In article <i77ha6940qadejig5gjmp76pubfpdkjt38@4ax.com>, 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!
We all need more of the naked truth. Write and post some more!
As an American critic, I would say it was a little heavy going, trying
to figure out some of the local idiomizings. If I were a critic.
Mover, wanting more
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