That's right people, I write prose. Surprised? Probably not.
So, in year 12 Literature we are studying Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas. Its a radio play for over 60 voices, and I'm enjoying it even if the rest of my class is not.
Easily my favourite character is Mr Pugh, who wants to kill his sadistic bitch of a wife.
Holiday homework consisted of us turning a passage of our choosing into some prose, and I am quite proud of how this turned out, so here it is.
This is the original Passage from the text....
Mr Pugh: Here's your arsenic dear
And your weedkiller biscuit
I've throttled your parakeet
I've spat in the vases
I've put cheese in the mouse holes
Here's your... (door creeks open)
...nice tea, dear
Mrs Pugh: Too much sugar
Mr Pugh: You haven't tasted it yet, dear.
Mrs Pugh: Too much milk then. Has Mr Jenkins said his poetry?
Mr Pugh: Yes, dear.
Mrs Pugh: Then it's time to get up. Give me my glasses. Not my reading glasses, I want to look out. I want to see.
Annoying cow, isn't she?
They do talk for a bit longer after this, but for my purposes I had him leave. Artistic licence and all that.
So anyway, here is my version. Enjoy :)
Under Milk Wood, Mr Pugh Makes the Tea
Mr. Pugh contemplated as he made the tea, his rat-like features sharp, his brow furrowed in thought. How to go about it?
Arsenic in the tea would surely get the job done, however the authorities may find the culprit rather obvious. He would have to leave the country.
He could push the harridan down the stairs, and say that she slipped. But what if she were to survive? He’d have to care for her, and that would make her more unbearable than ever.
He turned the pot clockwise.
Shoot her? He had his father’s military pistol in the attic… but it was rusty, and would most probably jam. Then where would he be? He would have to club her with the relic as she tried to run screaming into the street to alert the neighbors.
He paced the kitchen in thought, his carpet slippers making scuffing sounds on the linoleum. In the distance, Reverend Jenkins could be heard delivering his morning sermon to the town, or anyone who cared to listen.
Drown her?In the bath? Hold her under until the last bubble goes ‘pop!’…. and she would be nagging all the way. It would provide a certain grim satisfaction.
He turned the pot again, and glanced at the catalogue on the table, last month’s special edition of a magazine he subscribed to, “Historical oddities Monthly.” It was full of titles of all manner of interesting books one could order via mail. It was open, and on the page were two titles alongside images of their covers –“The A-Z Encyclopedia of Serial Killers,” and below it, “Lives of the Great Poisoners.”
The latter was circled.
How about forced suicide? He mused as he strained the tea into a smaller, silver pot – Mrs. Pugh couldn't abide by stewed tea.
He could put his fathers military issue gun to her head, and make her write a note. Then she could jump off the roof!
No, he sighed as he assembled the tea tray. Mrs. Pugh would sit there as stubborn as ever, and demand that he shoot her if he had the gall.
Slowly he shuffled up the creaking, groaning stairs with his creaking, groaning joints, relishing each moment spent away from her company and dreading entering the bedroom.
No, poisoning would be the way to go. He had heard Bermuda was nice at this time of year.
The door creaked open. There she was, sitting in her off-white nightgown, scowling at him over the top of the newspaper. Her two sets of spectacles glinted in the morning sunlight from the open window, as they sat on the table under it. One pair for reading, the other for every day wear. Mr. Pugh could never tell the difference- they looked exactly the same to him. Either way, she could not have been reading the paper. He suspected she just guessed by looking at what she could see of the pictures.
“Nice tea dear,” he said in a pleasant voice, as always. He placed the tray over her lap, and before he could even step back she barked, “Too much sugar!”
Mr. Pugh took a deep breath. He was not a generally angry person; however twelve years of the same hateful routine morning after morning will wear a man down. He bit back the tirade of venom threatening to spill forth from his conscience to his tongue, and said placidly, “You haven’t tasted it yet dear.”
She grunted. “Too much milk then.”
Mr. Pugh resisted the urge to overturn the tray and throttle her. He would have to clean the sheets.
“Has Mr. Jenkins said his poetry?” she asked, as of every morning.
“Yes, dear,” came the well rehearsed reply.
“Then it’s time to get up. Give me my glasses.”
Now came the part of the morning he disliked most. His wife always tricked him – her spectacles were never where he thought they would be – he could never anticipate the order she placed them in the night before.
“Not my reading glasses, I want to look out, I want to see.”
He chose wrong, as usual. Mr. Pugh handed her the correct glasses and scurried from the room while she got dressed – a sight he did not wish to witness.
Down the creaking stairs again. Maybe Tahiti.
He ambled into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of what was now strong tea, and waited for the post to arrive.
....................................
Hope you liked that. If not... oh well, you read it, so, suck!
Konichiwa, bitches.
Lou
An eventful weekend
15 years ago
Anyone else think that the photographers arn't particularly interested in the shirt per-se?
My personal favourite.
