. And one of the Aussie girls possessed a <u>terrific</u> knowledge of Russian Literature. I’m not shallow, Reader. I <u>can</u> see beyond the prosaic. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I only managed a grunt in response to Tom’s auditional revelation. His agent told him that it wasn’t suitable for Tom’s style (Tom had an agent – think about this), so Tom thought it right and proper to let me know ‘considering that I was broke and out of work and a loser’.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I ended the call. Nobody gets to call me a loser without reaction. The details of rehearsal had, however, been secreted in my bedside notebook.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">He told me that the doors of audition-house didn’t open until 1300, so I shut my eyes and fell back to sleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I dreamt:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It was dark. I was walking London alone. I was on a long road. I wore Wellington Boots. White stone buildings grew high on each side of me. There was a loud explosion. I couldn’t locate where it originated. The street was empty of both cars and people. My mobile phone began to ring. Caller display showed that it was my old English teacher, Dr Jones, ringing. I did not answer.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I woke in a cold sweat at 1130. Showered, shat and shaved, I was in town by 1230. I’d consulted <a href="http://www.streetmap.co.uk/"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">www.streetmap.co.uk</i></a>, before leaving the flat, and so the location was a synch to find. The building stood on a side-street in Soho - a three-storey detached house. There were signs attached to the place’s red metal fence (‘Project X auditions’), but no human presence.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A few London losers moseyed up and down the road behind, but none showed interest in the London townhouse in front of which I stood.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I tried the door. Its wood was red. Its red was gloss. The handle was large, golden, round and set dead central. I pushed, I pulled; the door was locked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">There was a doorbell, under which (where there should have been a name) there was written ‘Do Not Ring’. I pressed the button.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Dully inside, I heard an electronic buzz.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Three minutes of waiting and the door remained closed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Gay Tom’s time-information could have been flawed. I decided to visit <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Three Greyhounds</i>. There I could drink beer. This would be a ‘good thing’, as alcohol calms the nerves (I wasn’t nervous). I would take half an hour to drink one pint of lager. I might read a paper. Something undemanding. I might even eat a packet of peanuts.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_editdata.mso" rel="Edit-Time-Data"></link> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">When the half an hour of pubtime had elapsed, I would jog back to auditionbuilding. Hopefully, there might then be some ACTION.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">This was the plan.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">It almost worked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I <u>did</u> read a paper. It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Star</i>. I had a packet of chilli peanuts. They were delish – why? The piquancy of chilli seasoning balanced well the tart taste of peanut. I drank two pints of lager. This was not intentional. The Czech barmaid (large nose, bleached hair) misheard my damned order.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Extra lager meant extra time spent in smoke-filled pub (strangely smoky, actually, as I was the only customer). I left after forty-eight minutes. My face was smiley, my belly full of lager and peanuts. I decided that going to the pub had been the <u>correct</u> decision. The extra alcohol had even alleviated the nagging headache from night previous.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The house of audition was two sides of a triangle away.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="height: 100px; margin-left: 21px; margin-top: 15px; position: absolute; width: 139px;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">My head popped! There was a line of losers at the corner of the house’s road! They weren’t in a huddle. They weren’t moving. They were queuing!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I studied the people with the eyes of a student (e.g. studious) as I strode towards the congregation.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">They appeared as if they could be waiting for audition. A few looked like me (cool and handsome, but artistic too). Some looked like drama students (stupid) and sounded like drama students (shrill and stupid). Some looked like Harry Potter fans (peaked magician caps and glasses). There was also a worrying sprinkling of tall, hairy men.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Reader, I sighed. Beer had done for me once again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why hadn’t I waited? Why did I go to the pub?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Two tall women were gabbling excitedly at the back of the queue. One was ugly, the other ugly. I can’t bother do describe them, Reader. They were ugly. One had her hair pulled back from acne-ridden forehead in a tight pony-tail. And my height reached only their nipples. They were tall, ugly sorts. Tugly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I asked them if they queued for the audition.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“No,” said the ugly one. “We enjoy hanging around Soho streets.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Sodding sarcastic students.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Like dirty whores?” I said. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The ugly one raised a middle forefinger to me and said she’d give me another black eye.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I walked past them, along the three deep, 50(?) long queue that snaked around the pub street.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">At the point that the queue bent around the corner, I turned and surveyed the road.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Yes. This <u>was</u> the wait for the audition. The whole pavement was packed with people, right up until it hit the townhouse that, fifty minutes earlier, I was waiting alone outside. It was a distance of 100 people-packed yards. Like a line for a popular nightclub (Fabric), it was.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I swore. A Harry Potter turned and shook his disapproving head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Shoulders hunched, I traipsed to the end of the line.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">And, already, six more had joined at the point of ugly women that had marked the queue’s conclusion only a few minutes beforehand. I fell in behind them, leaning against the plain brick wall of corner house. As the anger at the spontaneity of queue formation dissipated, a realisation of the ignorance of the part I was auditioning for grew.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I tapped the back of the bloke in front. He turned with extreme speed. He wore a T-shirt with ‘Marillion – probably the best band in the world’ printed violently across green chest region. His black hair was short. His chin was wonky – as if someone had spent years pulling lower jaw right, whilst upper jaw was edged left. It was a disconcerting look.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Stop staring at my jaw,” said the man and I apologised.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">After apology, I asked for details of the film for which I was auditioning. The man asked me if his chin was really that noticeable, I lied that it wasn’t and he gave me the S.P.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">This was a rip-off of the Harry Potter series. It was to be the first film that didn’t use a Rowling novel as its source. Harry was now a 25 year old. He had retired from sorcery and lived in a bachelor pad in Bermuda with some sexy witches. He’s pulled back into action when an evil wizard threatens to take over the world with some wicked spell or something.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I told the wonky-chin guy that I’d audition for the part of Harry Potter. He laughed and said that I wasn’t good-looking enough. Anger sparked inside my brain.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“And you are? I suppose you’ll be going for the part of some monster. With that chin of yours, I mean,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">He told me to piss off and turned his back.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">During this exchange, I hadn’t noticed the queue build up behind me. We hadn’t moved forward, yet ten more people had appeared at my bum.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Oy, you want some of this?” said one of these newcomers, and offered me a crooked joint.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I considered his offer for a few seconds.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Marijuana might help me relax (I wasn’t nervous) and free me from self-conscious inhibition, I reasoned. I took the roll-up from his hands (I noticed dirt under his fingernails) and took a deep puff.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Instantly I felt as if my brain had been scooped from my skull and thrown into a deep ocean, miles away (the Atlantic?). I coughed a cloud of white, acrid smoke. I leant back against the wall and asked the guy what it was because it wasn’t weed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Crack,” came his reply. “You want some more? I’ll do you a good deal.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I shook my head very slowly and handed back the dirty joint.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Too bad,” came the guy’s reply and he bounced off. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Mind reeling, I followed his progress – he walked further up the queue and offered the ugly girls the joint. They told him to fuck off. That he did, round the corner. He was no hopeful actor. He was a drug-dealer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Reader, my brain bent. I felt as if I’d instantly consumed twenty pints of cider.