ORGAN by George Holmes COPYRIGHT Feb 28 2010
What do you mean?
I’ve found a new way to make money.
Tell me. I’m rather skeptical of your schemes. I remember the last time you wanted to import Zambian goats to make mohair sweaters to sell back to the Zambians. Not very practical as they don’t wear sweaters there, mohair or not. It’s too hot.
Well, yes, I agree on that. It was not the best plan in the world.
Well, the goats certainly kept the grass cropped. And they finally made a very good stew. So what is this new plan?
Organs.
Organs? You must be more specific. Musical organs, barrel organs, sexual organs, human organs?
Oh didn’t I say? Human.
No, you didn’t. Well, what about them? You’re not proposing selling off parts of yourself to the highest bidder are you?
Oh no. Not parts of me. Parts of you.
Are you completely mad?
No, not at all. Have you noticed something? The door has no handle. The room is sound proof and I have chloroform and gun. You're a gold mine.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
FRIDAY
FRIDAY by George Holmes. Copyright. Feb 28 2010
Hello?
Oh it’s you Bella…oh Bella, you promised. You said you would definitely go as my date. I can’t go alone. I’ve told them I’m coming with my lady friend. You! Why can’t you come…You have to take the dog to the vet! Look, if you don’t mind my saying so, you spend far too much money and time on Billy. What kind of name is that for a dog? Billy? After Billy Bigelow in Carousel! Well, what can I say… I know it’s not my business but honestly don’t you think a diamond dog collar is way over the top with people starving in Africa…Oh dear. Whom can I get to go with me? What? Your mother? Is she free? Does she have a long frock? It’s black tie. Look, isn’t she just a shade too old? Well of course I know that. Age doesn’t matter. People shinning up Everest in their nineties. It’s just that, well, didn’t she have a teensy-weensy problem with the drink and being arrested for causing a scene at Sardis, and then the rehab in that convent. She almost took the veil. She’s so impulsive; a bit like you really. Like mother, like daughter. I mean what’s it going to look like, me turning up with a lady friend at least twice my age…Oh alright, ask her, I’ll hold on…what did she say? Yes? Oh good. She’ll have her hair done and I’m to pick her up at 6.00pm. Now, don’t let me down Bella. I can’t have anything go wrong with my bid for tenure. You make me so nervous…
Hello?
Oh it’s you Bella…oh Bella, you promised. You said you would definitely go as my date. I can’t go alone. I’ve told them I’m coming with my lady friend. You! Why can’t you come…You have to take the dog to the vet! Look, if you don’t mind my saying so, you spend far too much money and time on Billy. What kind of name is that for a dog? Billy? After Billy Bigelow in Carousel! Well, what can I say… I know it’s not my business but honestly don’t you think a diamond dog collar is way over the top with people starving in Africa…Oh dear. Whom can I get to go with me? What? Your mother? Is she free? Does she have a long frock? It’s black tie. Look, isn’t she just a shade too old? Well of course I know that. Age doesn’t matter. People shinning up Everest in their nineties. It’s just that, well, didn’t she have a teensy-weensy problem with the drink and being arrested for causing a scene at Sardis, and then the rehab in that convent. She almost took the veil. She’s so impulsive; a bit like you really. Like mother, like daughter. I mean what’s it going to look like, me turning up with a lady friend at least twice my age…Oh alright, ask her, I’ll hold on…what did she say? Yes? Oh good. She’ll have her hair done and I’m to pick her up at 6.00pm. Now, don’t let me down Bella. I can’t have anything go wrong with my bid for tenure. You make me so nervous…
Saturday, February 27, 2010
SNOW DAY
SNOW DAY by George Holmes Copyright. Feb.27 2010
Suddenly he has a sense of freedom. School was canceled. He didn’t have to teach. A snow day. He feels liberated, almost giddy. He decides on the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He loves it, the beauty of the objects, the great spaces, even the crowds do not displease him today. He hires an audio guide. He likes to listen to the voice of Philippe de Montebello. A voice to swoon to he thinks and smiles. Today he concentrates on a large apotheosis scene. How great he thinks to become a god, beautifully formed, muscled, tumbling blond hair, dark eyes alive, exhilarated. Who was the model for this god he wonders? Did the painter have a special affection for him? It is painted with amorous care, lush and rich with reds and golds, blues and whites. Did the model pose like that? Swirling draperies over his loins, a diadem on that magnificent head? He looks at the painting for a long time, absorbed in his thoughts, soothed by that balmy voice, seduced almost, enraptured like St Theresa in ecstasy. Suddenly an irrational force of anger sweeps over him. He feels overpowered, almost out of control. He wants to slash the painting, destroy that thoughtless arrogance so cruelly spread out in front of him .He catches his breath. He knows that he will never be like that god, snow day or not. He will never be surrounded by such beauty, never feel that exhilaration except at second hand. He curses the fates that took away his mother the day he was born and gave him that twisted spine, that hump.
