Litter (A play) Part 1

Litter

Dramatis Personae

Two School children:
Gob
Slob
The Postman
A car driver
Three teenagers:
Dodge
Shimmy
Weave
Mr Butt
Mrs Butt
Old Man
A very wealthy-looking Gentleman
A Chauffer
Four Students:
Ist
2:1
2:2
Third
Dis
Poser
A father
A mother
A girl
A boy
Two burglars
Shimmy’s father
Two large bins
Earth

Act I

Morning

The curtain opens to a typical urban street with an alley leading off centre stage. The alley will have to have a broad entrance from the street gradually narrowing toward the far end in order that the action set there can be seen throughout the theatre. The sun is low in the east (stage left) and the street will have a lamppost, a road, a gutter, a drain and a pavement. It will contain one house (stage right) and one business (stage left) positioned either side of the alley. The house should have a wall and a privet hedge bordering the property either side of the gate which encloses a small front garden. It should have four windows, two at the bottom either side of the door and two positioned above these. No-one will come out of either the house or the business. Similarly the business premises should appear abandoned but not derelict. It also will have windows either side of the door but larger as befits the building. It should bear the legend, ‘Virtual Reality – the future is ours’. The street and alley should be littered but not overmuch. There should be a large bin on the street positioned underneath the left window (looking at the stage) of the business premises and another in the alley up against the left hand wall. When the bins move they should always return to these spots (See production notes) There should also be a smaller bin attached to the lamppost and a street, running parallel to that of the stage, can be seen at the far end of the alleyway. The backdrop should represent a city skyline containing tall buildings and one church spire. Behind these a large chimney stack should be belching out smoke into the sky.

Two schoolchildren, Gob and Slob, enter stage right walking toward the lamppost. They are dressed for school with uniforms and carrying satchels/bags. Gob is lean whilst Slob is chubby. Gob spits relentlessly and Slob’s uniform is hanging out.

Gob: (Walking past the business premises he spits at the left window) You little beauty! Shot of the week - take all morning to slide down.

Slob: You’re a dirty bastard Gob.

Gob: And you’re a fucking state yourself. Tuck your shirt inside your arse, Slob man. Look at me - spotless, shoes polished, hair neat and tidy – ready for the ladies.

Slob: Hey, I gotta girlfriend, remember?

Gob: Fat Janice? She’s scruffier than you, and heavier.

Slob: It’s free innit?

Gob: She should be paying you.

Slob (Holds his arms out as he’s picking her up): Never mind the quality, feel the tonnage!

Gob: (Spits) She’s always been a big girl. Hey, do you know what the midwife said to her mother after she dropped ‘er?

Slob: No.

Gob: You takin’ ‘er with you or would you like ‘er delivered?

(Both laugh)

Slob: She likes me.

Gob: Jesus, cataracts too!

(He spits again this time up toward the lamp)

Slob: Maths test today.

Gob: And?

Slob: Exactly…and?

(Pause)

Gob: When I was a kid numbers used to fascinate me.

Slob: Why don’t you do my exam for me then?

Gob: Can’t you lift a pen up you lazy twat? We’d never get away with it anyway.

(Pause)

Look! See the number on that house? It’s 13. Well usually, even in this shit-hole, the house before will be 11 and the house after 15 – not 12 and 14. Well when I was really, really young I’d walk with my mum to school and this would amaze me, this racking up in twos. I remember we’d go in the morning along the odds but I’d always make her come home on the even side. Before I knew it I was learning to add and subtract long before a boring teacher got his mitts near me napper.

Take that arsehole Tommy Dicktickler; he lived at 47 Sun St back then. Well his house was the sum of the old bag at number 29 and that dodgy pervert at 18. When I went to primary school maths was a formality. I didn’t have to work out the solutions – I could see ‘em on the page!

Slob: But you fail all your exams.

Gob: I DON’T fail – I just don’t try.

Slob: Because you can afford to?

Gob: Listen son – it wasn’t brains that got my old man a five-horse accumulator up, it was luck. How many seven-year olds do you know would want a taxi service to school and back? Fuck that! Whacha got today?

