A Midsummer Nights Dream (in Forumshire)

Um this got a bit out of hand, sorry, so make a cuppa, or pour a buckie first.

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Table of Contents
(By Eldorion )

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11

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1

See beneath the peering moon the night scape of Forumshire.
From afar all seems peaceful, lights twinkling amid the dark trees where Needlehole nestles, snuggling in the embracing arms of the rolling land. But looks can be deceptive, especially in Forumshire.
As one draws closer sounds come to the ear; revelry in the Muck 'n' Duck, a crabbit voice raised in complaining, the heaving sounds of heavy exertion from the gym hall of Our Lady where, dutifully, Odo Banks is conducting his late night callisthenic classes for the Sixth Form Girls.
Figures moving to and fro catch the eye, some openly like Farmer David making deliveries of his inviting vegetables  to the rear entrance of Mrs Figgs Shop of Ladies Discreet Enquiries (and out of hours eel wrangling), whilst slipping quietly shadow to shadow into the front door of same said establishment goes a shaky Orwell, eel in hand and at the ready for its nightly oiling.
In the palatial hole of Ambassador Amarie the lamps burn late into the night, and in the distance a burst of music followed by the distinctive sound of Norcish cursing is carried upon the air.
So the rhythm of a typical evening in Forumshire beats on, yet the observant would notice a pattern this night, this bright night of stars, a change of tempo, as one by one the men of Forumshire, for want of a better description, slip from the town and climb up the heather and moss clad slopes above.

Eldo arrived first at their secret meeting place, he was barely out of breath and turned to look back down the slope and await the others.
The small dell on the hillside was the perfect place for them, out of sight of prying eyes. At least until they got over the embarrassment.
Halfwise was next, bounding eagerly up the slope closely followed by Dave, RA and Chris, then Lance and an already flustered looking Orwell.
Last of all came Petty, panting and bellowing as he pounded up the slope and collapsing in a heap when he got to the top. He tried to speak but could not catch his breath, waved a hand at them and with is other hand drew out a bottle of buckie and took a long grateful slug.
He sighed and got uneasily to his feet and proceeded to make a roll up from a pouch of dark tobacco.

“Right, is everyone here?” Eldo asked drawing a clipboard out from somewhere behind his back.

“Why don't yi take a bloody roll call?” Petty growled sarcastically.

“I shall,” Eldo replied with a taut smile, “That is precisely what I shall do. I have here,” he said flourishing the clip board for them all to see, “the secret surprise play we are going to perform for the Queen and ladies at the Hen Night and the list of who is playing each part.”

“Hold on,” Lance interjected, “tells us what the plays about first, then get onto who plays what.”

“You will like it,” Eldo said nodding, “its a tragedy, with an orphaned hero who is blind in one eye but great at martial arts and he falls in love with a girl who is really a samurai princess from another galaxy...”

“Oh bloody hell Eldo,” Petty interrupted, “yi've jist adapted some anime havent yi?”

“No,” Eldo replied tersely,”Its an original anime screenplay I wrote myself.”

“I hate to point this out Eldo,” David added, “but we aren’t cartoons, well except maybe for Halfwise,” he conceded, pointing to the hairy Halfy beside him.

“But its got lots of action, death, love, tragedy,” Eldo protested.

“Look jist get oan wi' it, its full o' crabbit bastards and dying, sounds gud tae me, now tell us who wi play,” Petty said waving his buckie bottle at Eldo, “A'll be the hero I bet,” he added with a sage like nod.

“Right,” Eldo said drawing in a sharp breath and looking down at his clipboard, “Petty Tyrant.”

“Aye.”

“You say, here, or present,” Eldo replied with a sigh and tried again, “Petty Tyrant.”

“Aye,” Petty grunted again. Eldo shook his head and decided just to plough on, “you will be playing Arctus.”

“Oh aye? And whose he whin he's at hame then?” Petty asked suspiciously, “is he a lover or a tyrant?”

“Ah lover,” Eldo replied, “he dies defending his love at the hands of a giant robot with the arms of an octopus.”

Petty considered this as he drew on his roll up, “So a crabbit bastard then?” he said eventually, “I'll bring the stage doon wi ma crabbit, Ill rage tae death and they'll no be a punter in the audience will no be shitting thimselves afore the end o it.”

“Um, yes, I'm sure that will go down well with the Queen and the ladies,” Eldo said carefully.

“Mind you Id rather have played a tyrant,” Petty grumbled.

Eldo ignored that and looked back to his clipboard and read out the next name on his list, “Lance.”