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I waited in the queue for three hours and twenty five minutes. I possess little memory of that time. I recall marvelling at the brownness of the world. I remember staring at the wonky-chin-guy’s hair in front and being quite bowled over by how wonderful hair is. I have a dim recollection of having my details taken by a woman with a clipboard in the house’s reception. I <u>do</u> recall sitting in a red hallway waiting to be called into an audition room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Cogent memories begin like this –</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I’m sitting in a chair opposite a long, oak table. Behind this long, oak table sit three people. At the right is a woman with spiky black hair and a vinegary face. In the middle is a fat, bearded guy (a bit like a ‘Just for Men’-using Father Christmas). At the left was a tiny woman.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">They did introduce themselves to me, but I forget their names and roles. I suppose one was the director and the others producers? I don’t know.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I do, however, remember their questions with clarity. Why? Because there weren’t that many of the bastards and my answers were all excruciatingly embarrassing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> And your name?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay:</i> Kay.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> Surname?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay:</i> Richardson.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> And which role will you be auditioning for?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay:</i> Ummmm….. Harry Potter?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> The characters we are casting today are listed on the paper you’re holding. Harry isn’t one of them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">He was right, I was holding a piece of paper. There were three names printed upon it. There was no further information. Ogland. Pete. Subranna. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay:</i> Pete.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">As one, all three leant back in their chair.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> Well … alright.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">He threw a script at me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> Start. I’ll read Ogland.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Pete’s lines were growling animal noises. Nothing more. I wished that I’d chosen Subranna. Man interrupted after my first growl.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> You’re aware that Pete is an eight-foot dog/human hybrid?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay:</i> Yes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> How tall are you?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay:</i> Five foot ten.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> Do you want to start again?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay:</i> Yes. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The line said ‘growl’. I growled. The spiky-haired woman interrupted.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Woman:</i> Stop. Kay, what made you audition for Pete? Why not Subranna?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A high-pitch laugh burst from my mouth. This (inappropriate) behaviour was due to the crack. The tiny woman (she had tiny glasses and bobbed black hair) spoke.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tiny woman:</i> Have you read the character descriptions?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay:</i> Yes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tiny woman:</i> Describe Subranna to us.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay:</i> He’s a man?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Man:</i> Thanks for stopping by. On your way out, could you tell the next person to come in? Thanks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u>Audition over.<o:p></o:p></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I would have felt disappointed, but I was still high on crack.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><meta content="" name="Title"></meta> <meta content="" name="Keywords"></meta> <meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta> <meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Generator"></meta> <meta content="Microsoft Word 2008" name="Originator"></meta> <link href="file://localhost/Users/Tom/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I bought a burger on the way home. That semi-sorted me out. I walked from Lewisham to Outer Blackheath to fully sort me out. And, thankfully, the effects of the crack did dissipate. However, my narcotic high was gradually replaced by the wrench of depressed disappointment. The drugs had sparked the dying embers of yesterday’s hangover – and once more I headached.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">On Lee High Road, I noticed a man with a dog walking towards me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">But this wasn’t any dog. This was <u>Dog</u>! The dog I’d saved.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The guy walking Dog was an elderly sort. He wore a flat-cap and used a walking-stick. I watched them creep close to me with quasi-smile. As soon as Dog was close enough to touch, I bent down and felt him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">His owner whacked my head with his walking stick. I fell instantly to the pavement, shoulder striking floor with sharp pain. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Help! Help! Mugger!” yelled the man. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">As I staggered to my feet, avoiding the repeated thrusts of his violent walking stick, I noticed a gang of twenty metre away bus-stopped children react to the old man’s screams. They had stopped graffiti-ing the bus timetable and had began to run towards us (me, man and dog). I turned-tail and (dog) legged it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">It was in a lingerie shop in Lewisham shopping centre that I finally lost the kids. I hid behind the oversized bras. And so what?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Such was my depth of my funk, I took a cab back to flat, even in the knowledge that such expense was wildly profligate.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I lay on sofa on returning to flat, my head throbbing through combination of crack, hangover and stick-attack.</div><br />
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Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-15163730050219416142010-10-18T11:42:00.000+01:002010-10-18T11:42:02.831+01:00<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://modernl.com/images/illustrations/google-as-a-giant-robot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="http://modernl.com/images/illustrations/google-as-a-giant-robot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u>WORK LOCATION PLAN</u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u>BY KAY RICHARDSON<o:p></o:p></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1)<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Buy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stage</i>;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">2)<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Attend all auditions listed in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stage </i>(apart from erotic dancing);</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">3)<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ring all drama school colleagues (who will talk to me);</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">4)<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ask all drama school colleagues (who will talk to me) for leads;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">5)<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Investigate internet marketing;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">6)<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dismiss thoughts of selling property for a living.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I bought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Stage</i> from Hello Matey. Other than erotic dancers, there was one (vaguely) interesting advertisement. The Cambridge Shakespeare Festival was looking for actors for a series of plays. I emailed them a photo and my CV. My CV was my actual CV. It wasn’t a fabricated CV. I doubted that I’d be called to audition – too little experience. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Scrolling through my phone’s contact list, I realised there were <u>no</u> drama school colleagues who would speak with me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I considered creating another podcast. I consulted the listening statistics for the last episode. I decided against creating another podcast.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">And whilst doing these things, and more, I could never fully dismiss the idea of selling property. If I succumbed to Colin’s cash, I could eat out every night and take women to the cinema and buy as much pick ‘n’ mix as I wanted. I loved those fizzy cola bottles. If I had money, I could buy shizzle-loads. Estate Agency could find me that cash. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I agreed to meet Pink Tom for a drink. Had I forgiven him for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Legion</i> Deejaying fiasco? Had I flip. (No.) But there was nobody else I could think of drinking with:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">People I could have a drink with:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Pink Tom – friend from sixth-form college. Owed me fifty pound from DJing;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Rosalind – told me not to contact her. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Jon (Janet’s husband) – Janet would have reminded him of me after our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Starbucks</i> meeting. He had a baby. And would probably try to convince me of the merits of the property game;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Julia – met in a nightclub six months ago. Had sex. Didn’t call her. Might think it weird to receive a call six months in future. I couldn’t remember her face;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Bert. An alcoholic teacher.