Suddenly he has a sense of freedom. School was canceled. He didn’t have to teach. A snow day. He feels liberated, almost giddy. He decides on the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He loves it, the beauty of the objects, the great spaces, even the crowds do not displease him today. He hires an audio guide. He likes to listen to the voice of Philippe de Montebello. A voice to swoon to he thinks and smiles. Today he concentrates on a large apotheosis scene. How great he thinks to become a god, beautifully formed, muscled, tumbling blond hair, dark eyes alive, exhilarated. Who was the model for this god he wonders? Did the painter have a special affection for him? It is painted with amorous care, lush and rich with reds and golds, blues and whites. Did the model pose like that? Swirling draperies over his loins, a diadem on that magnificent head? He looks at the painting for a long time, absorbed in his thoughts, soothed by that balmy voice, seduced almost, enraptured like St Theresa in ecstasy. Suddenly an irrational force of anger sweeps over him. He feels overpowered, almost out of control. He wants to slash the painting, destroy that thoughtless arrogance so cruelly spread out in front of him .He catches his breath. He knows that he will never be like that god, snow day or not. He will never be surrounded by such beauty, never feel that exhilaration except at second hand. He curses the fates that took away his mother the day he was born and gave him that twisted spine, that hump.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Copyright:2/3/10
The four words were VANILLA, POLICE, TRAIN, and FORGIVENESS. From these words comes this story entitled. Initial story took two hours. Editing and revising took longer.It may well be tweaked more.....
QUEENS NEW YORK THE EIGHTIES
One.
>
He remembered that night so well, recalled thinking that cooking could be annoying when one did not have the essential ingredients.It seemed so important to say that. He always said afterward that nothing would have happened, they would still be a happy family if he hadn't run out of vanilla that night. He was so stubborn about it. It was vanilla cookies, his speciality or nowt. His native Yorkshire came out when pressed. They had been living in New York then. Both of his children were American born. Making vanilla cookies was his contribution to the kitchen world normally reigned over by his beautiful blond wife of eighteen years. He really loved her. It was a good marriage. He called to her, “Joan, ,oh damn, there’s no vanilla. What a bore, just when I was in the mood.”
Joan had said, “Never mind, I’ll just pop down to that little bodega. Juan and Juanita are sure to have some.” Juan knew their family, one of the first white ones to move into the up and coming area of Queens. Normally Joan took the car to Fairway or even over to New Jersey to do what she called “a big shopping”. She often said however, “We should patronize the local shops; support the neighborhood businesses. It’s our duty. Juan and his wife are so nice and I get to practice my Spanish. Besides, their shop is open almost twenty-four seven. Did you know there’s a new flower shop over on Walker Street that actually has orchids on sale. It’s so great to be part of a city on the move isn’t it? Better than stodgy London, so immersed in its past.”
They had bought at the best time when the market was on the turn. The house was a single room occupancy building that had been abandoned for at least a year but was solidly built. It had a double garage and a garden with a cherry tree. It had originally been a one family home at the turn of the twentieth century. The one terrific advantage was that the house has six showers, baths and toilets so when they reconverted it; they had a room and a bath each and a couple to spare.
