Somewhere, a telephone ringing...
“Finally he answers. What took you so long?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me.”
“Who’s me?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Me.”
“Oh – not you again.”
“You’re free to talk?”
“Why do you have to ring me up? Can’t you just appear in my head like most other thoughts?”
“It’s the only way to make you listen. Otherwise you’ll just end up drifting off thinking about something else. Probably that girl at work who, incidentally, is far too young for you – it would never last.”
“How did you get my number?”
“I looked on your phone. Could have got it off the internet too – amazing what you can find on there.”
“So, what do you want? I’m busy.”
“Well, I had a spare few minutes, so thought I’d call you for a quick chat.”
“I haven’t got time for a quick chat. I’ve only just got in and need something to eat. Can’t you ring me back at bedtime? I want to write something.”
“If I ring you back at bedtime you’ll keep falling asleep when I’m trying to talk to you. Don’t you know how annoying that is? Then, next thing you know, I’ll have to communicate with you via one of your strange dreams. I can never get the point across. You eat too much cheese. Distorts everything.”
“I like cheese. Besides, it’s not the cheese, it’s you. You need to relax. If you stopped thinking for a few hours maybe I could get some proper sleep.”
“I’m only trying to help. You should be thanking me. Look at all those people who don’t have any thoughts at all. You think they’re happy?”
“Probably. But they wouldn’t know it having not thought about it.”
“Exactly. So, you should be glad to have me showing such concern.”
“Why should you be concerned?”
“Because when things go wrong, I have to put up with all those bad thoughts up here. They’re a nightmare - make so much noise at night when everyone’s trying to sleep. Plus, you’re impossible to cheer up when you get in one of your moods. I get exhausted trying.”
“Aren’t you responsible for the bad thoughts too?”
“No – they come from just around the corner in your brain. I’m thinking of moving further away actually.”
“This is madness.”
“You said it.”
“Who’s paying for this call by the way, me or you?”
“You, of course. I cancelled my contract.”
“So, how do you want to help me? Leaving me in peace for a few hours would be a start.”
“Oh, so you can sit at the computer coming up with more of that drivel? You think anyone will ever read that?”
“You’re supposed to do the thinking. You tell me.”
“Ok. Seeing as you asked, no. No one will ever read it. You know why?”
“Knowing is your department too.”
“Ah. So clever. Haven’t you ever noticed that no one ever talks in it? It’s all narrative.”
“So? Who needs dialogue?”
“People who don’t fall asleep reading, that’s who. Not everyone’s like you, you know. Your reading habits are terrible, I should point out. Half a page and your mouth’s agape like a Venus flytrap.”
“That’s your fault with the intense dreams. Let me sleep properly and I’ll polish off War and Peace in an evening.”
“You wouldn’t make page two. Put some nice dialogue in there, you might pull off the first chapter.”
“I don’t like dialogue. Who has the time to work out all those characters, let alone put in all the quotation marks?”
“That’s just denial. You know you’ve been avoiding it. That’s why I’ve called you up to help out.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“You mean you haven’t noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
“What you’ve been doing for the last hour?”
“Well, I’ve been talking to you for most of it.”
“What about the two pages so far?”
“Dialogue. Oh - I get it.”
“The things I do for you.”
“I might just delete it. I want that pizza in the fridge.”
“You can’t delete it; I’m coming across too well to end up in the recycling bin.”
“You’re coming across well?”
“Perceptive, witty, you have to admit it.”
“But you’re me. I’m the witty one.”
“We’re going to argue?”
“Look, I’m happy with endless narrative. I don’t want witty dialogue.”
“An argument might be good actually. A chance for me to flex my wit muscles.”
“Any minute now, and I’m stopping with the quotation marks – then you’ll be stuck.”
“All I have to do is keep talking. You won’t be sorry.”
“I might hang up. It’s a meat feast pizza. My mouth is watering.”
“Go and eat and you’ll lose the flow.”