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Pink Tom it was, then.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I haven’t forgiven you for the night in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Legion</i>,” he said when I called him. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I told Tom that I hadn’t forgiven him. He agreed, however, that we should go for a drink. We arranged to meet at 1930 in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Railway </i>in Blackheath. Tom moaned because he lived in Camden, the other side of town. I told him that it was my idea to drink, so I could demand location. He wasn’t keen until I lied about a party of sixth-form girls I knew to be visiting. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Railway</i> was a pleasant place. It often played <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Belle & Sebastian</i> on a Saturday night. Sweet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The evening, however, was p-p-p-proper awful. Tom was forty minutes late. I sat with a newspaper and looked like a loner. When Tom finally arrived, he didn’t apologise, but said:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Where are the eighteen-year-olds?” loudly to the empty pub.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">He bought himself a pint of lager without offering me one. And when he finally sat at our table, he told me ‘not to bother asking about that fifty pounds’. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">We sat in silence for twenty minutes. I reread the newspaper and Tom fiddled with his Blackberry.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Oh,” he said at nine o’clock. “Did I tell you that the Royal Court are interested in a play what I wrote?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">My head darted up from an article about a dog that had destroyed Elvis Presley’s teddy bear.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><!--StartFragment--> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Tom confirmed the horror. He’d sent a play to the Royal Court Theatre and somebody there wanted to arrange a meeting to discuss ‘options’. I nodded, grunting ‘well done’ into the newspaper that I continued to reread.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A muted half an hour passed until two Australian girls asked if they could sit at our table.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“What about all those?” I ask, swinging my arm across the bar to illustrate all the other empty tables. Pink Tom and I were the only other customers (apart from a middle-aged couple and an aged alcoholic). These Australians had no call to share our rectangular four-seating table.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Ignore him,” said Tom. “Sure. Take a seat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">He smiled, I hated him, and I continued to read the paper. One of the girls went to fetch drinks. Tom spoke to her friend. When the Aussie returned from the bar, she immediately addressed me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“What yer doing reading a paper in the pub?” she asked. “You want a lager? I bought yer one.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I sighed, folded the paper and returned it to the table. And then I drank. The woman was fairly interesting, I concede. She was studying Russian at university and she answered questions I had about Stalin. She was fairly attractive too - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tall and black haired and diving neck line.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I was talking to her about the Second World War when she leant over and asked ‘do you and your mate wanna come back to my friend’s house for 'c and s'?’ </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I'd not heard of this term before, but knew not to let on. Words flew through my imagination - verily, there were many intriguing words that began with either 'c' or 's'.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I asked if she were joking. She laid a hand upon my thigh and said she never joked about 'c and s'. I gulped and said ‘alright’, knowing that if 'c and s' turned out to be unpleasant, I could always flee from the house, jumping from a window if need be. She told me to check with Tom because it was her friend’s house and they’d only met four hours earlier and she didn’t wanna be a gooseberry. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I leant over to Tom, smiling and forgiving, and I asked him and he laughed, then straightened his face when he realised I wasn't joking and so said ‘Not my scene’.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I walked home. Alone. Seething. Drunk.</div><!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-23186770491625702092010-10-13T20:17:00.000+01:002010-10-13T20:17:48.345+01:00Read this:<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 32px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.freefoto.com/images/31/09/31_09_5---Trafalgar-Square--London_web.jpg?&k=Trafalgar+Square,+London" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://www.freefoto.com/images/31/09/31_09_5---Trafalgar-Square--London_web.jpg?&k=Trafalgar+Square,+London" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Morning began with a surprise in my inbox:</div></span><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kay Richardson,<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I was passed your details by a mutual friend. Would you be interested in some acting work? It involves performance tomorrow (Sunday) in Trafalgar Square. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Please let me know either way ASAP.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thayne Catchpole<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thayne, eh?</i> I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trafalgar Square, eh?</i> I continued to think. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paid work, eh?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I replied:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thayne, hello,<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who is our mutual friend?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let me know arrangements.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">K<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Email discharged to the ether, I clicked open an message whose subject header boasted it could enlarge my penis. An overwhelming shadow of misanthropy fell upon my soul when reading the poorly spelt message. But before thoughts turned suicidal (Thames jump, Thames jump), and seconds after reading the erection email, Thayne replied:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">K,<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Meet at 1600 (today) in Trafalgar Square for briefing.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do you have any military costumes?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thanks,<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thayne<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I didn’t bother sending a reply. I didn’t own any military costumes. And I didn’t like Thayne’s presumption that I might. Who owned military uniforms?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The filling sandwiched between Thayne’s mid-morning emails and Thayne’s meeting in Central London was a poor one (cheap tuna?). I laid on the sofa and watched a film about three American GIs that returned to Italy, thinking that they were all the father of one teenage beauty. It was candyfloss for the brain. I lay and watched it, motionless, from opening credits till end (commercials and all).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">On the train to Charing Cross (next to Trafalgar Square) I wondered how to identify Thayne. I also wondered what the job might be, how much I’d be paid and why I hadn’t asked these questions before accepting his electronic offer. And Thayne hadn’t identified our mutual friend, despite my polite questioning. It could be an elaborate set-up for a mugging, I thought. Thayne might be a mugger. I checked my pockets for phone and wallet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I shouldn’t have worried. It was easy-peasy to find Thayne. And when I did, he didn’t mug me, even though he held a broad sword. He was the guy dressed as a Roman General outside the National Gallery (North end of Trafalgar Square – find a picture on the internet). I’d never introduced myself to a Roman General before, but I thrust out a hand and told him my name, as I would anyone else – even slave.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Yes, yes, yes,” said Thayne. He spoke with high lisp and private school accent. “Never mind about you, you’re here. Where are the others?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Thayne raised a hand to shield his eyes, even though the sunlight flittered insipidly, as if it couldn’t be bothered to shine properly. I looked over Trafalgar Square. I could see no other Roman soldiers. There were many neon-clothed tourists, a scattering of skin-heads and some students cocking about in the fountains – but no Roman soldiers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I can’t see any Roman soldiers,” I said and Thayne nodded.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">No other Roman soldier turned up. Out of the five actors that arrived, three wore modern camouflage fatigues. One guy wore the uniform of a Napoleonic-era combatant. And one bloke had a full-on Nazi outfit (greyly resplendent with Iron Cross). It took forty minutes for the entire party to show. And the Nazi guy was (ironically, considering the German’s reputation for precision) the last to arrive.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">During the wait, I sat upon one (of the many) stone walls that make Trafalgar Square a square. I asked Thayne’s back six times what the performance was and how much I’d get paid for it, but each time he dismissed my questions with a <u>SSSSSHHHH</u> released from the side of mouth and a weak-wristed flap of hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Thayne insisted the group form a line before he spoke. This we did. I stood between the Nazi and a modern soldier.