| Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me |
[Dec. 7th, 2009|10:01 am] |
Who: Ellen Fanshaw and Geoffrey Tennant
What: Something bearing only the slightest resemblance to domestic bliss
Where: Luton, England
When: Monday morning
Warnings: Ellen and Geoffrey swear as easily as breathing.
Ellen has decided to get healthy. It's been 5 weeks, 6 days, and 2 hours since her last cigarette, and she feels fine. Really. After all, cigarettes stain the teeth and ruin the voice ... not to mention what they can do to her skin tone and fingernails.
Healthy. She's even starting to like those disgusting concoctions the previous owner had left in his stainless-steel refrigerator. At least she still likes alcohol. Alcohol's healthy now, isn't it? Red wine is good for the heart, and beer is ... beer.
But diet and tobacco cessation are not enough, especially now that they have a theatre (if the damned finicky real estate agent is finished with his deliberately confusing paperwork, not to mention the contractors, who probably think they're paid to stand around looking good when they are not), and soon they will have a company. Other actors. Thank Christ.
Only, not until she's finished getting healthy. And so, this morning, as part of her resolution to become a better, healthier, younger-looking all-around improved Ellen Fanshaw, she puts a special DVD into the player hooked up to the enormous flatscreen TV.
Goddamned fucking remote has too many fucking buttons. Damned thing should just work. I hate television and all its technology.
"It's time to SELF TRIM AND TONE FAST!" blares from the speakers. |
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| A stage where every man must play a part |
[Nov. 7th, 2009|12:06 am] |
WHO: Geoffrey Tennant and Ellen Fanshaw
WHAT: Theatre Hunt!
WHERE: Toronto, ON
WHEN: This morning
WARNINGS: Language.
The fingers of Old Man Winter are beginning to encroach upon Canada, which in layman's-- or rather, Ellen's-- terms, means that it's fucking freezing as they get out of the estate agent's car and approach the old building on Geoffrey's shortlist to become their new theatre.
This particular building has certainly seen better days. Its detailed brick frontage and architecture is distinctly Edwardian in origin; several plywood-boarded windows adding to the rundown effect. It's had moderate upgrades since then, though the many broken lightbulbs on the dilapidated 60's-era signage are testament to how few and far between those upgrades have been.
Geoffrey stands for a moment gazing up appreciatively at its facade, his breath clouding in the air. He doesn't see ruin; he sees potential.
And he's grinning like a kid who's just found the candy store. This is where Théâtre sans Argent will find its feet again. |
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| Caught Up |
[Sep. 11th, 2009|03:06 pm] |
Who: Geoffrey Tennant, Ellen Fanshaw and the agent of the gay retired model Geoffrey replaced
What: Someone didn't get the memo their client's gone.
Where: At Geoffrey's home in Luton, England
When: This morning
Warnings: Language, probably.
Geoffrey's in an obscenely good mood.
Those don't happen very often. And even less rarely do they happen in the morning hours. It probably doesn't hurt that he's gotten laid with startling frequency this last week or so, along the prospect of starting his own theatre up again without the irritating corporate involvement that the New Burbage festival so readily courted. No whiny executive complaining about the cost of installing a thrust. No ridiculous numbers of boxes of notes written by Oliver on a play he's never really liked all that much.
And oh, most importantly, no Oliver.
One could almost say he's approaching normalcy, as he pads around the ridiculously large kitchen in his bare feet, boxers and a pale green t-shirt this morning, his unruly dark hair the only potential giveaway to his sometimes unstable personality, carting around a mug of coffee while he seeks something for breakfast that he can make without potentially burning the house down.
It'll probably be toast. Again. |
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| I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety. |
[Aug. 24th, 2009|04:53 pm] |
Who: Geoffrey Tennant, Ellen Fanshaw, and whoever else shows up.
Where: The Moon and Sixpence in Luton, England
When: A day or so after the mighty shopping expedition
Warnings: Language, definitely.
So this is the pub where he was when ... well, whatever happened that he doesn't want to tell her. Or "can't tell her" may be closer to the truth. Whatever it was, it's nothing that would bar them from the Moon and Sixpence, thankfully enough.
It is not the pub she'd known so well back in New Burbage, but there is a basic pub-ness that runs throughout all pubs, even the ones hung about with ferns and intended to attract the American tourists who will complain that their beer isn't cold, will get too drunk, and will go back home to the States bragging that they went to "a real English pub" when they were in the UK.
No piano, dammit. No Cyril to play it, for that matter. No Frank. Of course, no Basil either, though she wouldn't be surprised if the critic for the local paper is lurking around here somewhere. Fucking parasites. Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. Those who fail at both, criticise.
