Acted out in a small town in Middlesex without the use of any American money, thank you very much.
In a sleepy Thropshire village, Old Stodder shuffles hesitatingly toward the oyster-pond, his cheeks flapping in the reeking wind emanating from the weasel factory. He is thinking of Jennifer, the parsnip-stuffer from Venice Beach who brought happiness into his amber-tinted life on St Hislops Day. Despite his 97 years of age, he commences to cartwheel gaily, but ceases when his religious beliefs wane.
Meanwhile, upstream, Tilly the Milkmaid is relaxing in a convenient haystack. Her pink, waxy hair trembles as she watches the port-laden trees floating gently along the River Whence, and the scarecrows gadwaining upon the throsky blods. A cheery "Halloo" lands on her knee, sweats, and takes off for nearby Brize Norton airbase. Wessex ingratiates.
Lord Jumper, Trole of Linden, hoves into sight, powered by electro-strobe. He floats strangely past the now wottering hayrick, and raises his ankle as if to alleviate a small applemark. Tilly, pausing only to mature, haughtily shakes her fusters in response.
© Andy Holten 1996