Slob: Dunno, I’ll check.

(Slob takes his bag off his shoulder and slings the straps over the small bin attached to the lamppost. He undoes the buckle, takes out his sandwiches and begins to un-wrap them)

Slob: Fuck – fish paste again!

Gob: I hate that shit too. Why don’t you ask for somethin’ different?

Slob: Its cheap innit? What you got then, smoked salmon?

Gob: Nah – caviar.

Slob: Still fish though.

Gob: I got fuck all you silly cunt. Who d’ya think I am – Prince Harry?

(Gob spits into the garden)

Slob: Do you reckon he spits?

Gob: Who?

Slob: Harry, fird in line to the frone.

Gob: Does he shit?

Slob: Must do.

Gob: Then what shits, spits and vicey-vercy.

Slob: Never see ‘em do it though, spit I mean, not (in a posh voice) def’o’cate.

Gob: Where.

Slob: On telly. They’re always smiling.

Gob: So would you – cucumber sarnies at the polo club.

Slob: Hard job, though.

Gob: It’d do me – though I don’t think the school careers office has the appropriate application forms.

Slob: I’d rather be normal.

Gob: Normal. They ain’t no such state and if there was we’d only go crazy. We try to act normal, sure, but we’re abnormal boyo, and thank Christ for it; the royals too. Only difference with them is the more normal they try to be, the crazier they get.

Slob: Stayed at the palace ‘ave we? Fingered the dirty laundry?

Gob: It‘s a deductive process. It can’t be good for ‘em, all that blue blood filterin’ through their ‘istory. Drive anybody mad.

Slob: If they was bonkers we’d be able to tell.

Gob: How?

Slob: From telly – there’d be signs, weird behaviour or sommit.

Gob: They’re hardly apostolic mate; old Harry himself gets pissed or shit-faced every now and then. Mind you he’s only doing what teenagers do all over this severed isle. But that’s just it isn’t it? When do you ever see ‘em lose it, I mean really lose it.

Slob: Never.

Gob: See, but that ain’t natural.

Slob: How’dya mean?

Gob: What ‘appens to you when Fat Janice ‘as ‘er monthlies?

Slob: Back to old faithful. He holds his right hand up

Gob: Right. But now let’s say your hands got fucked in an accident, decapitated even. Big Jan’s is closed, only now there’s no way for any personal relief.

Slob: So.

Gob: All that testosterone building up with nowhere to go.

Slob: Tess-os-stee…

Gob: Stress man, stress. Sommit's gotta give.

Slob: Let it out, you mean.

Gob: That’s it – you feel like you gotta hit someone or somefing.

Slob: Or get it somewhere else.

Gob: You? Be serious. But the royals are human too – just more priv’liged. They got their foibles, only the media ain’t gonna show you them are they? They show us what we expect to see. What we ‘ave to see. True, the papers may ‘ave give ‘em an ‘ard time over Lady Di, but they never got down to the dirty sordid detail did they? Now it’s all forgotten; swept under the old red carpet. It ‘as to be don’t you see? After all, Charlie’s gonna be King one day of all ‘e surveys (He looks around him). Who gives a fuck what we do? The only TV we’ll ever be on is CCTV . Just like that Andy Warthog predicted, only it won’t be 15 minutes of fame – no, just 15 seconds of infamy for us, smashing up a bus stop or cracking a bloke’s head open to nick his mobile. But Charlie’s the heir apparent. It’s in the national interest for him to look normal. Makes us feel normal. But it’s all an illusion. So, if the Prince o’ Wales works up a sweat on ‘is horse during a chukka, and brings a big ‘un up out of ‘is lungs, the cameras ain’t gonna show ‘im hacking one on the grass, are they? (Gob spits to demonstrate) -anyway ‘e probably gives it ‘is footman to (Posh voice) dispose of.

Slob: True, true. What you eatin’ today then?

Gob: Nowt. Couldn’t be bothered makin’ any.

