On Sun, 03 Oct 2010 09:15:30 -0600, HMS Victor Victorian
<victorvictorian@hushunomail.com> wrote:
>The Difficulty With Nigel
>
>Then Yahweh God gave the man this admonition,
>`You may eat indeed of all trees in the garden. Nevertheless of the
>tree of the knowledge of good and evil you are not to eat, for on the
>day you eat of it you shall most surely die' The woman saw that the
>tree was good to eat and pleasing to the eye... she took some of its
>fruit and ate it. She gave some also to her husband who was with her,
>and he ate it.
>
>Then the eyes of both of them were opened and they realized that they
>were naked. So they sewed fig leaves together to make themselves loin
>cloths.
>
>The Characters
>
>Nigel Macmillan, our seven-year-old protagonist
>Claris Macmillan, Nigel's big sister
>Angela Macmillan, Nigel's mother
>Roger Macmillan, Nigel's father
>Mrs. Farthley, Nigel's teacher
>Evan Ethridge, Nigel's best friend
>Jonathan Chandler, Headmaster of Wickham Primary School
>Dirk, a very foul-mouthed and antagonistic boy
>Ian Moore, Therapist in child psychology
>Agnes Whitby, the next door neighbour
>Father Schroeder, Priest of St. Peter's Church
>Harry Campbell, the Grounds Man
>Ann Compton, Social Worker
>
>The Time
>Sometime between the first half of this century and the last half of
>the last century.
>
>The Setting
>The United Kingdom. A small coastal town, set along the sea in North
>Yorkshire; a community known for its broad bay, markets and fairs and
>parsley and sage, and resorts and such, which shall remain nameless to
>protect the author and the fine reputation of the people there.
>
>Please note a special acknowledgement to Ronin, a correspondent and
>likeable spirit, for the use of his curious but effective term,
>"Grownuppily"
>
>Sincerely,
>The Author
>
>All rights reserved under the accepted international conventions of
>Copy write of art by the artist upon its creation
>And blah, blah, blah, blah etcetera
>And so-forth inclusively.
>Thank you.
>
>
>Act 1 Scene 1
>Starkers
>
>Monday, March 29, 3:30 pm
>
>Setting: A cool, misty March day, typical of the place, had descended
>upon Tennyson Avenue, a narrow street of town homes, where the
>Macmillan residence is found. Angela Macmillan is sunk down in an old
>divan absorbed in her daily television programme, oblivious to the
>doings of her two children, twelve-year-old Claris and little Nigel,
>seven.
>
>"Mum! Mummy! MUM!"
>
>Claris' voice was like an air raid siren.
>
>"What is it, dear?" Mum asked in a slightly disinterested tone.
>
>"He's at it again!"
>
>Mum glanced up from the tellie, her hot tea and a tin of biscuits
>perched rather precariously on her lap. Her voice was quite high for
>her stature, which could be considered hefty.
>
>"What's that?" She yelled. "What's that?"
>
>"He's gone at it again! Nigel!" the twelve-year-old girl cried from
>the doorstep. "He's gone starkers out on the pavement!"
>
>had first been when Nigel began to have his peculiar difficulty.
>"Oh, Lord. Not again." She muttered. "I've not a clue what the hell
>I'm going to do with him!"
>
>The middle-aged woman set her tray aside, tea cup clattering on the
>saucer, stood up and dusted a few crumbs from her lap, then trundled
>to the door, where her agitated daughter was pointing into the street.
>"Where is he then?" Mum asked, squinting into the sunlight.
>
>"There! Can't you see?" Claris blurted, "He's standing on the bonnet
>of the CAR!"
>
>For the first time Mum's expression exuded both horror and anger.
>"What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Nigel? Get off the Cooper
>and get in here!"
>
>Nigel momentarily blinked at her, then obligingly climbed down onto
>the pavement and came up to the stoop. Mum glared down at him, her
>hands set on her hips, again demanding an explanation.
>Nigel stood there, sheepishly staring down at the boards. He was a
>slight boy with wavy, reddish hair and a dapple of freckles across his
>small nose. Nigel was slight as young boys that age are prone to
>be-some might even say downright scrawny-you could count every rib on
>him without him puffing up his lungs, and count them from a
>considerable distance.
>
>It was, at that moment, particularly easy to count little Nigel's
>ribs. He stood on the landing, utterly naked. Bare. Starkers. In
>the all-together. Hadn't a stitch on. Nothing. Shirt, socks,
>knickers, smalls-all off. Not so much as his cherished wrist watch.
>His almost reed-like body was as white as fish belly, with the
>exception of the cheeks of both his face and bottom, which at the
>moment blushed.
>
>"What have you done with your clothes?" Mum demanded.
>
>"Oh," Nigel replied in his small voice, a bit too absent-mindedly for
>his mother, "I suppose down at the Ethridge's. Evan's mum was giving
>
>"I don't care to hear the details of your social engagements, Nigel."
>She gave her son an exasperated look and heaved a sigh. "Just run
>back, get your clothes, PUT THEM ON, apologise to Mrs. Ethridge and
>run your little bum back here!"
>
>Without a word, Nigel bolted off down the street.
>
>"And do it in THAT ORDER!" Mum yelled after him.
>"You're not going to drive him?" Claris asked unhappily. "He's bloody
>naked! Can't you drive him?"
>
>"What? Crank up the car just to go 200 metres? I'm missing my
>programme and he'll be back quick enough."
>
>"Oh, please," Mum dismissed her and turned back to the parlour.
>
>"Everyone up and down the neighbourhood is used to seeing him starkers
>by now. If you're humiliated, dear, come inside."
>
>Claris merely crossed her arms in a huff and sat down on the stoop.
>Presently Nigel came sprinting back-he was astoundingly fast for a
>little sprite-and bounded up to the door.
>
>"Mum!" Claris bellowed back into the house, "He's got his smalls on
>his head!"
>
>And he did. He was caricature of creative couture, underpants
>drooping down over the eyes, his corduroys tied by the legs around his
>neck, his shirt converted to a kilt, his shoes and stockings clutched
>in one hand and in the other, a half-eaten scone dripping clotted
>cream. There were traces of strawberry jam on the boy's chin.
>
>"You've got them all on daft, you spack!" Claris chastised.
>
>"I was in a rush!" Nigel protested, and slipped past her and into the
>house.
>
>"Well," his sister snidely commented, "I see you took time to strap on
>your wrist watch!
>
>"Yes, of course." Nigel replied.
>
>The watch was his very favourite thing in the entire world and he
>never parted with it. Even in the bath-hence one elbow was always
>dirty. He would never have told time with it, even if he could tell
>time, which he couldn't. He simply liked watching Pooh's arms move
>'round as the day passed, and wished he'd been named Christopher.
>
>"Wait'll winter, Nigel!" his sister yelled after him. "You'll freeze
>carry it off. Unless the bobbies take you off for bonkers first ... I
>can only hope!"
>
>HMSVV
>God Save the Queen.
>God Bless the Prince of Wales.
>God Preserve the Windsors.
>Rule Britannia!
Difficulty? With Nigel? How's that? I see absolutely nothing wrong
with him. He's obviously helping his severely repressed sister. How
can anyone be offended by a whip of a boy like Nigel going starkers? I
was driving down a country road in West by-God Virginia one day and
there were a line of little boys pissing little golden rainbows right
by the side of the road. Did I run in to tell on them? Oh hell no. I
applauded them as I drove by and the laughed and waved.
Nigel WAS pissing off the bonnet of the Cooper, wasn't he?
MORE! MORE!
Love,
Doc
NP-f31
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