Joan said, “Oh darling, you’d better stick to banking. I’ll be in charge in the kitchen. But don’t worry this time I’ll nip down to the shop.”
She put on a coat, kissed him lightly on the cheek. He remembered her perfume. It was 8.30 in the evening.
Two.
Their son Alexander recalled,“Dad continued mixing the other ingredients so they would be ready by the time Mom returned. He also opened a good bottle of cabernet sauvignon from California and had put the oven on low so that when she returned he could slosh in the vanilla and bake the cookies. He hoped to make about four dozen. It was only after finishing the first glass of wine that he called out to his son Bob, “What time did mum leave?”
“Around 8.30 I think, Dad. Don’t worry she’s only a few minutes late and the shop’s only at the end of the block. I bet she ran into someone she knew and has been gossiping. You know how she loves to talk recipes and homemaking.”
“Yes, but still,” his dad replied.
They were both startled by a loud ring of the front door bell.
“Who can that be? It’s rather late for visitors. Go upstairs, you two.” He looked at his two children. They obeyed him.
Although they felt safe in the neighborhood there had been one or two incidents in the past and so they had a drill ready in case anything unusual happened.
Picking up a large baseball bat he kept by the door, he saw through the frosted glass panel two figures standing there. The door has been one of the clinchers when they bought the house. It had a handsome stained glass transom which they loved. Cautiously he opened the door.
Two policemen stood there.
Three.
“Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes. Is everything alright?”
“Oh yes, Sir, we think so. It’s just that we found this wallet by the bodega down the road. It appears to belong to a Mrs. Joan Henderson at this address.”
“It’s my wife’s”
“Is she in, Sir?”
“Well no, she just went down to the shop around 8.30. To buy some vanilla, “ he added.
“Vanilla?”
“Well, yes, I’m baking cookies and we’d run out. Where is my wife?”
Well, that’s it, Sir. We don’t know. We know she was walking in that direction because we had a plain-clothes car down there watching the comings and goings at the bodega. There have been a few reports of suspicious activity and a neighborhood watch committee suggested to us that we might keep an eye on things. You haven’t heard about it?”
“Well, no. I’ve been away in London for a month on business and we could not attend the last meeting. Did you see anything suspicious? I assume my wife went to the shop.”
“We think she did, Sir. We noted her approach. She’s rather striking, Sir, being blonde. Our line of vision diagonally across the road from the shop was suddenly obstructed by a large gray van that drew up in front of the bodega cutting off our view. It’s not unusual as trucks do stop there for refreshments. The owners cater to truck drivers. The van drew up so we didn’t actually see her go into the shop. Our walkie talkie buzzed at that moment with a call about a train accident but others were dealing with it. When we looked again, the van had gone.
Now, you’re sure your wife did not return unbeknownst to you? Do you have a back door here? I see you are enjoying a bottle of wine and isn’t the house rather warm? Is the oven still on?”
John had stammered, “Yes, yes, sorry, I’ll turn it off. Look, what are you saying/. Where is my wife? She can’t just have disappeared. That’s impossible”
Officers Del Flores and Holmes said, “we are mystified too, Sir. We went into the shop just to check up on things. Juan and his wife had not seen a woman for about an hour or so. The last customer, who was just there had ordered two cokes to go. They had not seen him before. However they would recognize him if they saw him again.Juan and his wife had been in the back and apart from serving the van driver, there had been few customers that evening, it being rather cold. They did hear the driver’s companion shout out in a loud accented voice for him to hurry up. When we came out we spotted the wallet in the gutter.”
Four.
If only he’d had some vanilla that night, their lives would be the same as they were before. Now here he was faced with an eternal dilemma. Should we forgive those who have trespassed against us?
Or should we exact a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye? John had pondered this question repeatedly after the verdict of guilty on all counts came in. The trial was not long as the evidence was overwhelming. The men were guilty through and through of murder in the first degree. The press had had a field day. Xenophobic feeling ran high. There was keen interest in the day appointed for the sentencing.