Slob: Your mam not…

Gob: I’m independent me, don’t need motherin’ – never ‘ad. I ain’t gonna tell you that again Slob.

Slob: Share mine.

Gob: I don’t need handouts, ‘specially your crap. I’ll get me dinner okay.

Slob: Robbin’ again.

Gob: Redistribution Slob, not robbery. That kid’s got far too much. It’s not my fault ‘is snobby parents couldn’t get ‘im enrolled at King Henry’s.

Slob: Bullshit! They ‘ain’t that rich. Your old man’s loaded compared to them.

Gob: Ain’t my money; besides ‘e has to learn something at school.

(Gob spits down the alleyway at the large bin)

Gob: Anyway I’m doing a social service.

Slob: ‘e don’t see it that way.

Gob: If ‘e’d got in at that posh school ‘e’d only be spending his dinner money on drugs wouldn’t he?

(Slobs face lights up in agreement, and Gob nods an assent)

Gob: See? So why are we wastin’ time hangin’ round here? Let’s ambush ‘im before he gets inside the classroom.

Slob: Wait, I gotta put me sandwiches back.

Gob: Gimme them fuckin’ things.(He grabs Slob’s sandwiches and pushes them into the privet hedge) Everybody’s got to eat. Enjoy! He pats the hedge and turns back to Slob. You won’t starve Slob, I’ll treat you out me earnings.

Slob: School dinners, a treat?

Gob: Christ no, I mean real food.

Slob: The chippy?

Gob: You got it; now get your bag, c’mon.

(They walk off stage left and Gob spits up at an upper window on the house)

Slob: Who lives there?

Gob: Someone, no-one; the whole fuckin’ world – how should I know? What do you care anyway, you’re eating well today?

Exeunt

(The Postman enters stage left wiping at his uniform. He has a large post-sack on his back)

Postman: Dirty little bastard! Political Correctness my arse, I’d fuckin’ neuter all the little shits. Make sure whatever litter’s in his balls doesn’t get to see the light of day. (Drops his bag wearily) Christ I hate this bloody round. Couldn’t give me a nice decent area, no – fuck that, they said – that’s the last thing you want, they said. Too much mail, far too heavy; takes forever to finish, they said. You’re far better off in a shit area, they said. Nobody writes to these people, they said. They never get letters, they said; only off the social or from the courts, they said. You’ll be home in no time, they said. Well, THEY ain’t having to walk through this fucking slum are THEY? (Looking around) Look at it - Winson Green , only scarier. That old feller in the office, too weak and tired for this shit now, told me this was a pretty village once, when he was young, when he was fit. Before the bones in his knees started to crumble and the muscles in his back began to pop. A little friendly hamlet, he said, smiling, before the city swallowed it up and shat it out. Hard to imagine, looking at it now. Mind you the fucking smell reminds you of the country, just a different kind of shit. Well I suppose if you put enough arseholes in one place they soon begin to shit all over each other. He puts his bag on the wall. What crap have we got in here today? He starts looking through his bundles and flicking through the letters. Junk, junk and more junk - 90% of everything in here is fucking junk mail. Bollocks, I fancy a really early finish today. It’s half-term and she’ll be on my case. She’ll want the kids out of the way. Get rid of them, take them to Macdonalds – give those bloody big wheels of yours a run out instead of preening over through the living room window. Big wheels is right; the further off the ground the better. Look at them tower blocks - frightening concrete mazes. You’d think they’d be happy up there away from the crap on ground zero – but no. The lifts, stairways and corridors are brimming with rubbish. It’s like hacking your way through a fucking rainforest. He begins to look into his satchel and starts to select various items of mail to examine Who reads this garbage anyway? Look at it; “Order our catalogue – nothing to pay on everything for three months”. Try getting anything out of them after six, mate. “How to win the Lotto” – don’t play it love; “Cheap loans” – and cheap souls. Christ, Faustus…Faustus and Mestophiles. Did I really know all that? Did I really once use my damn brain eight hours a day? What was the price tag etched on my soul: “Untapped commission and unlimited earning potential” Halfpenny-truths and copper promises. I wonder how that kid’s doing now, the one they gave my old job too? Probably has his own branch by now; maybe he’s sending out some of this shit and living it up on the backs of the mugs that are addicted to it. Hey, maybe I can perform a social service here. Starts feeding a bundle of junk mail down the drain, looking carefully around him in case he is spotted, until it’s reduced to a half dozen letters. Cancel the new Ferrari kid; make do with a second-hand 4x4 like me. Takes out another bundle and again feeds letters into the drain Years it took me to save for…bastard, paper cut! Christ, that’s sore. He screws up a letter to mop up blood and goes to throw it away. Oh shit, that’s not junk. Solicitor’s letter and it’s got be signed for. He takes letter over to the small bin and wipes the blood along the inside rim. He turns back toward the wall holding the now reduced mail bundle up in the air. That’s it, is it? Take out all the garbage and what’s left? - A half-dozen letters. And what will they breed? Even more junk? Sooner everyone gets wired up the better. Save the trees use the internet! (Pause) What the fuck am I saying? That puts me out of a job. Keep the junk flowing! Maybe I should get them back. (He looks into the drain) Eaorgh! I’m not sticking my hand in there. No matter – there’s a heap more at the office; boxes of it. We use them for chairs, tables, stands, even ladders. We sit on them; eat and drink off them. We even stood the office radio on a stack of them. A whole industry built on it. Plenty of junk for everyone; still, if it’s what the Nation wants. They must do. Why would we keep getting it? What do I care, ten more minutes and I’ll be out of this crap hole. (Exits down the alleyway)