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Tomorrow, we will perform in front of thousands of people.” My eyes widened. “We shall fight here. A stage will be erected for us.” He gestured at the raised end of the square upon which we stood. “The audience shall watch there.” He pointed to the centre of the square. “The leaders of the march have allotted us two performance times. Performance time number one will be at two o’clock. Performance time number two will be at five o’clock.” Thayne nodded pompously (much like a Roman general, I imagined). “Remember, we won’t be presenting our fight literally. No. We are artists. Our act should move towards the abstract, the expressionistic. I don’t want to see anybody throwing any punches. I don’t want anyone kicked in the head. I want symbolism. I want creativity.” Thayne took an affected glance along the line of men. “Beautiful costumes, talent. Kay Richardson. Where is yours?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Seconds passed before I realised that Thayne wasn’t joking. His gelled (Caesar-style) hair was almost blown Mohican by a burst of Thames-fresh wind.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I didn’t have one,” I told him. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Thayne stared along his nose at me. The Nazi said that he had another uniform spare.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I shall bring something tomorrow,” said Thayne. “Do not fret.” He flashed a smile. It lasted for no more than a second. “Gentlemen, I shall see you here a little before two, tomorrow afternoon.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Thayne took a sharp 180 degree turn and moved into the crowd milling outside the entrance to the National Gallery.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Our line began to break. I shouted ‘Oy, Thayne!’, but he was already lost in the mass of art-interested tourists. I turned to the Nazi. The others had begun to shuffle away. I excused myself from their company and asked the Nazi what was happening.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“What, now? I’m going for a pint. Want to come?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">His first suggestion for location was the ICA. I vetoed that. Instead, we found an empty, old-style boozer called ‘The Sherlock Holmes’ in a back-street behind Charing Cross station. Polish barmaid aside, there was nobody around to take offence at his Nazi apparel. And, anyway, London’s a liberal, cosmopolitan place. We sat at a circular table in the dark, woody pub (big mirror behind long bar), sticky red carpet. The Nazi bought the drinks. Some peanuts too.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I took a sip of the lager. Cool it was, and it seeped into my body like some golden, hoppy elixir.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“When I asked earlier ‘what’s happening?’, I meant the performance, not what you were doing next,” I explained to the Nazi.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">He laughed and introduced himself as Richard. I shook his hand and told him my name.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Kay,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Kay Richardson?” he asked. I nodded. “Thought so. Weren’t you the guy that lived on a stage for a week? Some living art, was it? That was you, wasn’t it?” I nodded; it had been me. “Yeah. I thought that was a smashing idea. You were in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Guardian</i>, weren’t you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Yes,” I said. “And the local news.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The Nazi nodded and told me it was a smashing idea (again).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“How come you didn’t starve?” he asked, popping a peanut in his mouth.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I told him that the audience (groups of tourists generally – they paid to walk through the theatre and watch myself and friend sleep and stuff (a live Big Brother, we called it)) would bring food for us. A group of Americans bought us pizza, I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The Nazi nodded and smiled and told me that he’d wished he’d had such a smashing idea. I steered the conversation back to talk of our soldiery performance.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“What about tomorrow?” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The Nazi spoke:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Thayne ran this company that produced short anti-war performance material.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of his politics, he received much funding from guilty liberals. We were to perform in one such piece. We, the actors, would dress in military uniforms and fight for twenty minutes. The repetitiveness of the piece, coupled with the fact that nobody dies, should illustrate the absurdity of war. Thayne had recorded some original music to be played over the fighting to emphasise this. We’d get a hundred quid for our troubles. Thayne didn’t believe in rehearsals, nor scripts. He thought it strangled creativity.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Nice one,” I said. “So what am I supposed to do?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shrugged and finished off his pint. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Improvise.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I arrived at Trafalgar Square at ten to two the next day. There was an impressive throng of protestors. Some held banners. Others had shaved their heads. The BBC News had reported that there would be an anti-war march. I hadn’t realised that they referred to my forum. Tens of thousands were expected. Trafalgar Square was almost half-full – there <u>were</u> thousands. I pushed my way to the North side. Where we had lined yesterday, there now stood a few raised wooden pallets, covered in carpet. On top of this was a microphone. Speaking into the microphone was a red-faced, stupid-haired angry man. He shouted about Palestine.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A hand sharply gripped my shoulder. I was pulled from the front of the crowd and up onto the side of the stage. Thayne stood pointing at his watch (looking rather incongruous next to the Roman get-up).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“You’ve got three minutes to change,” he said and chucked me a weighty Sainsbury’s bag. “It’s gladiatorial. I couldn’t find military.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I nodded and jogged behind the stage. There was no backdrop to prevent the thousands watching me strip. I even noticed a few point already, and the red-faced speaker turned to me as I passed. No, I decided. Here was <u>not</u> a good place to change. Conscious of Thayne’s angry Roman eyes, I ran into the Nation Gallery and deposited myself in the men’s toilets that were fortuitously positioned just in from the main entrance.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Pulled out of the plastic bag in a shit-smelling cubicle off the National Gallery entrance hall was a small length of leather, a string vest and a helmet only large enough to cover my scalp. I wasn’t surprised, nor upset. I had already surrendered myself to wearing ridiculous clothes. It wouldn’t be Kay Richardson appearing on stage in leather boxer shorts, string vest and tiny helmet. No. It would be the Roman Gladiator, there to <u>do in</u> the other soldiers (albeit in abstract form).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I thrust my original threads in the carrier bag, and jogged back to the stage. The others were already streaming onto the performance area. With a whack on the bottom from Thayne, I joined them. We lined behind Thayne, who took position at the microphone. After waiting for the applause to wither, he spoke:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“We amass here today, unified in our protest against War. Some of us will march, others will write letters. I, and my actors, will perform. My name is Thayne Catchpole and I present ‘War – what’s it all about?’ </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">He turned to us and nodded. He raised a thumb to a thin chap that stood with headphone behind a mass of black machinery. The stage shuddered with the sudden opening of Thayne’s music. I hadn’t enough time to absorb its formless electronic beeping. Instead, I was being lifted off my feet by Thayne and the Nazi. I imagined myself a missile, sent to kill civilians. I raised my hands to a peak above my head. The two dropped my faux-explosive form to the floor and I made an exploding noise and lay on my side.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">This motion was repeated five times, while the other performers ran around in front of us, a-screaming and a-hollering. I tired of acting a missile, so upon the fifth occasion of exploding, I refused to be lifted again and instead crawled through Thayne and the Nazi’s legs. Thayne tried to grab me, missed, and a laugh erupted from the (until then) silent audience. As I crawled through these legs, I imagined myself as a British infantryman in the fields of the Somme, crawling through the muddy craters of No-Man’s Land.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Crawl over, I stood up and watched the Napoleonic guy and the modern soldiers mime the discharge of a gun. I thought it rather impressive (aesthetically), but the audience didn’t offer direct response. The mild murmur of chat had overtaken their initial slack-jawed silence. And so it was with some relieve that the Thayne’s electronic dirge stopped to mark the end of the performance. Thayne was forced to speak “and that’s it” into the microphone before the audience wetly applauded.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">At the post-mortem at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sherlock Holmes</i>, we were all disappointed. Thayne was inconsolable.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“They spoke over the music,” he sobbed into his pint. “I had to ask them to applaud. I could swear, you know. I could swear.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">We nodded.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Shakespeare did the same,” said someone, vaguely.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The five pints that sloshed between first performance and second did little to improve our mood. When we trudged back to Trafalgar Square, the crowd had grown twofold. Why? Because the march was due to set off immediately after our repeated piece. It took the combined rhetorical power of the whole group to persuade Thayne to approach the microphone. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“This is something about war. You’ll think it crap, no doubt,” he said and the music began.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">We started with the missile mime. After this, the whole group joined in an extended tableaux of a machine gunner shooting a group of children. Reader, I was the gunner. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The audience’s chatter during this scene obscured the electronic music. Thayne stood up from the pile of dead children and crossed to the microphone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“You ******* bunch of philistine *****,” he screamed before the Nazi and I pulled him away. “You think you’re all so right on with your fucking marches. What about the Art?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The performance ended.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Dressed back in our civilian clothes, nobody recognised the five ashen-faced actors dragging the tear-stained Thanye back to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sherlock Holmes</i>. I stayed long enough to receive my hundred quid (two fifty pound notes – I hadn’t seen such objects in years). The Nazi gave me his number and told me to get in touch.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">On the way home, I bought two bottles of Claret. There was a documentary about Stephen Sondheim on BBC2 and I planned to get drunk.</div><!--EndFragment--><br />
