Dail was in a cinema.
By himself. Whilst this was rare, he had taken a leaf out of his sisters New
Year Resolution manuscript and thought he'd give it a go. It was unusually
refreshing; not worrying about which side of you your friends are on and not
having to share your popcorn. For his viewing delectation today was an
overpriced action-cum-drama piece. The kind that gets released at least
bi-annually to appease those who need to see things blown up on a bigger screen
than the one attached to their Xbox at home, but want a break from the deep
seated guilt of knowing you've just killed your three thousandth faceless
mutant enemy.
One thing about films
had been striking Dail more and more in recent times; besides the decreasing
existence of original ideas and the inverse correlation this had on the price
of viewing. And the increasing propensity of rom-coms to alter peoples
perspective of what a relationship actually was. Anyway, to return to the
original striking, Dail had been realising that it was incredibly lucky that
the film crew had decided to turn up for that particular time in the lives of
whoever was involved. Rarely, if ever, was there a film in which the protagonist
went about his daily business due to some logistical error that saw the viewer
turn up too early. No storyline, no expensive climax on an oil rig, no sudden
turning of plot in which everything seems to be going against the protagonist,
things seem hopeless; but what's this?! Everything has turned out fine via the
steely resolve of the lead character and the return of their sidekicks (who
previously turned against them because of some altercation). And the bad guy is
dead! Well that's spiffing isn't it. And not just films! Everything! Books too.
There weren't any fictional books (to Dail's knowledge, at least;
(auto)biographies didn't count) that were just about the downtime in a person's
life. Just a small segment of nothing happening. Understandable enough, though.
Probably wouldn't shift too many tickets or hardback copies to just read about
someone sitting at home, eating biscuits, pottering about, seeing their friends
and going to the toilet (not at the same time. Well, he conceded, it would
depend very much on the nature of the friendships involved).
By now the film had
finished and, with a tenacious unavoidability, the obligatory small segment of
film that squats at the end of the credits, hinting at the inevitable franchise
forming sequel, was looming. The tiny subplot that was to be continued
into the next four instalments was to be hinted at by the one henchman who had
somehow survived. Such a shame that killing the big boss at the end wasn't the
end of it. Oh well, more money for all the film people. Fake explosions and
blank bullets didn't come cheap, damnit.
Dail eventually excavated
himself from beneath the mounds of popcorn that had successfully re-enacted The
Great Escape and, to pass the rest of the afternoon, walked home (this was not
as impressive as it sounds - the cinema was only 10 minutes away and was more
financially motivated than any half baked attempt at being a flâneur). Then, he
once again set about thinking about The Book. A book with absolutely no plot
whatsoever actually quite appealed to Dail's backward sensibilities; the idea
that any snippet of any person's life could be transcribed into print without
them being any the wiser. The birth of the fly-on-the-wall novel was beginning
to take shape. Any idea of choosing a real person went out the window like am
archaic rock star's hotel TV set. Stalking was not entirely to Dail's forte;
nor were restraining orders or court cases particularly to his taste. No, he
decided. If this were to take flight, it would have to be a fictitious
character. Maybe not overly fictitious, though. If left to its own devices,
Dail's mind would run amok and make the resultant text nigh unreadable. His
attempt at writing a blog was proof enough of that. It would need something to
help keep it grounded, but the only life he was overtly knowledgeable of
was his own and he had previously decided that nobody would care much to read
about it in print. Perhaps a warped, slightly surreal adaptation. Wait, no.
Making a warped, surreal version of something real to make sure it doesn't flit
away into the ether of sense and sensibility is stupid. Not even the most
crooked of bank managers would approve a loan for that plan. So a fictitious
character loosely based on himself. How hard can that be? Just do something
interesting.
The kind of stage fright/writers block hybrid that is usually
the result of someone having said "Say something funny" suddenly washed over Dail like a wall of warm
air in a shop entrance in December. The only way to get out of it is to move away
and do something different. To this end, a large amaretto was poured out and
some reusable ice cubes utilised (to hell with watering down your own drink). A
nice drink and putting your feet up was what would make Dail happy now.
The only thing worthy of Dail's precious pieds within easy reach was a hardback chair. And, naturally, the
logical place to put your feet was atop the back piece, the result of which
contorted him into a bizarre and slightly tipsy Tetris piece, as his back slid
further and further down the armchair onto the seat pad and his feet slid
further and further into the air and therefore more perpendicular to the
floor.
"Bugger. Not entirely sure how to get out of this
one." It was at times like this that Dail wished that he had a roommate.
Not to help him out of his current predicament, but to hold up a score card
rating the elaborate series of twists, falls, rolls and flails that saw him end
up off the chair and with his foot wedged under a bookshelf. He was fairly
certain a good, solid seven was on the cards at least. The Olympics, however,
were looking to be a far distant ambition at present.
That evening, a lot more amaretto was drunk and some writing
actually got done. But, on reflection the next morning, it wasn't the kind of thing
that could get published. Chiefly because what did get written was a page full of the entry code for Dail's phone,
the words "penguin + talcum powder" in large red letters in his
diary one month in the future and a shopping list consisting of, rather
cryptically, "penguin + talcum powder."
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