I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to complete the Script Frenzy organised by the same people who do NaNoWriMo. 100 pages in 30 days. I’m probably about half way through the finished product but I’m really pleased with how it’s turned out. It’s called Two Edges and is about a woman whose husband dies leaving her bankrupt. She doesn’t know what to do and inadvertently gets involved in an armed robbery which nets her a lot of cash. She decides to ‘turn to crime’ to alleviate her debt crisis. It’s a black comedy with a hint of drama. I’ll post some of it here soon.
Yesterday was another morning spent at court – with edifying results. My sister’s lawyer advised her to drop the case, that insisting on a full hearing would cost her upwards of twenty thousand dollars with no guarantee there would be a ruling in her favour. An AVO apparently doesn’t give you a record and is considered to be fairly meaningless by the courts. The lawyer advised her it would be in her best interests not to waste the court’s time unless she wanted the AVO dropped because she planned to reconcile with her husband.
Then he asked the question that had been on everyone’s lips :
‘Do you intend at some stage in the future to reconcile with your husband?’
We held our breath, collectively. The birds were silent in the trees. Traffic stopped.
‘Not ever,’ Millie replied. ‘I never want to see him again.’
Inside we were all doing the happy dance but we retained our cool, trying to look all prim and proper in front of the lawyer. We exhaled simultaneously. A weight had been lifted.
In the evening we had dinner here and got into one of those silly conversations only families can have. It involved an article my father had read about the possibility of transplanting robotic parts into humans in the future. We each had to opt for the body part we’d most like to become robotic. I opted for robotic legs so I could run like my comic superhero, The Flash. My Mum opted for robotic eyes so she could see through walls. Millie opted for robotic hands so she could play an entire concerto without stopping to flex her fingers. Aunt Jo chose a robotic mouth. I got a slap for saying I thought she had already successfully received that part. Haha.
Then it came to the boy. What would he choose? ‘I would have a cyborg testicle,’ he piped up. ‘Just the one. Everyone would call me Freaky One Robot Ball Guy. I would be totally unique.’ Why am I not surprised that my pre-pubescent son who admits that he and his mates spend much of their time at school making penis jokes would choose part of his genitalia to become robotic? You don’t need a robotic testicle to be unique, my son. You’re already there!