A couple of days ago I wrote about writing and jotting notes as ideas, thoughts observations occur to me, but how I’m blighted by appalling, careless handwriting. To get round this I’ve started jotting notes on my phone, but a combination, of flat thumbs, rushing and yes, carelessness, sometimes even those jottings, though legible are difficult and sometimes impossible to interpret and understand.
I shared some examples, and a friend challenged me to write something including these mysterious messages! I wrote the first part and yesterday the second. Some friends in an amateur dramatic group are getting ready for their next production. They are going to be performing ‘The White Clock’ by a writer they haven’t met before, Martin Furber. Jessie, Max, Alex and Lissa met for a quick bite to eat before they all head to the rehearsal, and there’s unusual confusion about the play and what parts they are to take. Max thought he was going to be a geologist, but Al thinks he’s an aquatic mammal pathologist and Jessie seems to have some scenes missing. Lissa is concerned that it might be a bit gruesome for younger people in the audience, especially the scene with the porpoise dissection!
So, here is the next instalment, and I have now included all the random words and phrases!:
When Therma said, “That won’t possibly work, Martin, we don’t do it like that in Angles Mort AmDramCo!” the whole cast was immediately on Furber’s side – they would do it exactly as he was asking them. He was a funny looking gent, with his big mop of wild curly white hair and his odd eyes. Were they blue, or grey? Someone said violet, and everyone laughed, but actually… they did have that funny amethyst glint.
Furber’s idea was that they split into groups – which he organised, and they would do a read through but not necessarily as their characters, ‘I want to mudd it up, mudd you up!’ Martin exclaimed clapping his hands – was it something he did or was he having a poke at Therma? No-one knew of course, but they liked it, and mudd up? What was mudd up? They knew it was ‘mudd’ not ‘mud’ because he had given them notes.
He was well-organised, and handed them out new scripts of the scenes they were to work on in their groups and the characters each were to play. It actually seemed a crazy idea but since Therma was against it, they were for it.
Max sat down between Winnifred, an older woman he didn’t know very well, and Maeve, who he had once had a bit of a thing with, many, many years ago before he was with Jessie. He couldn’t now imagine what he had ever seen in Maeve who was renowned in the Angle Morts for having absolutely no sense of humour.
“Ha!” Maeve now exclaimed. “I see I am to be Silkman, I don’t remember her as a character.” She sniffed and tutted, and Max had a flash of memory of when things were going downhill between them, sniff tut, sniff tut, not exactly a happy recollection.
“Martin wants me to be Wandlebury – who the heck is Wandlebury?” Dave Tennison asked. “And also Maeve, Silkman is a man.”
“Just because the character is Silkman, doesn’t mean she’s an actual man – Chapman? I had a friend Susan who was Chapman, she wasn’t a man, and Smallman, Sophie Smallman, she definitely wasn’t a man!” Maeve was sharp and Winifred made calming, we’re all friends here, sort of noises. Everyone agreed that Winifred was lovely, a really nice person.
“Well thank god I’m no longer a geologist or a marine pathologist, I see I’m in armaments.”
“Armaments?” said Maeve sharply. “It says weapon repairs here.”
“Apparently I’m Zephyr, who or what the heck is Zephyr?” Phil asked to cut off Maeve as much as actually wanting to know.
“Zephyr Purlieu – “ Maeve began, but a conversation erupted about where this scene actually figured in the play, because no-one could remember the characters, and Paddy who had flicked through a couple of pages couldn’t remember this script either.
“Is Martin having a laugh?” asked Max, not altogether sarcastically, but before anyone made a reply, Therma was there, urging them to crack on, crack on chaps! Time is limited!
They stopped gossiping, and applied themselves to the script.
My featured image is of last year’s pantomime from the Bleadon Amateur Dramatic group – who I assure you, is nothing like the Angles Mort AmDrams!