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From: HMS Victor Victorian <victorvictorian@hushunomail.com>
Newsgroups: alt.fan.prettyboy
Subject: Re: The Difficulty with Nigel Act 1 Scene 1
Date: Mon, 04 Oct 2010 06:29:31 -0600
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On Mon, 04 Oct 2010 02:03:10 -0400, Mover <Mover@Watch-Me.com> wrote:
>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
Dear Mover,
I apologise ... but in our regional defence, I must say you now know
what we endure when sorjourning 'crost the Pond ... although American
entertainmen fare is so ubiquitous here that we probably have a better
grasp of your lingo than you ours.
You might try one or two fun dictionaries on line, that provide
Brit-to-Yank translations!
Sincerely,
V
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