“What makes you think I’m coming back?”
“I’ll make you think going is a bad idea, then you won’t be able to come back because you won’t have gone in the first place.”
“I might have thoughts about really wanting to eat that pizza in the fridge.”
“You already did. I’m holding them at bay by showing them your thoughts about that young girl at work. They may be some time.”
“Look, you’ve made your point. There are three pages of dialogue now. Can’t I break it up with some brief narrative?”
“Well, I am a little hungry myself. All this talking – quite a thirst too. Do you have anything to drink?”
“You should go and rest. What if I promise not to delete what we’ve done so far?”
“You’ve got your fingers crossed. You think I don’t know?”
“Okay, okay. Go and eat and leave me alone for a while. I’ll just carry on from here.”
“I suppose I could check in on those thoughts of the girl at work for a bit, too.”
“Feel free. Take your time. Enjoy.”
“I’m still here keeping an eye on you – no dialogue after a couple of paragraphs and I’m ringing you straight back...”
Again, ringing...
“I’m just building up to it!”
“I’m falling asleep already.”
“I can’t just start from the beginning with dialogue...”
“I thought we already had.”
“That wasn’t the beginning, it was the introduction.”
“I’m too good for an introduction, I should have star billing in the beginning.”
“It starts with Dad wanted to move the barn. That’s the beginning.”
“If you upset me I’ll make you dream about being naked in Tesco again. Anyway, what’s this about moving a barn?”
“It’s something I’ve had lying round that I was going to try and finish.”
“I’d leave it lying round.”
“Listen, I get your point. Can’t you just let me get on with it?”
“You’ve got to change. Try something different. Maybe a play?”
“I haven’t got time to write a play. I want some pizza.”
“Yes, come to think of it, a play would be good for you. Practically all dialogue. You’d lose your phobia.”
“What would I write a play about?”
“I’m sure you could come up with something...”
BOB: A mild-mannered, unhappily married collector of teapots who is almost as passionate about his Am-Dram as he is about his co-star Chantelle.
CHANTELLE: An attractive divorcee. Bubbly and natural, a magnet to lonely middle-aged men.
DES: A philandering womaniser, desperate for attention from women, in particular Chantelle. Sees himself as a lady-killer, seen by others as rather creepy.
ANNA: Adores life on the stage. Pretty, much-liked leading member of the Society. Great actress, married to Martyn.
MARTYN: Not particularly interested in drama, dragged along by enthusiastic wife Anna resulting in terrible, wooden acting style.
HEATHER: Anna’s sister. Eccentric, quirky personality, always doing funny things. Attracted to Harry.
HARRY: Shy, nervous with women. Quietly observes proceedings with an introspective eye, popular with others due to sharp wit.
ANNA: (wrapping her arms around herself and surveying the room) My God! It’s so cold in here – see if that heater will light,
MARTYN: And Scouts come in here in shorts…? They must all have bloody pneumonia.
ANNA: (heading towards kitchen area) I told you to bring a jumper, you’ll have to leave your coat on. It’ll be alright when the fire gets going.
MARTYN: (frantically trying to ignite gas heater) This thing looks more likely to gas us all than warm us up. We’ll all be found dead by the Scouts tomorrow.
ANNA: I’m sure you can get it going. Kettle’s on anyway. Have you got the scripts? (hears car door bang outside) Ooh, here come the others…
MARTYN: (having apparently succeeded in lighting fire) Yep, right here. Never mind the play, how about a quick game of ping-pong?
ANNA: (ignoring MARTYN skipping round table playing imaginary game of ping-pong) Yeah, can just see Bob playing that with Chantelle – he’d let her thrash him...
MARTYN: What, with the bat? He’d enjoy that…
CHANTELLE: ‘elloweee! Fwoar, bit nippy! They could’ve had the heating on for us!
MARTYN: I think they only ever light campfires in here.