The two men who were driving the stolen van were illegal immigrants. The big burly one Stefan Kostas, had accosted Joan as she was by the shop. She was startled but smiled at him, thinking well of him as she always thought well of everyone. He had grabbed her and knocked her to the ground. She dropped her wallet that fell away from her. He had not noticed. She cried out but he struck her again and she fell against a piece of metal, the jagged end of a vandalized bus stop sign, stunning her and causing her head to bleed profusely. She passed out. This was deduced by the autopsy report. There was no noise as it all happened so quickly. The man panicked, picked her up and threw her in the van. The sliding door opened on the side by the shop so nothing could be seen. He shouted out to his companion to hurry up and they drove off. He did not tell his friend until they were on a secluded stretch of road by a wood. They took her out, found she was still breathing and proceeded to rape and kill her in cold blood. They hacked off her finger to get at her wedding ring and engagement rings they sold for $150.00. The rings were worth at least three thousand dollars. They left her mutilated body in a wood, climbed back into the van, bought alcohol, got drunk and passed out. A passing police car found them, checked out the number, noted it was stolen and arrested the two befuddled men. Their clothes were stained with blood. The men were amateur, stupid, had little or no education and spoke little English. One was married but had left his wife and two children. They were incompetent and inept. They were beyond the pale. They had broken the rules of society. They had got their stories muddled and one has blamed the other. Brutes of low intelligence, they had wept at the trial. It was painful to watch. The translator choked as he said, “She was so beautiful, so white, so fair haired, like an angel. We didn’t mean to harm her. We wanted her to be kind to us; she fought us, called us beasts. We are not beasts. We killed her. She had everything and we had nothing. We are sorry.”
The judge at the sentencing talked of the extreme punishment, an eye for an eye in this case. But he left a time for John to say whether he wanted the death sentence or life without parole. Could John take their lives as they had taken his beautiful wife’s life? He got up to speak.
THE END
:
The four words were VANILLA, POLICE, TRAIN, and FORGIVENESS. From these words comes this story entitled. Initial story took two hours. Editing and revising took longer.It may well be tweaked more.....
QUEENS NEW YORK THE EIGHTIES
One.
>
He remembered that night so well, recalled thinking that cooking could be annoying when one did not have the essential ingredients.It seemed so important to say that. He always said afterward that nothing would have happened, they would still be a happy family if he hadn't run out of vanilla that night. He was so stubborn about it. It was vanilla cookies, his speciality or nowt. His native Yorkshire came out when pressed. They had been living in New York then. Both of his children were American born. Making vanilla cookies was his contribution to the kitchen world normally reigned over by his beautiful blond wife of eighteen years. He really loved her. It was a good marriage. He called to her, “Joan, ,oh damn, there’s no vanilla. What a bore, just when I was in the mood.”
Joan had said, “Never mind, I’ll just pop down to that little bodega. Juan and Juanita are sure to have some.” Juan knew their family, one of the first white ones to move into the up and coming area of Queens. Normally Joan took the car to Fairway or even over to New Jersey to do what she called “a big shopping”. She often said however, “We should patronize the local shops; support the neighborhood businesses. It’s our duty. Juan and his wife are so nice and I get to practice my Spanish. Besides, their shop is open almost twenty-four seven. Did you know there’s a new flower shop over on Walker Street that actually has orchids on sale. It’s so great to be part of a city on the move isn’t it? Better than stodgy London, so immersed in its past.”
They had bought at the best time when the market was on the turn. The house was a single room occupancy building that had been abandoned for at least a year but was solidly built. It had a double garage and a garden with a cherry tree. It had originally been a one family home at the turn of the twentieth century. The one terrific advantage was that the house has six showers, baths and toilets so when they reconverted it; they had a room and a bath each and a couple to spare.
Joan said, “Oh darling, you’d better stick to banking. I’ll be in charge in the kitchen. But don’t worry this time I’ll nip down to the shop.”