(The candle lights glow at the end of the alley and a powerful car, a BMW or a Mercedes pulls into view stopping in such a position that the driver can be seen. He throws out a beer bottle hitting the alley bin and drives on)

(The small bin attached to the lamppost rattles slightly)

(Earth enters from the end of the alleyway. He is wearing only a white vest/t-shirt and underpants, and is bare-footed. He is smoking. He walks briskly toward the front of the stage but catches his foot on the broken bottle. He sits down on the kerb to examine his foot and continuing to pull on his cigarette. Deciding that the wound is superficial he rises and goes to leave. As he does so he begins to cough slightly)

(A group of three teenagers, a boy and two girls, enters stage left dressed in topical clothes with the usual accessories – MP3, headphones, mobile phone, Bluetooth, digital camera etc etc. The boy, Weave, is drinking pop from a can. One of the girls, Shimmy, is smoking, the other, Dodge, is talking on her mobile)

Weave: Hey Dodge, who ya calling?

Dodge: My Mam – no answer – not in. S’al right I’ll text ‘er.

Weave (To Shimmy): What’s Dodge’s mum look like, Shimmy?

Shimmy (Smoking): Dannaw.

Weave: Fought you’d been round ‘er ‘ouse.

Shimmy: Oh yeah, loads of times.

(She flicks cigarette on the floor and they all gather round the lamppost with Weave leaning his arm against the bin. Dodge continues to text her mother)

Weave: Whacha doin’ tonight then?

Shimmy: Fink I’ll just stay out – you?

Weave: Might go home for dinner if I get bored.

Shimmy: How much dosh you got Weave?

Weave: Not much.

Shimmy: Dodge ain’t you finish texting yet?

Dodge: Hold on a minute! She finishes her message. What…Her phones rings…oh shit, hang on. Yeah.

Shimmy: Talking into her mobile phone. It’s me bitch - I wanna talk to ya.

Dodge: Crying out loud girl, ain’t you got no patience?

(They laugh)

Shimmy: You got that tenner?

Dodge: Serious now eh? A’right I was gonna give it you.