<div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-7128884155795923412010-10-11T11:06:00.000+01:002010-10-11T11:06:06.149+01:00Another afternoon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ajmtaxconsulting.co.uk/blackheath%20village.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.ajmtaxconsulting.co.uk/blackheath%20village.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Another afternoon and I walked to Blackheath to kill the remaining day. I saw no dogs.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I couldn’t abide spending unnecessary time in the flat. The ceiling descended an inch every day. The place stank of sleep. The carpet was littered with newspapers. The TV spewed forth soporific shizzle. If I didn’t have such a high regard for life, jumping into the <st1:place w:st="on">Thames</st1:place> might have held some poisonous attraction.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The Dog Day had depressed. I returned home a little after four in the afternoon. I smoked a half-joint that a friend had dropped at a flat-party six months ago. It tasted like burnt hair. I didn’t feel high. No pleasure was forthcoming. I felt only headached and tired.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">And so I determined to leave the flat. It took <u>forty minutes</u> to reach Blackheath. I walked as slowly as I could up hill, imagining myself as an elderly gentleman. I bent my back and moved from right side of pavement to left. I even mimed doffing my cap to a few teenage girls. Their shouts of ‘pervert’ were unsurprising, but undeserved.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I sat alone in Blackheath <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Starbucks</i>. On my small, silver and circular table, an Americano steamed. Its mug was huge and almost pint-worthy. Next to it sat a battered copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Catcher in the Rye</i>. I found the novel in a bush in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Weymouth</st1:city></st1:place> three years ago. It remained half-read. Holden seems an interesting sort, mind.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">‘Phoney’ he says. ‘Phoney’.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Alongside these items lay a digital Dictaphone, in case of sudden literary/life inspiration. Much of the conversation that follows is taken directly from this recording. I inadvertently turned it on when removing it from the confines of my pocket. I omit the ‘umms’ and ‘agghs’ that depressingly punctuate my parley.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Starbucks</i> contained its usual mix of yummy mummy Blackheatheans and precocious private school girls talking loudly about ‘mummy’ and their horse and kissing boys. I remember a wave of nausea falling upon me with first tentative sip of coffee. I regretted not bringing the iPod to drown out the teenage rumble.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Waiting for time to pass (I’d set myself forty minutes to waste in this coffee shop, before moving on to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Café Nero</i>), I became conscious of company. I looked up and flinched, irrationally expecting a punching fist. No – there were no knuckles. Only a lady called Janice. She wore a beret at angle.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Kay!” she exclaimed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I rose to my feet and kissed her left cheek. She moved as if I should kiss her right side too. Hesitantly, I did so. She joined me at the table.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“How’s it going?” I asked. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Excuses for a prompt departure wheeled through my head. I wasn’t in the mood for talking, but the full mug of coffee worked against me. If it had been empty, or only half-empty, I could have claimed a pressing engagement with a surgeon or something and left. But no …<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">She nodded as she considered my question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Janice was a pretty thing, tight blonde bob, twinkling blue eyes. Her chin was slightly too big to rightly label her beautiful. She was married to some “actor” called Jon with whom I had done some school-based work years past. Rumour on the showbusiness grapevine had it that Janice was pregnant.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“It’s going really well,” she said, placing stress on the word ‘really’.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Good,” I replied. “You’ve put on weight. Have you been eating more or…?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A pause.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Jon told me of your success in <i>Macbeth</i>.” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Jon spoke too much.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Yeah,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Tell all, then.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I gulped down some coffee. It was hot and burnt the roof of my mouth. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I’ve been sacked actually.” I paused. “Macbeth was jealous of me.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Pardon?” said Janice.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I spoke louder.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I’ve been sacked.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Oh God,” said Janice. “I thought that’s what you said. Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Yeah,” I responded. “So am I. Macbeth thought I was going to steal away Lady Macbeth.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Did you?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">An awkward silence.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“What are you working on now?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Nothing.” Janice’s smile dropped. She looked genuinely upset. “Absolutely bugger all. I did some audition for a TV job the other day. I buggered that up.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A few schoolgirls turned as I swore. I shrugged.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Janice stared at me without speaking. I guessed that she was focusing upon a forehead spot. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I removed them, revealing purple damage.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Oh God,” she whimpered.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I returned the glasses to my face.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Another uncomfortable pause loomed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I know a man,” she began, minutes later.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Good,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“He runs an Agency in town.” My ears pricked up. “An Estate Agency. Selling houses.” My ears pricked down. “He’s always after new blood. He’s always asking Jon to join him. He says that actors are perfect for his work. Make sure they’re young, confident and sexy, he says. That’s you, Kay. You’re all three.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“That’s true,” I said. “But Estate Agents are pricks.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">She nodded.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“They also earn wheelbarrows of money. And get their own car.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I can’t drive. They remain pricks.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Janice stared out of window onto <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Blackheath Road</st1:address></st1:street>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“You’d be perfect Kay. Absolutely perfect. Let me give the man a ring. He’s called Colin. He’s a good friend of ours, Jon and me.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I told her that she shouldn’t ring Colin … now. She took my telephone number and promised that someone, probably Colin, would contact me in time. I should have told her to drop it, that I wasn’t interested, but I didn’t. I couldn’t afford any Chocolate Fudge Cake, you see. That held my revulsion of Estate Agents in check.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Janice left and I was alone with memories (and a recording) of the conversation and a vagueness of reaction. My telephone began to ring almost as soon as Janice had exited the cafe. It wasn’t Colin. It was Mother. I didn’t answer. My frail emotions couldn’t withstand a barrage of abuse.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A telephone message was left to remind me of her birthday in a week’s time. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I placed Janice’s conversation in the same mental compartment that I stored my financial worries and memory of Rosalind – a folder marked ‘do not think about’.