“Here,” Lance replied promptly,

“You play Setas X,” Eldo informed him.

“Is he an intergalactic hero?” Lance asked keenly, striking a heroic pose with legs apart and groin thrust dramatically heavenward.

“No, she is the girlfirend of Arctus,” Eldo replied levelly and Lance's groin plummeted earthward.

“No chance!” Lance said firmly with a shake of his head, “I am not playing,” he pointed at Petty, “his, its, girlfriend. Besides I cant play a woman,” he protested,  “I own a Ford Capri.”

“I cud play her,” Petty put in and tried to to pout, which looked like a dogs arse suffering a severe bout of constipation but gamely trying to go anyway, “Ah cud dae it.” He said to the unconvinced circle of grimacing faces.

“You have a voice like a bucket of gravel being poured through a grating,” Chris observed.

“I cud make it softer,” Petty protested and lowered his voice into a husky tone, “i cud dae it like this,” he began then erupted into a fit of chesty coughing and collapsed patting his chest.

Eldo sighed and shook his head, “Lance will play Setas,” he said firmly and before Lance could protest further pressed on calling, “Halfwise.”

“Here,” Halfwise replied from beneath his fringe, which extended all round his eyes.

“You have the lions part,” Eldo said with a self-satisfied smile.

Halfwise looked worried, “The biggest part?! Is there a lot to learn then?” he asked anxiously.

Eldo's self-satisfied smile grew larger, “No,” he said, “you have the lions part,” he repeated, “you play a mutated radioactive lion. You just roar.”

“I cud roar,” Petty put in, having recovered and got back to his feet, “I cud roar so loud the audience wi'd lose aw control of thir bowels,” he said in the mistaken assumption such a thing sounded impressive to them.

“I don't think the Queen and guests would appreciate that, “ Eldo said eventually, “can we please get on with this? Chris,” he called.

“Here,” Chris replied,his tanned face breaking into a smile, “g'day” he added out of habit.

“Its night Chris,” Eldo pointed out, “and you are playing Seta's long lost mother.”

Chris smile fell, “Are most of the parts in this women?” he asked suspiciously.

“No,” Eldo said in response, “There is an android too, which brings me onto RA.”

“Here,” RA said promptly.

“You get to play the evil robot who is out to defeat the hero by doing all the sorts of things that can get you killed in Forumshire.”

“Oh good,” RA replied with a depressed air and a sense of familiarity.

“I cud play an evil robot,” Petty put in again and stiffened his limbs and marched up and down, “Exterminate! Exterminate!” he cried, “I wud be the maest crabbit evil robot ever. Id be so crabbit an' so evil Id huv the audience shitting thumselves, I'd send thum screaming frae the play fearing fir their lives.”

Eldo did his level best to ignore Petty and continue on unabated, "Orwell."

"Here," said Orwell.

"You will be playing the rear end of the mutated lion," Eldo said to Orwell indignant face.

"I will not!" Orwell protested.

"I cud play it," Petty said enthusiastically, "I cud be the best arse yi've ever seen.I'll gie thum an arse thi'll soon nooo forget."

“No Petty!” Eldo snapped his temper fraying, “You will play Arctus. Just Arctus. Only Arctus! Have you got that?” he shouted.

“Aye, keep ye're hair on laddie,” Petty admonished, “I ken, its the best part.”

Eldo sighed again and counted to ten.”Each take a copy of the script, “ he went on, handing out scripts from his board, “try to learn your parts for tomorrow night. We will meet back here again at this time for the first rehearsals.”

Let us leave the dell upon the hillside with its amateur dramatics and pass over it, and down the grass clad slopes, its night flowers scenting the air as their delicate faces turn to the silver moon.
Here a lane, bordered with high hedges, winds its way down to Needlehole Bog, where the ancient willows bow their heads and the reeds rattle in the warm night breeze.
The night is quiet and clear, disturbed only by the sound of a Spammer.  Observe him as he goes about his loathsome work, poking the reeds beds with warty hands, looking for places to leave his unwanted spam.
And see where he comes upon a figure sitting quietly amid the reed beds.
A girl, slight of stature, with eyes of different colours that penetrate and shine, and whose smile could set an asylum to sanity and the sane to an asylum.