ANNA: Oh, ignore him - he just wants to play table tennis.
BOB: (entering room) Someone mention table tennis? Come on Chantelle, get your bats out,
ANNA: (trying not to look at a smirking MARTYN) So, who wants tea?
Ring-ring...ring-ring...
“Now what’s the matter?”
“Excuse me while I go and look for some drying paint.”
“You have no patience, you have to set the scene...”
“If that’s the best scene you can come up with, I’ll go and read about them moving the barn.”
“You wanted dialogue!”
“Maybe you should stick to the narrative after all...”
“Maybe you should stick to thinking about that girl at work?”
“I intend to, but for now, we have a little problem.”
“We do?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”
“I can’t keep up with you.”
“An ending...?”
“But we haven’t started.”
“Yes you have – twice.”
“They were in the middle.”
“So, where are we now?”
“The end...?”
“See, told you.”
“So, any suggestions?”
“Why me? You’re the one sitting at the keyboard. Type something.”
“I need you to tell me what to type.”
“Look, you needed a change from all the indulgent prose with the big sentences. Hopefully now you’ve overcome your fear of dialogue we won’t all be falling asleep before turning over the page. Just come up with a nice ending, and we’ll look forward to your next piece full of acerbic verbal interplay.”
“Listen, if you can’t come up with an ending for me, I’m hanging up and my pizza’s in the oven.”
“See how lost you are without me?”
“I’ve just turned the oven on.”
“Actually, I have had a blockbuster of an idea for an ending that you may want to pay attention to...”
“So, I’m all ears.”
“It’s a little complicated, you’ll have to concentrate.”
“Please, let’s just get this finished so we can move on.”
“Well, what if the ph... si.... brok. .p ju.. as I wa. tel...g ..u?”
“Eh? Tell me again, there was interference...”
“Pro...ly th. Ov.n.”
“What?! You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you properly!”
“I should have c....d you at b..time after all....”
“My God, there’s such a bad signal. What did you say?”
“Okay, here’s the idea...”
“Ah! That’s better, now GO ON...!!!!!!!!!!!”
“H... .....r ......ds .....e of s...... ....................”
“WHAT...??! HELLO...? HELLOOOO....??????!!!”
Dialling tone......
© Matthew Jenkins – October 2011
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
“Finally he answers. What took you so long?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s me.”
“Who’s me?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Me.”
“Oh – not you again.”
“You’re free to talk?”
“Why do you have to ring me up? Can’t you just appear in my head like most other thoughts?”
“It’s the only way to make you listen. Otherwise you’ll just end up drifting off thinking about something else. Probably that girl at work who, incidentally, is far too young for you – it would never last.”
“How did you get my number?”
“I looked on your phone. Could have got it off the internet too – amazing what you can find on there.”
“So, what do you want? I’m busy.”
“Well, I had a spare few minutes, so thought I’d call you for a quick chat.”
“I haven’t got time for a quick chat. I’ve only just got in and need something to eat. Can’t you ring me back at bedtime? I want to write something.”
“If I ring you back at bedtime you’ll keep falling asleep when I’m trying to talk to you. Don’t you know how annoying that is? Then, next thing you know, I’ll have to communicate with you via one of your strange dreams. I can never get the point across. You eat too much cheese. Distorts everything.”
“I like cheese. Besides, it’s not the cheese, it’s you. You need to relax. If you stopped thinking for a few hours maybe I could get some proper sleep.”
“I’m only trying to help. You should be thanking me. Look at all those people who don’t have any thoughts at all. You think they’re happy?”
“Probably. But they wouldn’t know it having not thought about it.”
“Exactly. So, you should be glad to have me showing such concern.”
“Why should you be concerned?”
“Because when things go wrong, I have to put up with all those bad thoughts up here. They’re a nightmare - make so much noise at night when everyone’s trying to sleep. Plus, you’re impossible to cheer up when you get in one of your moods. I get exhausted trying.”