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">*Note for my American readers - Estate Agent = Realtor</div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-61517892531964641232010-10-07T11:59:00.000+01:002010-10-07T11:59:00.884+01:00Slow Tread<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.hemmy.net/images/animals/dogweirdcostume05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.hemmy.net/images/animals/dogweirdcostume05.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The slow tread of elderly pedestrian antagonises me. I loathe children. Especially toddlers. If I saw you, Reader, getting set upon by a gang of hooded teenagers, I would walk past without guilt (unless you were sexy and I had a handgun). I’ve never bought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Big Issue</i> and I never will. I have told four women that I love them to gain access to their sex. I have told two men that I love them to gain access to their wallets. I lie more often than I truth. If I sense the possibility of an advantageous angle, I work it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">But … this very morning I (selflessly) took a lost old dog to Lewisham Police Station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This action was born of pure altruism. And where did this selfless gesture land me? Locked in the back of a Police van for five hours.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The canine thing was lying on its side in the middle of Lee High Road, immediately opposite my flat complex. The dog was unmoving on a road that never stopped gushing heavy traffic. As I waited for my bus, I viewed cars, vans, lorries and bicycles curving around the still figure of dog. Not one vehicle stopped. The image was particularly startling, as I had forgotten to bring out the sunglasses.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I watched the body as I waited for the 321 to deliver me outside Lewisham <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Burger King</i>. I wanted hot meat, Reader, and I wasn’t prepared to heat it myself. There was a fiver in my wallet and a taste for burger in my chops.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Waiting for transport to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Whopper</i>, I supposed that the dog was dead. It was, after all, lying still in the middle of a main road. That’s not what living dogs do. Living dogs run about in fields and shit in people’s lounges. Only dead dogs lie in roads.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I stared at the body and thought of my youth. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A slight wag of tail -/- so feeble that it caused me to doubt my perception. But again, a motorcycle roared past and the tail flicked – maybe a millimetre or so.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I looked to the Rastafarian standing next to me. He was busy reading the Bible and had a sternness to his face that scared me from interruption. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I thought of the Burger. Of the strawberry milkshake for which I longed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I walked to this dog, the burger would be delayed, even cancelled. And my tummy was all empty.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I balanced these considerations against the knowledge that I <u>could</u> save the existence of a dog, for the wag of its tail spoke of a life yet extinguished. It was a black <st1:place w:st="on">Labrador</st1:place> not unlike Billy, my Billy. Billy, the black <st1:place w:st="on">Labrador</st1:place>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Billy, the black Labrador, that once shagged Sarah Seymour’s back in my teenage bedroom in <st1:place w:st="on">Devon</st1:place> nine years previously.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The memory of Billy’s excited thrusting and Sarah’s distraught screaming spurred me to action. I waited for a break in the traffic-action and tiny-stepped over to the dog. He lay on the central white line. Cars moved past us. One had the temerity to beep – I shouted ‘fuck off’ – a reaction that’s <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>viciousness of tone surprised me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The dog raised its head. Its fur was splashed with white – most noticeably around the skin-loose muzzle. Its eyes were both yellow, but possessed the white twinkle of life. It was a fat dog, but an aged dog. Its fur grew sparse (like a cricket square in summer) towards its belly. I checked the tarmac for blood. There was none. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Gingerly, and conscious of the traffic that flowed in each direction, I slipped both palms under its belly and chest. Dog lifted his head towards me and licked his lips. Dog’s tail wagged with more vigour. Dog didn’t yelp. I doubted he’d been hit by car.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A rush of red bus flew in front of face. I was almost hit.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Some swear words gushed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Back on safe pavement, a taxi driver had pulled up. This chap helped me place the dog in the back of his cab. Dog wasn’t walking, but would wag a tail when stroked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I explained to the taxi-driver that it wasn’t my dog and I didn’t know what to do with it.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Ring RSPCA, innit,” said the taxi-driver.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I did that (after tedious time spent finding the appropriate number). They suggested I ring <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battersea Dog’s Home</i>. I rang Battersea. This was roughly ten minutes after I’d picked the dog from road and the tax-driver was becoming anxious.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I gotta kid to feed. Time is money,” he repeated.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Battersea Dog’s Home</i> told me to take the animal to the nearest police station.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Twelve minutes later I was standing outside Lewisham Police Station, with a now walking dog (albeit extremely shakily) and five pound lighter for the taxi journey. I had used my belt as a make-shift lead, so my trousers were on the verge of falling down. I was forced to hold them up with one hand and the dog with the other.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Inside the reception, people (criminals) looked at me as if bringing a dog to a Police Station (with trousers half-down) was the stupidest thing someone could do.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I spoke to three policemen at three different windows. These windows were surrounded by a plastic cell in which you were locked to prevent you … running away mid-sentence, I guess. Each policeman asked how I had suffered my black eye. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u>Doggy.<o:p></o:p></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Eventually a PC (who asked me if I didn’t have anything better to do in my life than pick up stray dogs) escorted me to a courtyard at the back of the station. The station was built like a fortress. High brick walls rose on three sides of its back yard. A set of twenty foot high black gates completed the square of imprisonment. Centre of courtyard (as if posed) was a policewoman. She had a blonde bob and was rather pretty for a pig. I noticed a baton strapped to her belt.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Looking at baton, I didn’t hear her opening question. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“It’s a dog,” I said, guessing at what she might have asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">This was obviously an inappropriate answer to her question and she giggled. The PC that had led me to her, laughing, said:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“His name’s Kay Richardson,” before walking off.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Me,” I said. “I’m Kay. Not the dog.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“We’re going to take him over here,” said the policewoman, pointing at the back of a police van, seven metres behind. “Do we know his name?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“No,” I said. “I have been calling him Dog.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Does he respond to that?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">She opened the back of the van.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The rear windows were protected by mesh. The black van interior was empty, bar a clown-face mask.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I don’t know how that got in there,” WPC said. She extended an arm to fetch the mask. She offered it to me, but I refused. The dog looked up and wagged its tail. “I think he likes you,” said the policewoman.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">She lifted Dog and placed him in the back of the van. The doors were shut. The last sight we saw were Dog’s large brown (yellow tint, of course) eyes looking mournfully out at us.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The policewoman explained that Dog was being placed in the van because Lewisham station cages had no locks and dogs easily escaped from them. Only last week the station had to be evacuated because of an outbreak of dogs. The policewoman needed to leave Dog to complete some paperwork. She needed to check whether any aged black <st1:place w:st="on">Labradors</st1:place> had been listed as missing that morning. She told me I was now free to go and I was definitely a good citizen.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I smiled.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">And from the van came a low, despondent howl. This wasn’t no howl of a wolf. No, it was a Johnny Cash ‘Hurt’ Howl. It shivered through the listener and spoke of dark, woofy loneliness.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“How long does your paperwork take?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“No more than ten minutes,” WPC replied. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I’ll wait with him in the courtyard,” I told her.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I wasn’t allowed – regulations meant that dogs were forbidden from waiting in the courtyard. He’d have to stay in the back of the van.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I sighed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Soon, I was sitting in back of a door-closed Police Van, knees about ears, stroking the chin of Dog. Dog seemed nice enough. And I’d surrendered enough of the morning that ten more minutes would make little difference.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Three hours later and I was still stroking Dog’s chin.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The sudden opening of van doors was a shock of bright light. I’d grown accustomed to the gloom. The daylight stung my eyes. By this point, I had almost consoled myself to death in the van with Dog. I had passed the time by wondering which part of Dog I would eat first, if I came to starve.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u>Leg.<o:p></o:p></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u><br />