She takes a drink of her lager. "I never did get to play Cleopatra," she says mournfully, playing it Quiet Tragic Queen for once. "Unless you count that godawful production of the Shaw. Jennison was such a pig. Swanning around thinking he was all that and a bag of chips for staging it as a comedy of manners, when everybody knew it was because they'd run out of filthy lucre and had to recycle the costumes from The Importance of Being Earnest." Another drink. "And that Cleopatra is a schoolgirl. A homicidal schoolgirl who gets all giggly every time Caesar waves Mark Anthony at her. Mark Anthony and his magical healing prick. Who doesn't even show up on stage. Where's the challenge in playing that? There isn't. Every character just swarms around Caesar talking about how fucking wonderful he is."
Ah, well. Geoffrey's heard the story before. She'll just mutter the rest of it into her mug until she gets a refill. |
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| The soul of this man is his clothes |
[Aug. 18th, 2009|06:53 am] |
Who: Geoffrey Tennant, Ellen Fanshaw
What: You realise I haven't got anything to wear?
Where: Luton, England
When: The morning after this post.
Warnings: Very likely swearing
Ellen has, much to her relief, found a dressing gown: a yukata covered with fire-breathing dragons wandering through thickets of bamboo. It's far too large for her petite frame, but she's grateful for the concealment ... or, as she prefers to think of it, mystery.
However, she's going to need more than a dressing gown this morning. Her clothes are somewhere downstairs. Scattered all over the hallway, unless Geoffrey's done something with them, which he probably hasn't. There must be something here she can wear. Otherwise she'll have to put on the clothes she was wearing yesterday and see about returning to Chicago and seeing what--what was that name on the ID again ... oh, yes. Myrtle Groggins, cosmetologist. She shudders at the thought. Myrtle Groggins. No.
The bedroom closet is certainly spacious. She's had dressing rooms smaller than this walk-in closet ... with all the shirts arranged by colour, from pale pink to deepest violet. And the collection of men's shoes. She didn't have this many shoes. She wonders if the extra dresser is dedicated to socks and coordinating cravats.
"Geoffrey?" she calls out. "Are you sure there's no Oliver?" |
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| When sorrows come, they come not single spies |
[Aug. 17th, 2009|07:17 am] |
Who: Geoffrey Tennant, Ellen Fanshaw, Meg Thatcher, Constable Benton Fraser
What: Reunion, possibly.
Where: Luton, England
When: More or less an hour after this post
Warnings: Possible swearing, given Geoffrey and Ellen's fantastic command of the art.
The phone wouldn't stop ringing.
Geoffrey Tennant is not a man renowned for his patience. He's also not renowned for enjoying the phone, either; and he likes it even less since the last time he spoke to a much-maligned old friend before he was run over and killed by a pig truck.
The phone is now in the freezer.
His first instinct had been to throw it out a window, but it had bounced off the reinforced whatever-it-is they make windows out of now and hit him in the head, so the freezer seemed like the better option.
It's probably still ringing, but if it is, he can't hear it anymore. And he's going to sit right here and finish making this little stage diorama out of those tiny water crackers he found in a cupboard and which the upper-middle-class seem to love so much, and ignore it happily. Well. Maybe not happily. Perhaps that's too strong of a word. But it beats wanting to tear his brain out of his own skull and thinking too much about what's going on.
Suits him just fine. |
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| And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear |
[Aug. 16th, 2009|11:52 am] |
Who: Ellen Fanshaw and Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP
Where: Consulate General of Canada in Chicago/Consulat général du Canada à Chicago
What: Ellen's less than grand entrance to this world
Warnings: Language from Ellen, and other ego-driven explosions.
As a rule, the Canadian Consulate in Chicago is a quiet place, the nation's business in the tri-state area being conducted in a low murmur accompanied by the gentle tap-tapping of keys, punctuated by the occasional telephone ring. But rules are meant to be broken, and now it is a young constable's responsibility to try and mend them again.
"Ma'am," Constable Hourani says in her most patient voice, "I do understand that this is very distressing for you--"
"Distressing?" repeats Ellen Fanshaw. "Yes, I suppose you could call it distressing if you had a limited vocabulary. Maybe I didn't make myself clear. I've been kidnapped. I'm supposed to be in New Burbage. I'm not the only one who's gone missing lately either. You should call them. Or check whatever it is you people check for reports of serial kidnappings. Go on. There's bound to be something about it. It's not as if much happens in New Burbage besides the festival."
( Read more... ) |
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