“Aren’t you responsible for the bad thoughts too?”
“No – they come from just around the corner in your brain. I’m thinking of moving further away actually.”
“This is madness.”
“You said it.”
“Who’s paying for this call by the way, me or you?”
“You, of course. I cancelled my contract.”
“So, how do you want to help me? Leaving me in peace for a few hours would be a start.”
“Oh, so you can sit at the computer coming up with more of that drivel? You think anyone will ever read that?”
“You’re supposed to do the thinking. You tell me.”
“Ok. Seeing as you asked, no. No one will ever read it. You know why?”
“Knowing is your department too.”
“Ah. So clever. Haven’t you ever noticed that no one ever talks in it? It’s all narrative.”
“So? Who needs dialogue?”
“People who don’t fall asleep reading, that’s who. Not everyone’s like you, you know. Your reading habits are terrible, I should point out. Half a page and your mouth’s agape like a Venus flytrap.”
“That’s your fault with the intense dreams. Let me sleep properly and I’ll polish off War and Peace in an evening.”
“You wouldn’t make page two. Put some nice dialogue in there, you might pull off the first chapter.”
“I don’t like dialogue. Who has the time to work out all those characters, let alone put in all the quotation marks?”
“That’s just denial. You know you’ve been avoiding it. That’s why I’ve called you up to help out.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“You mean you haven’t noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
“What you’ve been doing for the last hour?”
“Well, I’ve been talking to you for most of it.”
“What about the two pages so far?”
“Dialogue. Oh - I get it.”
“The things I do for you.”
“I might just delete it. I want that pizza in the fridge.”
“You can’t delete it; I’m coming across too well to end up in the recycling bin.”
“You’re coming across well?”
“Perceptive, witty, you have to admit it.”
“But you’re me. I’m the witty one.”
“We’re going to argue?”
“Look, I’m happy with endless narrative. I don’t want witty dialogue.”
“An argument might be good actually. A chance for me to flex my wit muscles.”
“Any minute now, and I’m stopping with the quotation marks – then you’ll be stuck.”
“All I have to do is keep talking. You won’t be sorry.”
“I might hang up. It’s a meat feast pizza. My mouth is watering.”
“Go and eat and you’ll lose the flow.”
“What makes you think I’m coming back?”
“I’ll make you think going is a bad idea, then you won’t be able to come back because you won’t have gone in the first place.”
“I might have thoughts about really wanting to eat that pizza in the fridge.”
“You already did. I’m holding them at bay by showing them your thoughts about that young girl at work. They may be some time.”
“Look, you’ve made your point. There are three pages of dialogue now. Can’t I break it up with some brief narrative?”
“Well, I am a little hungry myself. All this talking – quite a thirst too. Do you have anything to drink?”
“You should go and rest. What if I promise not to delete what we’ve done so far?”
“You’ve got your fingers crossed. You think I don’t know?”
“Okay, okay. Go and eat and leave me alone for a while. I’ll just carry on from here.”
“I suppose I could check in on those thoughts of the girl at work for a bit, too.”
“Feel free. Take your time. Enjoy.”
“I’m still here keeping an eye on you – no dialogue after a couple of paragraphs and I’m ringing you straight back...”
The Day We Moved the Barn
Dad wanted to move the barn. Quite why he wanted to move the barn was never clear, but it was thought by some to have something to do with an ancient dispute over land boundaries and the positioning of next door’s rather capacious hen house. It seemed a lucrative deal had been struck between our delusional father and our neighbour, Madame Bergerac, involving the moving of our barn thirty feet due west in return for a sustainable quantity of chicken-related produce, and the odd case of Chateaux Fongrave.