(Dodge moves Weave away from the bin to hang her handbag over it. She takes out her purse and searches through it and as she does she begins to examine and discard various paper items)

Dodge: What’s this? Oh yeah, New Look , the receipt for me top. Like it? She models it. Don’t need that. The shop’ll have to change it anyway when I’m sick of wearin’ it. They always do - ‘specially if I frow me trolley out. She throws it away. School report – forgot I ‘ad that. She reads through it. Should be a pusher, me – I got more E’s than a dealer. Well no-one’s gonna read that. She rips it up and slings it up like confetti and watches it as it falls. Whoo, look at that –pretty eh?

(Pause)

Dodge: Y’ever wonder Shimmy?

Shimmy: ‘Bout what.

Dodge: Marryin’.

Weave (Interrupting): Never.

Dodge: Why not?

Weave: ‘Cause I don’t wanna die ‘ere that’s why.

Dodge: What’s dyin’ got to do with marryin’?

Shimmy: He finks it’s the same thing.

Weave: What do ya think this estate is, Love Island? ‘Appy fam’lies?

Shimmy: Don’t ya wanna girlfriend?

Weave: That’s diff’rent, that ain’t marriage. You don’t ‘ave to stand in a church wiff a ring in yer ‘and while she’s got a pair of bracelets in ‘ers.

Dodge: Whatcha mean?

Weave: ‘Andcuffs. You ever see a girl round ‘ere wearin’ a ring that wasn’t sportin’ a lump?

Shimmy: Won’t ‘appen to me.

Weave (Sarcastically): Yeah, sure. Listen girl, you don’t need a prick to get preg’ant round ‘ere, it’s a virus.

Dodge: Weddin’s are nice.

Shimmy: ‘Ow would you know? You’ve never been to one.

Dodge: I ‘ave.

Weave: ‘ho’s?

Dodge: Me mams.

Shimmy: Oh yeah.

Weave: ‘xactly. Take me now. Say I like a girl and fings ‘appen and she drops. I walk, no problem and she gets a flat and money for the kid; everyone’s a winner. If I was married, what then: I gotta get a shit job wiff shit hours and shit money for what - to pay the rent on a shithole in this shitheap? Trapped wiff a woman I’ll prob’ly ‘ate in six months; up all night listenin’ to the brat cryin’ and shittin’.

Dodge: Romantic, aintcha? Don’t you wear a rubber?

Weave: It’ll take more than one condom to rub out this scrawl, besides romance is for mugs, and only mugs die in dumps like these.

Shimmy: How you getting’ out then? Goin’ to college?

Weave: I got ways.

Dodge: Another set of bracelets. Here.

(She finds the ten pound note and goes to hand it to Shimmy but it falls on the floor. Shimmy snatches it up like lightning)

Dodge: Jesus, girl that was a neat move!

Shimmy: Don’t want the wind blowin’ it away do I? MacDonalds, Weave? That should keep the boredom away.

Weave (Rubbing his hands): Sound. Good ‘olesome fare, in pleasant surroundin’s!

Shimmy: Yeah and free entertainment - watchin’ all them big motors rollin’ in and out the drive-in.

Weave: Yeah, yer av’rage nuclear fam’ly, drippin’ in dosh. Dad drivin’, mommy drivin’ Dad mad, and two well fed brats strapped in nice ‘n’ safe – like baby birds, open mou’fed , chirpin’ for their regurgitated slop.

Shimmy: Fink they’re better ‘n us but we all eats the same stuff.

Dodge (Posh voice): Far too good to sit wiff us.

Shimmy: Or too scared.

Weave: Wat, swap their nice leafer seats and in-car stereo systems for our comp’ny? No chance.

Dodge: That’s classy, innit? Yer feet up in a BMW or a Merc, wiff some slow sexy sounds on, enjoying yer burger and a nice cool shake.

Shimmy: Sweeeeet! Dry and warm too, in the winter.

Weave: Well ladies I’ve got sommit to keep us warm tonight.

Weave pulls out a small bottle of vodka.

Dodge: Let’s go then.

(They start to walk off stage left past the house and as they do so Weave puts his can down on the wall)

Shimmy: Oi, whacha doing?

Weave: What’s wrong?

Shimmy: Don’t leave it there!

Weave: Why not?