The Spammer stared at the girl, there was something about her stare that seemed to draw words out from him and he found himself explaining himself to her when he meant to stay silent, “Sorry miss,” he began, “I was looking for somewhere to put my spam. Can I interest you in a link to a pair of nike boots, comes free with a bot that will hack all your bank accounts,” the girl did not respond to this, “I needs to be done soon, I hear Queen Tinuviel comes ashore tonight, with her court,” the Spammer hesitated at her continuous stare, “for the Hen Night,” he added but still she stared,  “and the wedding,” he offered.
The girl looked away from him and he sighed in relief.

“Don't let Beren see the Queen,” she said suddenly and quietly, staring into the reeds, “she bought another set of golf clubs and had naming ceremonies for every one,” the girl explained and turned to him with a grave look on her face, “Beren says she loves golf more than him,” she sighed and turned back to contemplation of the reed bank, “its like Tiger Woods, only in reverse. He is in a foul mood,” she turned back to him again and held up an acorn shell before his face, “you best hide in here,” she said  earnestly.

“W,what?” the Spammer stammered stepping back.

“I'm serious, quickly, hide in here, it's the only place you will be safe,” she insisted thrusting the tiny acorn shell towards him.

“Ahh,” the Spammer said with sudden realisation, “I've heard of you, unless I mistake you Miss, you are Cc, mischievous spirit spammer of Forumshire.”

“You guess right,” Cc replied with a smile, “I am she. Muser on absurdities. Vessel of Pop Culture. When a post is happy I will make it sad, when it is funny I will question its worth, when it is profound I will turn it to mockery and when it is slight I will fill it with weight. I am Cc and you still haven't gotten into this acorn yet,” she said, “and you better hurry, Beren comes and he doesn't like spammers.” She frowned at him with wrinkled brow.

Down the lane came the sound of marching feet and the beating of a drum.
A sudden burst of warm yellow flame sprang up in the opposite direction,and round the edge of the Bog came a processing of elegant figures.

“And here comes Queen Tinuviel,” the Spammer said and looked back at the approaching Beren, “that's me, I'm out of here,” he took the acorn from shell from Cc's proffered hand, “how do I get into this?”

“What?” CC asked seemingly fascinated by his words and watching his lips move with keen interest, as if any word which passed from them would surprise her and she was eagerly awaiting them and the thrill.

“How do I fit inside this?” he said shaking the acorn shell at her.

“What makes you think you can fit in there?” she asked puzzled tilting her head, “you are far too big.”

“B, but..” the Spammer stammered as the sounds of the two approaching groups grew ever nearer.

“Yes, I know,” Cc agreed with him, “infuriating, isn't it? Oh Beren looks like he is still in a rage,” she added as Beren and his group of eleven knights came down the road, “you better swim for it,” she indicated the Bog behind them.
With a last annoyed look at Cc the Spammer strode out through the reeds and plunged with a splash into the dark waters, making the reflected stars dance furiously.

“Its a lot like swimming,” Cc called after the figure as it splashed and sputtered through the muddy water, “first time over your head it gets easier when you move your arms and legs, and for air you  lift your head,” she advised as he momentarily disappeared beneath the surface, “why don't we try it  right now?” he momentarily reappeared, gasping for air, “yes, right now.” she repeated then turned her attention back to the two approaching, and opposing Royal parties of Elves, saying to her self, “and I bet he doesn't even google that.”

I really danae wi to sae, laddie, soo this moost suffice...

Brilliant stuff Petty! Really impressive, it's great to see another story from you. {{{I just hope it doesn't go the way of Halfy-Doo. }}}

I hope not too Eldo!  

wow so many stories popping up everywhere.


*reads  *

omg. there is so much stuff here that i love! <3 i think u write characters and "pictures" so well!!! i ca see it all clearly! CC is brilliantly weird and Eldo is perfectly meticulous. the spammer thing was brilliant ^^ and that anime thing  ajns!! u better keep writing this, cus this was awesome!

Your right Norc ! So many great stories ! Well done Petty ! Im loving this one also ! I love the way you kept butting in to every character & saying how youll play it !! (shitting themselves  ) Brilliant. Im so glad there's no voting on creative writting because I couldnt vote, there's so much wonderful reading ! & so many gripping styles !  

I really enjoy the different styles people have to their writing, 50 shades of brilliance! (My 'style' is um... charming at best.  )

Azriel, there is. there is a forumshire award around new year  we vote then  among nominees ^^

i love your style Amarië^^

Norc wrote:i love your style Amarië^^

 

{{{We'll win an award for sure! We certainly dominate the co-written story category..  }}}

I freakin' adore your writing style Amarie! If you ever decide to get a book published I'm totally buying three copies. *grins*

Yeah, I remember Norc, the awards given out, that was a bit of fun to ! Its just with SO much diversity it would be to hard to choose among you guys !  