Madame Bergerac was a peasant-like widow hailing from rural south west France who although a polite and generous acquaintance, did often appear to reside with us rather than in her neighbouring be-shuttered abode. On this particular occasion, it was generally seen as good sense to cooperate fully in her pact with Dad, whose fractious mental state had not been helped by his recent rejection by the local cooperative regarding the sale to them of 12,000 organically-grown parsnips. His erratic behaviour had been steadily growing worse, so it was decided as a family that we would all pull together in an effort to successfully relocate his barn without further trauma, or indeed any mention of 12,000 parsnips.
In order to build a sufficiently capable army of barn-movers, family members were recruited from far and wide, with no limits on age, physical agility, or mental cohesion. Our house, which was usually organised and run with the air of a Marx Brothers film set, was to accommodate said relatives in comfort amidst a jovial atmosphere of catch-ups and sentimental reminiscence. Or so it was planned. The impending invasion by so many eccentrics was apparently proving a bit much for Mum, who was constantly struggling with various ailments of her own which she deemed sufficiently terminal to signal the end of her particular world...
Again, ringing...
“I’m just building up to it!”
“I’m falling asleep already.”
“I can’t just start from the beginning with dialogue...”
“I thought we already had.”
“That wasn’t the beginning, it was the introduction.”
“I’m too good for an introduction, I should have star billing in the beginning.”
“It starts with Dad wanted to move the barn. That’s the beginning.”
“If you upset me I’ll make you dream about being naked in Tesco again. Anyway, what’s this about moving a barn?”
“It’s something I’ve had lying round that I was going to try and finish.”
“I’d leave it lying round.”
“Listen, I get your point. Can’t you just let me get on with it?”
“You’ve got to change. Try something different. Maybe a play?”
“I haven’t got time to write a play. I want some pizza.”
“Yes, come to think of it, a play would be good for you. Practically all dialogue. You’d lose your phobia.”
“What would I write a play about?”
“I’m sure you could come up with something...”
AS YET UNTITLED
A COMEDY IN 2 ACTS EXPLORING PASSION FOR STAGE DRAMA AND WHAT IT CAN POTENTIALLY DO TO THOSE WEAK IN THE MIND, AND DEFINITELY THE BODY…
BY RUPERT HAMER
THE PLAY CENTRES ON A SMALL LOCAL AMATEUR DRAMATIC SOCIETY REHEARSING AND PERFORMING A WELL-KNOWN PLAY OF THEIR OWN BASED ON THE LOOSE MORALS AND SECRET DESIRES OF A GROUP OF MIDDLE-AGED FRIENDS. AS OUR PLAY PANS OUT, IT BECOMES CLEAR THAT THE ACTORS AND ACTRESSES OF THE DRAMATIC SOCIETY THEMSELVES POSSESS LOOSE MORALS AND SECRET DESIRES, BUT ARE NOT NECESSARILY CAST IN THE APPROPRIATE ROLE. THIS LEADS TO SOME VERY AWKWARD AND POTENTIALLY AMUSING SCENARIOS…
THE PLAYERS:
BOB: A mild-mannered, unhappily married collector of teapots who is almost as passionate about his Am-Dram as he is about his co-star Chantelle.
CHANTELLE: An attractive divorcee. Bubbly and natural, a magnet to lonely middle-aged men.
DES: A philandering womaniser, desperate for attention from women, in particular Chantelle. Sees himself as a lady-killer, seen by others as rather creepy.
ANNA: Adores life on the stage. Pretty, much-liked leading member of the Society. Great actress, married to Martyn.
MARTYN: Not particularly interested in drama, dragged along by enthusiastic wife Anna resulting in terrible, wooden acting style.
HEATHER: Anna’s sister. Eccentric, quirky personality, always doing funny things. Attracted to Harry.
HARRY: Shy, nervous with women. Quietly observes proceedings with an introspective eye, popular with others due to sharp wit.
ACT ONE
The setting here is a freezing cold Scout hut one evening in the middle of winter. Members of the “Frampton Footlights” are gathering for the 1st Reading of their new production “My Wife Doesn’t Understand Me,” a One Act farce featuring mid-life crises and much bed-hopping. The hut is furnished by some old plastic chairs roughly grouped around a table-tennis table. Over in the corner is a tatty kitchen area complete with kettle and mugs. This place has seen the blood, sweat and tears of Amateur Drama and has got the grubby T-shirt to prove it.