She put on a coat, kissed him lightly on the cheek. He remembered her perfume. It was 8.30 in the evening.
Two.
Their son Alexander recalled,“Dad continued mixing the other ingredients so they would be ready by the time Mom returned. He also opened a good bottle of cabernet sauvignon from California and had put the oven on low so that when she returned he could slosh in the vanilla and bake the cookies. He hoped to make about four dozen. It was only after finishing the first glass of wine that he called out to his son Bob, “What time did mum leave?”
“Around 8.30 I think, Dad. Don’t worry she’s only a few minutes late and the shop’s only at the end of the block. I bet she ran into someone she knew and has been gossiping. You know how she loves to talk recipes and homemaking.”
“Yes, but still,” his dad replied.
They were both startled by a loud ring of the front door bell.
“Who can that be? It’s rather late for visitors. Go upstairs, you two.” He looked at his two children. They obeyed him.
Although they felt safe in the neighborhood there had been one or two incidents in the past and so they had a drill ready in case anything unusual happened.
Picking up a large baseball bat he kept by the door, he saw through the frosted glass panel two figures standing there. The door has been one of the clinchers when they bought the house. It had a handsome stained glass transom which they loved. Cautiously he opened the door.
Two policemen stood there.
Three.
“Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes. Is everything alright?”
“Oh yes, Sir, we think so. It’s just that we found this wallet by the bodega down the road. It appears to belong to a Mrs. Joan Henderson at this address.”
“It’s my wife’s”
“Is she in, Sir?”
“Well no, she just went down to the shop around 8.30. To buy some vanilla, “ he added.
“Vanilla?”
“Well, yes, I’m baking cookies and we’d run out. Where is my wife?”
Well, that’s it, Sir. We don’t know. We know she was walking in that direction because we had a plain-clothes car down there watching the comings and goings at the bodega. There have been a few reports of suspicious activity and a neighborhood watch committee suggested to us that we might keep an eye on things. You haven’t heard about it?”
“Well, no. I’ve been away in London for a month on business and we could not attend the last meeting. Did you see anything suspicious? I assume my wife went to the shop.”
“We think she did, Sir. We noted her approach. She’s rather striking, Sir, being blonde. Our line of vision diagonally across the road from the shop was suddenly obstructed by a large gray van that drew up in front of the bodega cutting off our view. It’s not unusual as trucks do stop there for refreshments. The owners cater to truck drivers. The van drew up so we didn’t actually see her go into the shop. Our walkie talkie buzzed at that moment with a call about a train accident but others were dealing with it. When we looked again, the van had gone.
Now, you’re sure your wife did not return unbeknownst to you? Do you have a back door here? I see you are enjoying a bottle of wine and isn’t the house rather warm? Is the oven still on?”
John had stammered, “Yes, yes, sorry, I’ll turn it off. Look, what are you saying/. Where is my wife? She can’t just have disappeared. That’s impossible”
Officers Del Flores and Holmes said, “we are mystified too, Sir. We went into the shop just to check up on things. Juan and his wife had not seen a woman for about an hour or so. The last customer, who was just there had ordered two cokes to go. They had not seen him before. However they would recognize him if they saw him again.Juan and his wife had been in the back and apart from serving the van driver, there had been few customers that evening, it being rather cold. They did hear the driver’s companion shout out in a loud accented voice for him to hurry up. When we came out we spotted the wallet in the gutter.”
Four.
If only he’d had some vanilla that night, their lives would be the same as they were before. Now here he was faced with an eternal dilemma. Should we forgive those who have trespassed against us?
Or should we exact a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye? John had pondered this question repeatedly after the verdict of guilty on all counts came in. The trial was not long as the evidence was overwhelming. The men were guilty through and through of murder in the first degree. The press had had a field day. Xenophobic feeling ran high. There was keen interest in the day appointed for the sentencing.