</u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Outside stood WPC. Two policemen I didn’t recognise stood behind her. One was laughing with impunity. The other made slight effort to disguise his amusement with a hand over mouth. WPC wasn’t laughing. She knew I could well report this incident to the Police Complaints Committee. Unlawful imprisonment this was. Of Dog and me both.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“I’m so sorry. I had to rush off. There was a parrot emergency in Eltham. I was the only one trained to cope with it. I didn’t realise you couldn’t open the van door from the inside.” I didn’t let slip that I hadn’t tried. “There’s good news, though. We’ve located the owner of the dog. He lives in Lee. He’s called Wally. The owner’s coming to get him soon. I’m sure he’d like to thank you. You’re welcome to wait in my office.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Hunchbacked and stiff, I banged my way out of van. The three police took a step back to accommodate my exit.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“How do I leave?” I asked. The laughing policeman pointed at the massive set of black gates. He continued to laugh. “Could you open them?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">He nodded.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I left the Police Station.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I walked the twenty minutes from Lewisham to Outer Blackheath. I had spent the only five pounds brought out on Dog’s cab. I had no money for bus nor nutrient neither.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">It was a miserable journey, Reader.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
And every step I took, I undertook never to be nice to old dogs again.<o:p></o:p></div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-22859136627918504452010-10-04T17:23:00.000+01:002010-10-04T17:23:35.468+01:00KayCast TWODear Reader,<br />
<br />
I've recorded another Podcast. I'm still a little unsure as to their quality/raison d'être, so it may very well be the final instalment. Therefore, you should treat it as preciously as if it were the final butterfly. Albeit a butterfly to which you listen. And a butterfly with a British accent. And a virtual butterfly. OK, that wasn't a great simile but, hopefully, you understand.<br />
<br />
I've published it <a href="http://actorkay.podbean.com/">HERE</a>. And submitted it to iTunes too, although I read that Apple have to review it before you can access it through their programme.<br />
<br />
Having admitted I'm unsure of the future of podcasting, I'm also MASSIVELY frustrated that both this blog and my <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/ActorKay">Twitter account</a> have stalled in recent weeks. I get around 100 people a day visiting these pages and am very grateful to them all. I've around 1900 followers on Twitter, but this number has stalled ever since I reached my 'following' limit and can't coerce strangers to follow me by first following them.<br />
<br />
We need to increase these numbers, America. What should I do? Organise a rally or what?<br />
<br />
How to become massively popular? I guess we all face a similar problem but not all of us have killer cheekbones, so, by rights, I should be soon be living off ad income from blogs or at the very least be receiving the odd invitation to open a nightclub in Leicester, say.<br />
<br />
COMPETITION - if anyone can prove they increased my popularity in a quantifiable manner*, I shall write them a sonnet.<br />
<br />
Good afternoon,<br />
<br />
Kay<br />
x<br />
<br />
*And I'm talking increased readership in the thousands before you rush to set up a fake Twitter account in your dog's name in the belief that a solitary follower might win you the prize.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-66266941341160232242010-10-04T17:08:00.000+01:002010-10-04T17:08:45.892+01:00Doings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.prestoncasanova.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/picture-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="http://www.prestoncasanova.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/picture-6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u><b>Doing:</b><o:p></o:p></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Cleaning lounge of dog poop.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Painting over offensive graffiti.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Accepting apology from Mr Dowson and downstairs nephew (who sported a bruised face and (Mr Dowson explained) had stolen Dowson’s copy of my frontdoor key (because I’d complained about the barking and shouting) and had a ‘subnormal mental capacity’).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Accepting £250 compensation from Mr Dowson.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Reading Carver. Without absorbing any meaning.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Thinking of Rosalind. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Becoming angry.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Sending Rosalind a text message: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We should talk. The wall wasn’t what it seemed. </i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Receiving message from Rosalind: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the nicest possible way: leave me alone.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Throwing telephone at wall.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Buying new phone with Mr Dowson’s compensation.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Ordering pizza, eating pizza, and going to bed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p><u><b>Further doing:</b></u></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">I scoured the internet for job opportunities. None were appropriate. I read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Popbitch</i> and looked at lady pictures (not in unison).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Still no literary agents made contact.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">When not looking at lady pictures or reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Popbitch</i>, the day was spent avoiding thought of money or Rosalind. Father’s donation was steadily evaporating from Travelcards and food and newspapers. Most of Mr Dowson’s compensation had been spent on my new phone and pizza. And as much as eggs are eggs, rent-day would soon come around. I was sure that Mother would stymie any further attempt to coerce cash from Father.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Life unemployed depressed. It felt like winter without hope of spring.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">My eye bandage was removed (by me in darkened bedroom). Daylight pained the eye-thing and so I wore sunglasses. It worked well. The glasses disguised the purple monstrosity that my right eye had become post-punch.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b><u>Doing timetable:</u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><b><u></u></b>Here’s a note of the minutiae of today (times are approximate):</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1030: Woke. Listened to Radio 4/XFM.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1130: Rose from bed. Put on sunglasses. Watched <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This Morning</i>, News and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Loose Women</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1400: Found a pork pie in back of fridge. Rinsed and ate.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1420: Cut toe-nails.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1430: Began writing new script ‘Tomorrow’s Nothing’<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1435: Surfed internet.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1450: Found porn on internet.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1545: Returned to bed.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1640: Rose from bed. Made a jam sandwich.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1700: Watched <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Richard and Judy</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">1800: Wrote in notebook: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can’t continue like this. <u>I’m an artist</u></i><u>.</u><o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8615509030160887135.post-80353383837977555102010-09-30T17:00:00.001+01:002010-10-01T07:24:18.806+01:00Sofa, so good<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://funnycarspictures.net/images/funny_cat_car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://funnycarspictures.net/images/funny_cat_car.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Sprawled on sofa was I, watching a documentary about feral children. I had begun the evening attempting to read Raymond Carver. But my attention wandered, the TV was switched on, and I became engrossed by the sight of a thirteen year old Russian girl jumping about on all fours and barking. My concentration was beginning to fade (again) as the telephone rang. By this time, the documentary had stopped running film of the girl acting dog-like and, instead, was referencing Noam Chomsky and language development. Nobody watched a documentary about feral children to listen to Chomsky’s formation of language hypotheses. It was all about the barking girl.<br />
<br />
It was Alex that called. He was a person that I vaguely knew through a friend of a friend of a friend. We had once attended a night of Morrissey music together and he’d complained that the DJ played too much Morrissey. I turned away from him following that comment.<br />