“No, she is the girlfirend of Arctus,” Eldo replied levelly and Lance's groin plummeted earthward''.

  he he poor Lance

Agree Az hard to choose.

Yepp am, se might stand a chance in that category ^^

2.

Far from the circles of drunken revellery in the Muck 'n' Duck, beyond the fields of Farmer Dave where vegetables groan in their growing and the horses argue until dawn about what colour they are, away from the glimmering lights of what passes for civilisation in Forumshire two warring spirits now meet.
On the one side of Needlehole Bog, passing through reeds and ferns in shimmering elegance comes Queen Tinuviel, elven grace and with a handicap of  fourteen.
Opposing her, in shining array of gold and silver helm and hauberk comes proud Beren, whose brow is wrinkled in the unaccustomed practice of thought.
And so they meet, some ten yards apart, each stares at the other and the air sparkles in tense build up of their lovers clash.
You see some strange things to be sure around Forumshire of a night, if you are not very careful.

Beren stared at Tinuviel, he was trying to keep his anger bubbling but already he could feel his mind weakening. It was that damned nose of hers.
Here she was standing before him in an ethereal shimmering of her own starlight wearing chequered plus fours. She should have looked ridiculous. Instead she combined, grace, style and a self mocking ironic retro satire to the clothing, and he was sure somehow it was down to that perfect nose of hers.
Well he was not going to let her get round him this time, nose or no,“Tinuviel,” he said slowly.

“My jealous Lord Beren,” she responded, “I thought I had sent you from my palace and my sight.”

“So you did,” he replied, “and whilst I have wandered you I hear have played yet more golf.”

“Not so,” Tinuviel replied, “you hear wrongly, we played some basketball too.”

“Am I not your Lord?” he asked.

“If so then I am your Lady,” she said coolly, “but if I am then you must give me my freedom to play.”

“You have naught else but freedom my lady. If its not golf or basketball its putting on shows and plays.”
He looked her face which was cross, her nose was wrinkled in just the way which tended to melt his heart, but he was determined this time not to give in to her.

“You show me scant attention,” he declared.

“As much as your wits are in merit of,” she retorted sharply, “perhaps I would be better a true fool for a lover rather than a fool who does not know it to be true.”

Beren frowned at that, certain is was an insult but unable to work his through it, “you will leave aside these elvish games and stand by my side,” he said eventually, “or I shall see you have a  true fool or worse for a lover,” he added darkly in warning.

“Oh Beren dear,” Tinuviel replied her musical voice laughing at him with every word, “you are fool enough for me.”

And with that she turned and with her entourage started back round the bog's edge the way she had come.

Beren watched her go cursing under his breath, “Fool it shall be then,” he said and then looking up he called, “Cc! Cc! Where are you spirit? Come forth!”

Like a coalescing shadow Cc appeared, whirling out from the reeds and spinning to a halt before Beren, “I am here Lord,” she said softly, “sometimes there, and on occasion hither and thither.”

“Do you remember that time I fought a horde of bats and vampires for that woman?”

“I do my Lord,” Cc replied and added, “I've never met a vampire personally,” she twirled on the spot, “but you never know what might happen tomorrow.”

“And that time I thrust my hand down a wolfs throat for her?”

“Indeed my Lord,” Cc nodded, “hold infinity in the palms of your hand and eternity for an hour and then tell me that stuff's not heavy.”

“I will show her,” Beren said ignoring Cc. He took from his hip a glass flask of clear liquid.

Cc stared at it enthralled, “Lance loved ribena until they changed the colour of the straw,” she observed sadly, “life was never the same again after that.”

“Take this my spirit Cc,” Beren went on handing her the glass flask, “send my love the Queen into a gentle slumber this night as she sleeps in her faerie dell and anoint her eyes with this potion.”

“I shall,” Cc replied with a smile, “I shall put a girdle around the earth in forty minutes and then declare it obese.”

“Do as spirits must, for when it is done the first thing she looks upon when waking, be it lion, bear, or wolf, or even a drunken Scotshobbit, she shall fall in love with. And this magic I will not break until she has given up her golf for me. Now do my bidding.”

“None but ourselves can free our minds,” Cc observed, but Beren choose to ignore her.