Shimmy: I don’t take vodka neat - that’s a handy mixer.

(Goes back and picks up can and shakes it)

Shimmy: Bollocks. Empty. You could’ve saved me the walk you prick.

(Weave and Dodge laugh. Shimmy puts the can back on the wall and they all exit)

(Middle-aged married couple enter stage right. They dress and speak as average as average can be. They position themselves in front of the business and not far from the large bin)

Mr Butt: Do you have a favourite painter?

Mrs Butt: Me? Don’t know really. I thought your mate Jeff did a nice job of the kitchen.

Mr Butt: No, no, I mean artist. Do you have a favourite artist?

Mrs Butt: Thank goodness for that, I thought you were planning to redecorate and us broke. What did you ask me that for?

Mr Butt: I’ll tell you mine.

Mrs Butt: Go on then.

Mr Butt: God!

Mrs Butt: Who?

Mr Butt: God.

Mrs Butt: God? (Pause) Is this another one of your inspirational whims or something that’s actually going to amount to something?

Mr Butt: Meaning.

Mrs Butt: Has the idea occupied your brain for more than a minute.

Mr Butt: Don’t be unkind dear; here come over here and just look at that sky. Takes out a roll of mints from his pocket and begins to open them throwing the discarded pieces on the floor. See the edges of that serene blue canvas; see how he’s tinged them with shimmering crimson, and how he shapes his clouds shading them in subtle whites and greys; mint?

Mrs Butt: Oh, thank you. Takes one and pops it in her mouth.

Mr Butt: Well it just occurred to me that given all the talent of a Picasso I could never capture that unique quality.

Mrs Butt: It wouldn’t look like that even if you were Picasso.

Mr Butt: Exactly.

Mrs Butt: No, you misunderstand me. He would have it full of strange eggs and melting watches and bowler hats wouldn’t he?

Mr Butt: Eh…oh…I’m not quite sure now, perhaps I mean Pollock – yes that’s the fellow. Still no-one can capture the real creation. There isn’t a true depiction in art.

Mrs Butt: When did you suddenly become Tim Marlow? OAERGH! (She spits out the mint onto the floor) What kind of mint is that?

Mr Butt: A new flavour, with essence of aloe vera.

Mrs Butt: Throw them away they’re disgusting. What made you buy them?

Mr Butt: Didn’t brush this morning – Mouth feels like a rubbish dump. (Smells the pack and twists his face in revulsion)

Mrs Butt: Eat one then.

Mr Butt: Shan’t bother. (Throws pack on floor by the bin) No kiss? He leans toward her breathing on her

Mrs Butt: Oh my goodness, that’s rancid.

Mr Butt: Told you. I’ve got some gum though. He pulls out a pack and begins to unravel the wrapping discarding it on the floor. Fancy a stick?

Mrs Butt: What’s in these, witch hazel?

Mr Butt: Doublemint. (He puts a stick in his mouth dropping the wrapper)

Mrs Butt: Better put two into that cess pit of yours.

Mr Butt: Okay. (He pops another in his mouth again throwing the wrapper on the floor) That’s better, still no kiss?

Mrs Butt: Let’s give it some time to hoover things up in there shall we?

Mr Butt: Still, (looking up) look at that glorious sky.

Mrs Butt (Looking up): It is rather nice. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to live up there, you know, in a real castle in the air, I can almost picture it: a soft white cloudy lane leading up to a set of beautiful gold gates, with maybe a couple of those marble lions guarding them, keeping us safe from the sordid earth below - instead of…(Begins to cry and hunts out a packet of paper tissues from her handbag. She undoes the outer wrapping and drops it on the floor. Then she dabs her eyes and blows her nose with one tissue and drops that on the floor)

Mr Butt: Now dear don’t upset yourself. It’s only temporary.

Mrs Butt: Well it’s been temporary for three years. (Uses and discards another tissue)

Mr Butt: Once I get that promotion we can move out of this neighbourhood for good.