<br />
“Hey, Kay,” he said. “Long time … You doing anything tonight?” he started.<br />
<br />
I told him that I was watching a programme about feral children, after which I surf the web and then go to sleep.<br />
<br />
“Thing is, we’re desperate for someone to play football.”<br />
<br />
I asked who ‘we’ were.<br />
<br />
“Torpedo Tooting,” he said. “We ate a dodgy curry yesterday. The team’s been decimated. I remembered - on that Morrissey night you said you played a bit.”<br />
<br />
I never said this. I told Alex. I told him that football was for plebs and I hadn’t played for ten years.<br />
<br />
“Even so … could you help out? I’m literally ringing everyone I know. We’re dead desperate. And we’re going out in Clapham after. I’ll buy you a few pints.”<br />
<br />
I asked how many. Alex seemed confused.<br />
<br />
“You want an actual number?”<br />
<br />
I told Alex that I would play for five pints. He asked if I were joking. I told him that I never joked about alcohol. So desperate for players was Alex that he agreed to my price. Possessing no items of clothes sporting, I asked if I could borrow some kit. He said that it shouldn’t be a problem. He asked the size of my feet and I replied ‘massive’.<br />
<br />
Train. Tube. And on the underground I sat next to a small woman. Across her lap lay an open sketch book. She drew snatches of the tube carriage’s occupants. In time she turned to me. Quite brazenly, she would look up from her drawing to study the lines of my face. I noticed this from the corner of my eye. And I was determined not to react. All artists crave attention. I wasn’t playing ball.<br />
<br />
The tube whizzed through four Northern Line stations on its way south to Clapham. The sketchy woman had finished the picture of my face and was now studying the form of a small American girl that sat opposite. She drew the girl on the same page as my face, so I was able to peer awkwardly at her representation of my features.<br />
<br />
Instantly, my determination to remain impassive was ruined. There, on the page, sat a fat-faced, baggy-eyed version of Kay Richardson, ten years older and three stone heavier.<br />
<br />
“That’s not me,” I said, jabbing my finger at the page. “I look like a fucking hamster.”<br />
<br />
The woman glanced up at me with a quick, bird-like movement, but continued to sketch the girl opposite. I was prevented from continuing the conversation by the tube’s arrival at Tooting Bec station. I screwed my eyes and wished silent misfortune on the ‘artist’, as I joined the throng of grey commuters off the tube.<br />
<br />
“Do I look fat?” I asked Alex at his car outside Tooting Common.<br />
<br />
He didn’t respond, instead he pulled me some clothes from the rear seats of his car. There were no changing facilities. I would have to change in the open. He didn’t have any massive sized shoes. I would have to make do with size 11. This was a size too large, but seemed to fit OK.<br />
<br />
The match passed in a blur. I touched the ball three times in the first half of forty-five minutes. Once was to whack the leather out of play, another was a weak pass back to the goalkeeper (which was intercepted by the opposition’s striker to score), and the third was a back-heel into space. I spent much of the first half bent double, tired hands on tired waist. At half-time, sweating over orange slices, Alex told me that I was doing ‘OK’, but to keep things ‘simple’. We were winning 3-1.<br />
<br />
Second 45: there were a few missed passes, a kick of an opponent’s bum, and one punt at goal that was so close to going in that it brought tears to my eyes. The game finished three goals each. As we changed back into our civilian clothes at the back of the car, Alex said it was a ‘reasonable’ result and that I was shockingly unfit. There were no showers. I was forced to pull my clothes (that smelt still from the tube journey) over a body whose skin still gushed sweat from every pore. It was not pleasant.<br />
<br />
“Right. Those five pints,” I said and Alex didn’t respond, but walked off. I followed him to the congregation of players (both our team and the enemy) at the gate of the common’s car park. They began formulating a plan.<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in The Sun pub, Clapham, with seventeen other footballers and five pints sitting on the table in front of my hands. Alex (who had turned rather surly) said that it was a Sunday evening and he wouldn’t be drinking lots and he couldn’t believe I was insisting on the alcohol, so he’d buy the five at once and there would be no argument.<br />
<br />
Five pints to the wind, one hour later (2130) I felt fuzzy. I had grown tired of football talk, and amused myself by reading The Sunday Star. One article described Susanna Warner’s drunken stumbling outside a West End nightclub. A picture accompanied the story in which you could almost see up her skirt. Some of the footballers threw abuse at me for reading a newspaper in a bar, but I told them to ‘fuck off’ with vicious timbre.<br />
<br />
And in shocked Rosalind.<br />
<br />
Accompanied by a small, pretty and short-skirt-and-boots-wearing girl, she passed our long table, and stood at the bar. She didn’t notice me. I studied her back. Even though there were a couple of others waiting for drinks, she was served instantly. Taking an orange liquid, she disappeared in one of the corners away from us sportsmen.<br />
<br />
I gulped and dropped the paper onto the table. The footballer sat next to me said that I should mind his pint. His words (and tone of aggression) flew over me like a silk sheet. <br />
<br />
Rosalind. <br />
<br />
The last time we met, she claimed that she never wanted to see me again. The thought of such rejection made the five pints of continental lager simmer in stomach. <br />
<br />
But of all the bars in all of London, she had walked into The Sun. Serendipity, Reader, serendipity. I jumped up from the table, knocking my neighbour’s pint over his jeans.<br />
<br />
“For fuck’s sake!” he swore, all wet. <br />
<br />
“Soz,” said I, but was already at the bar, buying a double vodka (easy on the ice).<br />
<br />
Confidence increased by this further injection of alcohol, I sought out Rosalind.<br />
<br />
There she was, in a wooden booth. Two benches, either side of a table, all wood. <br />
<br />
There she was, in a wooden booth. Rosalind and her friend. With two men.<br />
<br />
Standing across the pub, watching the party of four, an awareness of my drunkenness grew. I found it difficult to focus, and there was a palpable sway to my carriage. <br />
<br />
I watched the table. Rosalind, friend and man #1 were listening to man #2 speak. His eyebrows were large, he wore a tight t-shirt and the excessive movement of his arms spoke of an actor. The hope that this man might be gay flickered within my drunken pessimism.<br />
<br />
I ran a finger through my hair, straightened my hoopy polo shirt, and approached the table.<br />
<br />
“Hey, Rosalind,” I said.<br />
<br />
Three hours later, I stood swaying in my flat. The aroma of Rosalind’s perfume lingered still in the air; the thud of the slammed front door resounded within my rib cage.<br />
<br />
The two men that had sat with Rosalind in The Sun were only friends. Although slightly smug, they were good fun. Rosalind asked me to sit with the party after only five minutes of standing and talking. She seemed pleased to see me; she said as much. It had been her birthday and her friends had forced Rosalind to drink. A faint fog behind her eyes spoke of intoxication. I felt less conscious of my slurred articulation.<br />
<br />
We five spoke of:<br />
<br />
My eyes (bandaged and bruised);<br />
My odour (sweat);<br />
Julian Macbeth (Rosalind admitted he was a prick);<br />
My gift to Julian;<br />
A number of invented roles that I had been offered post-sacking (lies regretted);<br />
Rosalind’s friend’s cat’s cancer;<br />
Cat funerals;<br />
Clapham and Rosalind’s flat;<br />
The coincidence of our meeting;<br />
Sunday evening drinking.<br />
<br />
We were thrown from the pub a little after ten thirty (damn Sunday closing times). I asked Rosalind if she wanted to come back to my flat for birthday doughnuts (newly bought from Sainsbury’s). She looked at her feet and said that she did. She was still able to stand and speak. I hailed a cab and we drove to Outer Blackheath. On the way, we stopped at a petrol station. There Rosalind bought water and sobered up.<br />
<br />
“I’ve decided to enjoy life more,” said Rosalind stumbling out of taxi on Lee High Road. “Why shouldn’t I have a few drinks on a Sunday evening?”<br />
<br />
Shared door passed, I wondered if I had any condoms. I wondered if Rosalind had accepted my invitation home understanding that doughnuts meant sex. I wondered if I should ask her. <br />
<br />
“Look, Rosalind. Are we going to have sex or what?” I would say.<br />
<br />
I struggled to find my door keys, having to empty all pockets twice before locating them in the back, left trouser space. We walked in silence up the stairs to my flat’s door and I considered kissing Rosalind’s face – just like that.<br />
<br />
No kiss! Alarm! My flat’s door was open. I told Rosalind to wait in the hall. Adrenalin pumping through ears, I feared burglars and didn’t fancy my skull coshed. I crept into the lounge. <br />
<br />
Sat on my sofa was a greyhound. It didn’t react to my swearing. It scratched behind its ear. There was dog shit on the floor.<br />
<br />
I darted into the other rooms. There were no burglars, only dog.<br />
<br />
“Wait there,” I called out to Rosalind and wondered how quickly I could clean the shit and get rid of the greyhound. And then I noticed the one wall without doors or windows. <br />
<br />
FUCK OF JULIAN<br />
was sprayed red across the white.<br />
<br />
“Fuck of Julian,” I read, confused.<br />
<br />
And then I realised – it should read ‘Fuck off, Julian.’<br />
<br />
The dog jumped from the sofa and ran into the hall.<br />
<br />
“A greyhound just ran out …” <br />
<br />
Rosalind’s sentence faded. She stood framed by lounge door. I turned to her. She studied the room, her face contorted by disgust. She inspected the dog shit, the week’s worth of abandoned newspaper, the discarded beer cans, the clothes. Finally, her stare rested on the wall:<br />
<br />
FUCK OF JULIAN<br />
<br />
“It was the bloke downstairs,” I said.<br />
<br />
“My God. You’re crazy,” she whispered.<br />
<br />
Rosalind walked away.Kay Richardsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12191017747436436526noreply@blogger.com6