The two men who were driving the stolen van were illegal immigrants. The big burly one Stefan Kostas, had accosted Joan as she was by the shop. She was startled but smiled at him, thinking well of him as she always thought well of everyone. He had grabbed her and knocked her to the ground. She dropped her wallet that fell away from her. He had not noticed. She cried out but he struck her again and she fell against a piece of metal, the jagged end of a vandalized bus stop sign, stunning her and causing her head to bleed profusely. She passed out. This was deduced by the autopsy report. There was no noise as it all happened so quickly. The man panicked, picked her up and threw her in the van. The sliding door opened on the side by the shop so nothing could be seen. He shouted out to his companion to hurry up and they drove off. He did not tell his friend until they were on a secluded stretch of road by a wood. They took her out, found she was still breathing and proceeded to rape and kill her in cold blood. They hacked off her finger to get at her wedding ring and engagement rings they sold for $150.00. The rings were worth at least three thousand dollars. They left her mutilated body in a wood, climbed back into the van, bought alcohol, got drunk and passed out. A passing police car found them, checked out the number, noted it was stolen and arrested the two befuddled men. Their clothes were stained with blood. The men were amateur, stupid, had little or no education and spoke little English. One was married but had left his wife and two children. They were incompetent and inept. They were beyond the pale. They had broken the rules of society. They had got their stories muddled and one has blamed the other. Brutes of low intelligence, they had wept at the trial. It was painful to watch. The translator choked as he said, “She was so beautiful, so white, so fair haired, like an angel. We didn’t mean to harm her. We wanted her to be kind to us; she fought us, called us beasts. We are not beasts. We killed her. She had everything and we had nothing. We are sorry.”
The judge at the sentencing talked of the extreme punishment, an eye for an eye in this case. But he left a time for John to say whether he wanted the death sentence or life without parole. Could John take their lives as they had taken his beautiful wife’s life? He got up to speak.
THE END
:
Monday, February 8, 2010
THREE FIFTY
Copyright. George Holmes. revised 2.8.10
Should I remain mum,
Button the lip?
Let the matter slide,
Say zip?
Give into rage?
Fear what he'd say?
Or should I speak up
And say, "Look, hey"
Does it really matter?
Loew's won't go bust
Losing three fifty
Though he lost my trust.
It happened once before.
I should have asked why.
Maybe he doesn't think
Nor use ear nor eye.
I should have got it then
When he didn't call or stop by.
I know the expression
Once bitten twice shy.
I was too polite.
I know it now, too late
To alter the course of inexorable fate.
I suppose to some it's clever
But can it really be that nifty
Pretending to be a senior
And saving three fifty?
The movie was THE HOURS.
He rattled on and on
I tried to get a word in
That was a bomb.
You'd think he'd write or call again
One buzz would be enough
A minimum gesture to come up to snuff,
To satisfy the ego, the conscience and the mind,
Then leave unpleasant people like me behind.
To clean the slate anew, one but rubs it with a sleeve
And all the awkward 'noyances just take their leave.
But we're left with a gap, a sad unspoken feeling.
Should we meet again, we'll talk without meaning,
Skate the surface, smile the smile, economize, be thrifty
But you know we'll both be thinking of the saving of three fifty.
Should I remain mum,
Button the lip?
Let the matter slide,
Say zip?
Give into rage?
Fear what he'd say?
Or should I speak up
And say, "Look, hey"
Does it really matter?
Loew's won't go bust
Losing three fifty
Though he lost my trust.
It happened once before.
I should have asked why.
Maybe he doesn't think
Nor use ear nor eye.
I should have got it then
When he didn't call or stop by.
I know the expression
Once bitten twice shy.
I was too polite.
I know it now, too late
To alter the course of inexorable fate.
I suppose to some it's clever
But can it really be that nifty
Pretending to be a senior
And saving three fifty?
The movie was THE HOURS.
He rattled on and on
I tried to get a word in
That was a bomb.
You'd think he'd write or call again
One buzz would be enough
A minimum gesture to come up to snuff,
To satisfy the ego, the conscience and the mind,
Then leave unpleasant people like me behind.
To clean the slate anew, one but rubs it with a sleeve
And all the awkward 'noyances just take their leave.