Mrs Butt: You’ll never get it. We’ll die in this dump. (She blows her nose and discards another tissue)

Mr Butt: You’ll see. I’m smart.

Mrs Butt: I thought you were. (She is still crying but has run out of tissues) Do you have…?

Mr Butt: Of course my darling. (He fetches out a handkerchief and dabs her eyes with it patronisingly. She yanks it away from him and blows her nose strongly)

Mrs Butt: I can’t wait forever I feel stifled here. I could work.

Mr Butt: That topic is closed.

Mrs Butt: Fine. So I’ll just continue to stand looking up at those golden gates and never have the power to open them?

Mr Butt: Nonsense, my career’s on the up and up. My plane is taking off toward that castle…

Mrs Butt: A plane? If you could saddle a bike I’d be happy.

Mr Butt: Only yesterday the boss hinted at…

Mrs Butt: Hints! I need bricks not straw; cement, not blue tack. He’s using you and he’s only waiting for another mug to come along; then he’ll drop you like a…like a…used handkerchief (She hands him back his hanky) and if you can’t see it then maybe he’s right.

Mr Butt: About what.

Mrs Butt: That you’re not the man for him.

Mr Butt: Oh…I see…or you?

Mrs Butt: That’s unfair after all the support I’ve given you.

Mr Butt: Then trust me a little longer?

Mrs Butt: Hesitates. How long?

Mr Butt: Any day.

Pause

Mr Butt: Better?

Pause

Mrs Butt: A bit.

Mr Butt: Love me?

Mrs Butt: Starts to smile. Yes.

Mr Butt: That’s it. Stick with me girl. One day, soon, I’ll hand you the keys to your castle in the air. (Looking back up) Mind you not today.

Mrs Butt: Why not?

Mr Butt: It’s going to rain.

(Both walk off towards stage left. Mr Butt begins to fold up his handkerchief but is repulsed by his wife’s nasal ‘discharge’ and surreptitiously throws in into the alley way)

(An old man enters stage left. He carries a newspaper tucked under his left armpit and a cane over his right arm but doesn’t use it. He is amiable, dressed well and sports a tidy beard. He looks up at the sky)

Old Man: Feels like rain.

(It rains litter)

Old Man: Oh dear I’ve left my umbrella at home!

(Hangs his cane over the lamppost bin and begins to unfold the newspaper. The rain litter gets heavier as he attempts to hold it over his head as cover. After a few fumbling attempts he manages to do so and begins to walk off. Then he stops remembering his cane. He goes back for it but as he tries to retrieve it he loses control of the paper which now unravels and is no longer useful. He stands beside the lamppost with the cane and the paper in either hand – looks skyward and shrugs. He lets the paper fall into the road and begins to swing his cane a la Gene Kelly whilst the opening phrase to the appropriate scene from the MGM film ‘Singing in the Rain’ plays. He continues with a pastiche of the movie scene and whips up a storm of litter rather than rain, the former which continues to pour downward. He exits after completing his routine)

(The candle lights begin to glow at the end of the alley again and a Rolls-Royce/Bentley draws up. A chauffer is driving. The window at the rear of the car is wound down revealing a very wealthy-looking gentleman. He flicks the ash from the end of a very expensive looking large cigar and then hands his chauffer a full ash-try. He empties the contents into the alley way. The car then pulls slowly away)

(Earth enters from the alley but now he is dressed in a light-blue shirt and navy-blue jockey shorts with red sandals on his feet. His gait is more leisurely than before as if he has become more lethargic. He picks up the cigar stub and begins to smoke as he makes his way off stage left. He stops half way and begins to cough quite heavily. He slowly recovers his breath and finally exits)

(There is an almighty crash like thunder only louder and more menacing. One of the buildings in the backdrop collapses out of view and after a few seconds is replaced by a similar sized and shaped building but constructed entirely with litter. The smoke blowing out of the chimney seems to increase and darken)

(The small bin on the lamppost rattles again and is answered by the large bin in the alley for a few moments. The drain spews out the letters put in there earlier. The rain litter stops. The sun appears high in the sky)