ANNA and MARTYN are first to arrive. We join them as the Curtain rises and ANNA flicks on the lights…
ANNA: (wrapping her arms around herself and surveying the room) My God! It’s so cold in here – see if that heater will light,
MARTYN: And Scouts come in here in shorts…? They must all have bloody pneumonia.
ANNA: (heading towards kitchen area) I told you to bring a jumper, you’ll have to leave your coat on. It’ll be alright when the fire gets going.
MARTYN: (frantically trying to ignite gas heater) This thing looks more likely to gas us all than warm us up. We’ll all be found dead by the Scouts tomorrow.
ANNA: I’m sure you can get it going. Kettle’s on anyway. Have you got the scripts? (hears car door bang outside) Ooh, here come the others…
MARTYN: (having apparently succeeded in lighting fire) Yep, right here. Never mind the play, how about a quick game of ping-pong?
ANNA: (ignoring MARTYN skipping round table playing imaginary game of ping-pong) Yeah, can just see Bob playing that with Chantelle – he’d let her thrash him...
MARTYN: What, with the bat? He’d enjoy that…
CHANTELLE and BOB enter, obviously having arrived in the same car. MARTYN has sensibly taken a chair close to his gas fire.
CHANTELLE: ‘elloweee! Fwoar, bit nippy! They could’ve had the heating on for us!
MARTYN: I think they only ever light campfires in here.
ANNA: Oh, ignore him - he just wants to play table tennis.
BOB: (entering room) Someone mention table tennis? Come on Chantelle, get your bats out,
ANNA: (trying not to look at a smirking MARTYN) So, who wants tea?
Ring-ring...ring-ring...
“Now what’s the matter?”
“Excuse me while I go and look for some drying paint.”
“You have no patience, you have to set the scene...”
“If that’s the best scene you can come up with, I’ll go and read about them moving the barn.”
“You wanted dialogue!”
“Maybe you should stick to the narrative after all...”
“Maybe you should stick to thinking about that girl at work?”
“I intend to, but for now, we have a little problem.”
“We do?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”
“I can’t keep up with you.”
“An ending...?”
“But we haven’t started.”
“Yes you have – twice.”
“They were in the middle.”
“So, where are we now?”
“The end...?”
“See, told you.”
“So, any suggestions?”
“Why me? You’re the one sitting at the keyboard. Type something.”
“I need you to tell me what to type.”
“Look, you needed a change from all the indulgent prose with the big sentences. Hopefully now you’ve overcome your fear of dialogue we won’t all be falling asleep before turning over the page. Just come up with a nice ending, and we’ll look forward to your next piece full of acerbic verbal interplay.”
“Listen, if you can’t come up with an ending for me, I’m hanging up and my pizza’s in the oven.”
“See how lost you are without me?”
“I’ve just turned the oven on.”
“Actually, I have had a blockbuster of an idea for an ending that you may want to pay attention to...”
“So, I’m all ears.”
“It’s a little complicated, you’ll have to concentrate.”
“Please, let’s just get this finished so we can move on.”
“Well, what if the ph... si.... brok. .p ju.. as I wa. tel...g ..u?”
“Eh? Tell me again, there was interference...”
“Pro...ly th. Ov.n.”
“What?! You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you properly!”
“I should have c....d you at b..time after all....”
“My God, there’s such a bad signal. What did you say?”
“Okay, here’s the idea...”
“Ah! That’s better, now GO ON...!!!!!!!!!!!”
“H... .....r ......ds .....e of s...... ....................”
“WHAT...??! HELLO...? HELLOOOO....??????!!!”
Dialling tone......
© Matthew Jenkins – October 2011
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