Away from bog and reed and warring, scheming elven spirits, over the hill amid the twinkling lights of night time Needlhole another gathering is taking place of an entirely different nature.
Its location is the comfortable surrounds of Ambassador Amarie's Forumshire residence, where the lamps burn bright and late and the participants relax whilst being served expensive pink drinks in tall glasses by the Ambassadors all male staff. And whom, to a man, wear the official staff uniform of black tight trousers and a white shirt unbuttoned to the navel.
Whilst the men talk in their dell of the imaginary and make-believe and the elves squabble by the reed beds and scheme, the women of Forumshire contemplate an altogether more serious matter.

“But,” Figg said in a voice edged with worry, a hand nervously at her chin, “is it bustling enough?”

The rooms other occupants, namely the Ambassador Amarie herself, Azriel, who was dressed in several shades of black and at least four of purple, and the two younger girls, Ally and Norc stared at Figg's wedding dress on the mannequin before them. Beyond it being white it was hard to find words to describe it. It was mainly bustle, with added extra bustle on top, and on back, and on the sides.

“Well,” Amarie said slowly, “its certainly got plenty of, bustle.”

The others nodded in agreement. Except for Norc who frowned and looked agitated and squirmed on her cushion.

“Maybe it just needs more ruffles,” Figg insisted and reached for her pin box.

“Oh for fucks sake!” Norc exploded in her completely neutral accent, which nevertheless sounded exactly like a Fjordian one, “we've been at this for bloody hours. What does it matter? You've seen how drunk Petty gets at other peoples weddings, can you imagine how drunk he will have to be to go to his own? You could walk up that aisle in a fucking sack cloth and he wouldn't notice.”
The three older ladies frowned at her.
Norc was young, when you were young you had beauty, freshness and naïvety on your side, not to mention firmness, of the four it was the firmness you missed most. You probably would be daft enough to walk up the aisles in a sack cloth just to marry the man you loved when you were young. That was just the sort of bloody stupid thing you did when young.
But when you got to a more mature age, when it took two friends to get you into your favourite dress and you spent hours trussing stuff up, pinning stuff down, or hoisting stuff back to where it once seemed perfectly happy to be all on its own, then you did not get many days like a wedding day again, many days to shine again. To be the woman in the room everyone's eyes were on.
Trouble was it took age and the slow dawning understanding you no longer were that woman to realise this.

“What?” Norc said with a shrug to their collective frowning, “forget about this boring bustle stuff and get to the good bit,” she enthused bouncing in her seat, “my choice of activity.”

As part of the build up to Figg's impending marriage each of the Maids of Honour, of which everyone in the room was one, had to come up with an activity as part of Figg's Hen celebrations.
So far Azriel had taken them to the mud baths where Podgy Banks, the widow of the late Wisey Banks, administered a series of treatments and massages whilst the recorded Channelings of the late Wisey played in the background (that was when he did not  turn up in person to haunt the place with a nearly live performance).
Figg had had to grudgingly admit, as one professional wrangler to another, that Podgy Banks had good hands, whatever Figg may think of Podgy's other enhancements and her deployment of them in her casual pursuits of other peoples husbands.
After Azriel's choice Amarie had taken them all to the Dark Planet Art Gallery, containing all the artwork captured from absorbed sites.
Figg had to admit she had been in cheerier, better lit, less militaristic art galleries in her time, and every second picture depicting Overlord Taz in some fashion or or other grew somewhat wearisome. But still Figg had enjoyed it, more or less. Taz had acquired some good art.
Whatever it was Norc had come up with she had been barely able to contain herself since she arrived, partly explaining her disregard of Figg's beloved bustles, and she looked fit to burst now if she did not get to tell them all about it soon.

“Yes, maybe we should hear about it Norc, “Amarie said diplomatically, putting a restraining hand on Figg who was reaching for a new length of freshly ruffled cloth and was about to set about the mannequin once more with extreme vigour and an extra glass of pink stuff.

“Oh, all right,”  Figg conceded, “what have you got in store for me Norc? A swearing contest?”

“Fuck no, much cooler than that,”  Norc replied, “are you ready for this? We, are all going, camping,” she announced with a flourish and to complete silence, “no tents, just sleeping bags, out under the stars, the wind in your face.”
This extra information did not seem to have the desired effect or  to improve the temperature in the room any.

“Ants in your pants, spiders in you hair, the rain in your face, crapping in a hole, birds pooping on you whilst you sleep or some beastie whiddling in your ear,” Figg lamented with a grimace, “its supposed to be fun stuff to do Norc.”

“What? Camping is the most fun ever!” Norc insisted, “you'll love it! Besides, Petty likes camping.”

