On Sun, 03 Oct 2010 21:11:53 -0400, NP-f31 wrote:
>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
Dear Doc,
No, no, no! As I hope you will discover, Nigel is much too
sophisticated to indulge in such lowly behaviour!
Now, his friend Evan ... well, that's a different story.
V
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