At the office I have a portable phone that permits me to take calls when I'm away from my desk. Usually the phone itself is left tucked in my pocket, and I speak and listen via an earpiece with a mike attached.
It was, in hindsight, inevitable that this day should have come to pass:
~ I told Boss, so&so wants to speak to you on line one;
~ Boss took the earpiece from me;
~ started talking;
~ turned around;
~ and walked away, while I trailed behind like a kite tail, still connected by the earpiece cord.
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I'd like to say Boss was oblivious to me trailing along behind; but to be honest, I'd have to describe it as a conscious exercise of Boss' perogative to have me follow in tow {if you've ever seen the movie Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead ~ the scene where R&G meet King Claudius and his royal retinue ~ then you've seen what this looks like}.
It put me in mind of behaviour at the court of Versailles {you know, Dangerous Liasons, Louis the Sun King, "let them eat cake" and all that} ~
If Oneself was of sufficiently noble birth {or "aspired" to it} then Oneself would retain a chair-carrying servant whose job was to ensure said chair was always convenient for the seating of Oneself. Etiquette dictated Oneself never glanced for the chair; Oneself simply sat. And the chair was Expected To Be There. Looking for reassurance beforehand betrayed self-doubt about Oneself's Regal Position {literally and figuratively} ~ and if Oneself had doubts, then what was everyone else to think?
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They must have had a name for their position, these chair servants. I'll send my Footman, Oneself might say, just leave it with my Valet; the Butler will see you to the door. And mind you don't stumble over my Chair-Lackey on the way out.
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I can't help but think that nobles who survived the revolution had to unlearn the lessons of a lifetime, and spent quite a few weeks with bruised bottoms from plopping down on non-existent chairs, and then spent a few more weeks with pillows strapped to their behinds.
A little-known short-lived cottage industry, commoners teaching nobles how to seat themselves; I can just hear them, like training dogs the Barbara Wodehouse Way, enunciating the "T": Sit!
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SitComedy of Manners. Will somebody, please ~ my writing skills are not up to snuff ~ please write this reversal of Pygmalion?
It must include {1} a scene wherein Oneself is subjected to a difficult lesson in chair management & attitude re-adjustment, and {2} a scene wherein Oneself, amongst commoners for a test run after the first set of lessons, must sit down several times; in some instances Oneself overcompensates, and in other instances Oneself remembers only half-way down to look for the chair which upon occasion is there, or isn't there, or isn't quite where expected; and Oneself must pretend accordingly that Oneself meant to do so...
{Many ex~nobles masquerading as citizens in post~revolutionary France were caught out because they sucked at Musical Chairs. Not a lot of people know that.}
Please also include scenes wherein Oneself must acclimatize to life without {1} the farthingale ~ and so tries to sweep impressively through rooms though feeling practically naked, and goes through doors sideways for no apparent reason ~ {2} the fan ~ and so substitutes any item at hand as a psycological crutch, as a smoker would for cigarettes ~ & {3} the wig ~ and so... well... I don't know how that would be funny... like I said, not up to snuff.
As Eliza was rewarded with chocolates, so Oneself would be rewarded with Oneself's head remaining on Oneself's shoulders... and constantly reminded of same, by some Madame DeFarge-derivitive dropping sharp~edged hints like: ooo, where did I put my knitting, I'll lose my own head next ~ oh! dearie me ~ did I say that out loud? titter titter.
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There ought to be potential for moments of tender & touching vulnerability when one is stripped of one's social & personal affectations, and for moments of broad farce when one must cope with a new physical situation. And for lots of dignified~people~falling~on~their~butts humour.
I'm not making any promises: no gift have I for writing dialogue, comedic or otherwise; nor have I the skill for sketching characters or plot. The impetus is slipping away already, and I haven't the discipline to write when I've lost interest in the idea.
But who knows what may happen. We shall see what we shall see.
Posted by edgar at April 24, 2003 03:56 PM