This was true Figg had to concede, if you included sleeping outdoors as camping Petty camped outside more often than in.
If however you did not class getting so drunk you got lost and mistook a cattle briar for your house or pig slurry for a mattress as camping, then Petty actually camped out about as often as Figg did. Which was never.

“I suppose he does,” Figg conceded, not in the mood to argue the point.

“There you go,” Norc said, “and you want to share his interests if you're to marry him.”

“Actually,” Figg replied wistfully, “I'd rather like him to take an interest in mine for once. It would be nice if he was a bit more, you know, attentive. It'd be nice to have someone who paid me some attention, well any attention at all actually would do for a start.”

“You could always try dressing up as something sexy for him, like a bottle of buckie,” Azriel chipped in, she did not much like weddings and could not see the point of them beyond the honeymoon.

“After this you can take him camping and get all the attention you want,” Norc cajoled, “Come on, one night camping,” she pleaded.

“May as well Figg,” Amarie added, being not averse herself to taking her pony and mobile Ambassadorial residence to the coast in summer, “it might even be fun.”

“Only if I remember the zambuka,” Figg replied dryly, “what do you think Ally?” she asked Ally who was lounging in a cool fashion on the couch, “you've been very quiet tonight.”

“Sorry,” Ally said after a pause perfectly calculated to make her seem slightly mysterious and edgy, “I forgot who I was there for a minute.”

There was an awkward silence.

“You are the original,” Amarie said patiently, “the Welsh one.”

“Right,” Ally said with a disarming smile, “I already knew that.”

Figg blinked, she often did after listening to Ally these days, “Fine, we will go camping then.”

“Fucking yeah!” Norc exclaimed, “and I found us a great spot up behind town, nobody ever goes there.”

“Do I need to wear a special sort of bustle for camping?” Figg asked earnestly.

And so the scene fades from the minds eye and retreats; leaving behind comfortable surrounds and yellow light on the window panes.
One by one the men folk find their way back from hill to house and barrel, and eventually the women too depart, Norc singing, Ally improvising around her, Figg and Azriel propping one another up as they sway homewards through the hedgerow lanes, victims of one pink drink too many.
In Needlehole the lights go out in ones and twos, till only a single light remains, the Ambassador filing her nightly reports.
Calm temporarily prevails disturbed only by Chris going about his nightly business, pining up humorous tales and heart warming pictures of cats for the morning to peep in and smile at.
Eventually even he too falls into gentle slumber. Needlehole sleeps.
The actors are in their places.
The scene is set.
The stage a dell, see it now silent under stars in still apprehension of the night to come.
From its furthest edge, where the dark green bushes cluster, a rustle sounds and a shadow moves and surveys the scene, anticipating tomorrow's games.
And  a voice that none can hear, and smiles as it speaks, says to the air, “I see you every night in my dreams.”
The shadow figure holds out a bottled stopper and the light of the moon sparkles on its crafted glass, and makes its contents glow silver-blue.
“You probly don't even know that in my dreams you are mine, in your dreams I am yours”
The shadow steps out into the moon light and the light catches two different coloured eyes.
Cc looks to check that she is alone and then with a sweet chuckle very carefully slips herself inside a fallen acorn shell and dreams of the b-sides to nineteen eighties hit singles that never got higher than number three in the charts.
And a  soft wind blows.

  oh well crafted Petty !   (you got ME down to a tee!)

Petty wrote:
 And whom, to a man, wear the official staff uniform of black tight trousers and a white shirt unbuttoned to the navel.

 

and i really love this CC character

Thanks folks - this is proving a lot of fun to write.  

Oh my, I needed that! I haven't laughed aloud while reading in a long time....

And CC in the Caliban role, that's brillo.

Thanks Halfy- glad it hit the spot for you  

But wrong play I'm afraid, Caliban was the Tempest, in this CC has the role of the mischievous Puck! (but I can see why you thought so as the way Beren calls on Cc is very Prospero and Caliban)

Oops, yep you're right.

''But when you got to a more mature age, when it took two friends to get you into your favourite dress and you spent hours trussing stuff up, pinning stuff down, or hoisting stuff back to where it once seemed perfectly happy to be all on its own'',

 what the fuck! it must be nice to be a man and let your gut hang out unabashed.

Oh fuck! With stuff of this magnitude, Petty, you'll damnwell fuckinwell force me into fuckin retirement (as we say in Oztralia  ).


{{{oh fuuccck you! --- and I don't mean the nice way neither.   }}}