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Hunter F. Thompson
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[OK. So let's take it back to Mimsy and Pauline, who's in a swishy fitting room set up. Elegantly coiffed shopgirls swarm, one of them is modelling a silver lamé evening gown slit to mid-thigh.
Cocktails are offered on a silver salver. Production values.]
DIALOGUE:
MrChigleysAunt
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No takers? Well, in that case, I think we shall repair to the public bar of the Anstruther Arms where Dobbs is enjoying a contemplative pint, served by Gemma, daughter of popular landlady Mrs Lonnie Fitch.
Your mum not around Gemma?
No, she went out for a drive a while ago. Don't know where she's got to. She's been out a lot recently. And acting a bit funny if you must know.
Not the only one Gemma, not the only one. I was up at the grandstand earlier and I heard voices. I went up to see and there was Mr Wretchedson all on his own, talking to hisself. He hasn't seemed quite right recently. A lot on his mind I guess.
[Lonnie Fitch enters]
Well, it's two years to the day since Pauline left. He's never come to terms with it.
Oh,hello Lonnie, you're back are you. Gemma tells me you've bin gallivantin' all over the place. Anywhere interesting?
That girl! she has no business with my business.
I was only making conversation Ma. Like you tell me to.
Why did Mrs Wretchedson leave, Lonnie? I never did get to the bottom of it.
Another drink Dobbs? On the house.
Ooh, ta, don't mind if I do Lonnie. That's very decent of you. So, why did she leave? Mr Wretchedson has always been a lovely guy to work for. Though that's not necessarily the same as being married to him I suppose.
Oh, is that the time? I must get on, must get on. Gemma, get Mr Dobbs another pint.
Will do Ma.
Well, sounds like I'll have to wait a bit longer for the story Gemma. Now why don't you come round here and pop yourself up on this here bar stool? Now tell me, are those stockings you're wearing, or tights?
Hunter F. Thompson
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[CU Dobb's shaky hand fumbling for his cigarette packet in his pocket; he finds it and cracks a match....CU on flames]
Flare to cosy wood fire in an ample hearth, crackling of flames and chimney roaring...
PAULINE in her new silver lamé outfit crosses in front of the fireplace.
CU DOLLY OUT: surprise! the dinner-jacketed figure of a man holding her by the waist is none other than - yes! - Mr Gene T. Van der Veldt, III.
And who could blame her for dropping old Wretchedson, eh? They smile and snuggle, and sip their - are those martinis, they're drinking? More like G & T.
PAULINE: But explain to me about salt domes, what's so exciting about those?
MR V III: You don't really want to know about those.
PAULINE: Well that's true. But I'd like to be able to guess how long you'll be here.
They giggle.
Quaz
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Blimey, what have I started? I've just got fully back on line with a new laptop so I seem to have missed quite a lot. I think we need another thread for plot discussions (so as to avoid spoiling the flow of the story) and maybe another for dramatis personae and backstory details (that bit might not work so well in the thread format, might be better done as collabertive documents under google docs).
Yes, let's shoot the characters.
My thought was a sort of Eastenders / Corrie / Archers / Emerdale hybrid called "Town and Country".
Out in my neck of the backwoods I live in a county town but work in the country, and that is not an uncommon thing. Many of the villages are too expensive for the people who work there to live in, so as I drive to work I see a stream of expensive cars leaving in the morning for the town, railway station, and on the local public school run, while the cheap motors and work vehicles head out of town to put in a day's work at mills, farms, garages, woods, building sites, well heeled gardens, and other general "real work". The local thatcher lives round the corner from me in the middle of the town, where there hasn't been a thatched roof since the last great fire in 1600 and odd.
The two worlds, only half an hour apart, are connected by the interactions of the people and by the odd fact that some of the current town dwellers grew up in the villages and know more about the country locale and people than the current crop of middle class village dwellers. That said, the villages still have the odd "Eddie Grundy" and the town has it's desirable areas with middle class inhabitants.
So, think 2 pubs-
the Red Lion in the Village - Sand or Iron stone, dates back to 1780, freehouse, 2 bars, low end gastro pub food. Prides itself on a selction of real ales and decent wines. The owner has pretentions beyond his patrons.
The Fuzzy Duck in the town - Red Brick, on a corner, dates back to 1900, tied house, one bar, crisps, nuts, and burger and chips if you are unlucky. Stella, Strongbow, John smiths, and one real ale which is akin to a game of intestinal Russian Roulette. Due to the smoking ban, the back yard "beer garden" resembles a tented refugee camp, and the patrons have expectations beyond the manager's limited capabilities.
Did that pitch it to anyone?
The village shop is run by a sassy Indian woman, lapsed Hindu, who calls everyone "Darling" in a 'luvy' way and has a very cosmopolitan view of the world, while the town's local corner shop is run by a middle aged Englishman who grew up in the shop, is welded to the small town and rarely leaves the shop except to go to the cash and carry (had to put those 2 in because they are based on real people). Both shops have a strange ability to seem to stock anything in the known universe, except for plutonium, which they have to order in specially on request.
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