But we're left with a gap, a sad unspoken feeling.
Should we meet again, we'll talk without meaning,
Skate the surface, smile the smile, economize, be thrifty
But you know we'll both be thinking of the saving of three fifty.
HUMPTY DUMPTY
HUMPTY DUMPTY
By George Holmes (copyright)
At school we had a boy named Harrison. We were always called by our last names. I don’t know his first name but Harrison was fat, jolly, round in face and vivacious. We dubbed him Egg. Of course in the school play of ALICE IN WONDERLAND (where I played Alice-it was all boys), Egg was Humpty Dumpty and his fall off the wall was so convincing and realistic that the audience composed of his fellow students, already somewhat delirious at being able to miss lessons, persuaded Egg to do the fall twice.
The next year he was in charge of his house’s play. We had four houses at our school. I was in Walpole (as in Horace, a local) and we did THE MONKEY’S PAW by W.W. Jacobs. It was considered a success. Egg of Garrick house (as in David, also a local) was director, producer and chief actor in a drama THE MILK BOTTLE involving a crucial scene where the Inspector (Egg) solved the crime by finding a note sticking out of a milk bottle on the table on the stage. Unfortunately, the note somehow or other got pushed inside the bottle. My friend Rowse who was in the play with Egg said that Egg whispered to him out of the corner of his mouth: carry on as if nothing has happened. This proved difficult to do as the unraveling of the story involved reading the note. So the denouement was somewhat confusing to the audience as he tried to read the rolled up note inside the milk bottle, rather like a gypsy reading her crystal ball. The audience by this time was helpless with laughter, the noise of which was augmented by a fireplace pinned somewhat carelessly on to a curtain on stage left, falling down face forward on to the stage with a resounding crash. Egg’s house won the competition for the funniest drama ever seen and Egg was given a silver cup, not an eggcup I hasten to add.
Since that time Egg has become a famous politician, made even more celebrated by his marriage to Sadie Lavere, the movie actress. He often reminisces about his theatrical debut and credits it with giving him confidence in public speaking, (not to mention in public deception but I don’t say that). He’s a good egg..
Sunday, July 12, 2009
By George Holmes (copyright)
At school we had a boy named Harrison. We were always called by our last names. I don’t know his first name but Harrison was fat, jolly, round in face and vivacious. We dubbed him Egg. Of course in the school play of ALICE IN WONDERLAND (where I played Alice-it was all boys), Egg was Humpty Dumpty and his fall off the wall was so convincing and realistic that the audience composed of his fellow students, already somewhat delirious at being able to miss lessons, persuaded Egg to do the fall twice.
The next year he was in charge of his house’s play. We had four houses at our school. I was in Walpole (as in Horace, a local) and we did THE MONKEY’S PAW by W.W. Jacobs. It was considered a success. Egg of Garrick house (as in David, also a local) was director, producer and chief actor in a drama THE MILK BOTTLE involving a crucial scene where the Inspector (Egg) solved the crime by finding a note sticking out of a milk bottle on the table on the stage. Unfortunately, the note somehow or other got pushed inside the bottle. My friend Rowse who was in the play with Egg said that Egg whispered to him out of the corner of his mouth: carry on as if nothing has happened. This proved difficult to do as the unraveling of the story involved reading the note. So the denouement was somewhat confusing to the audience as he tried to read the rolled up note inside the milk bottle, rather like a gypsy reading her crystal ball. The audience by this time was helpless with laughter, the noise of which was augmented by a fireplace pinned somewhat carelessly on to a curtain on stage left, falling down face forward on to the stage with a resounding crash. Egg’s house won the competition for the funniest drama ever seen and Egg was given a silver cup, not an eggcup I hasten to add.
Since that time Egg has become a famous politician, made even more celebrated by his marriage to Sadie Lavere, the movie actress. He often reminisces about his theatrical debut and credits it with giving him confidence in public speaking, (not to mention in public deception but I don’t say that). He’s a good egg..
Sunday, July 12, 2009
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