An occasional series based on my Tuesday morning presentation updates at work:
Today is Pandemonium Day. So everyone can do whatever they want and get away with it. For purposes of legal liability, that last statement may not be true. But it should be.
In other news, I’ll be leaving this job. As many of you know, I'm a scriptwriter and I’ve been head-hunted to write an alternative version of Stranger Things. It’s called Ordinary Things and here’s an extract:
Titles.
The words Ordinary Things flicker on a grey screen.
The Diary of Horace Wimp by the Electric Light Orchestra plays in the background.
Cut to a bed in an untidy bedroom.
A figure is under the covers.
An angry voice penetrates the silence.
‘Eleven. Eleven. Eleven!’
The figure in the bed stirs.
The angry voice continues.
‘Eleven. It’s eleven. Get up you lazy bastard. The bins need emptying.’
A man emerges from under the covers.
He is bearded, has aquiline features and wears glasses.
He has the torso of a prize fighter and the looks of a male model.
He is the sort of man that women want and men admire.
In the interests of balance, men can want him and women can admire him as well.
He looks at his watch.
‘Shit. Overslept again.’
Titles.
End.
