Stakes

It's a struggle.

I want to do things, but not enough, my friends. Not enough.

I want to write a long essay defending artistic cowardice.

I want to document my difficult year in excruciating detail.

I want to learn how to ride a bike.

But not enough.

You know how summertime is when the living is easy?

Well it's January. The living isn't.

Peter Pan was an idiot. To live may be an awfully big adventure, but some adventures aren't worth the effort. We've all been to Chessington.

And now, to top it off, it looks like the Southampton FC chairman might be resigning, and possibly taking the manager with him.

Don't they know that I'm basing my entire mental well-being on the fortunes of Southampton Football Club?! How could they be so selfish?

It's grey and drizzly outside. I miss the days when it was night, and the nights when daylight was broad. I miss the blinding, golden, three pee ems.

It's a struggle, it really is.

On the other hand, maybe something.

***

I need to get writing again.

INT. BREAD SHOP - DAY

BREAD SHOP?

THAT'S NOT RIGHT, IS IT?

WHAT IS IT?

BUTCHERS IS MEAT.

IT'S NOT...? NO.

MAYBE BREAD SHOP *IS* RIGHT...

NO.

NO, IT DOESN'T SOUND RIGHT.

"I'M JUST OFF DOWN THE BREAD SHOP!"

IT DOESN'T SOUND RIGHT.

I MEAN, MOST PEOPLE BUY THEIR BREAD FROM SUPERMARKETS NOW. BUT THERE ARE STILL BREAD SHOPS. I'VE SEEN THEM.

IS BUTCHERS FOR BOTH? MEAT BUTCHER AND BREAD BUTCHER?

"BREAD BUTCHER"... NAH.

WHAT ABOUT THAT RHYME?

"THE BUTCHER, THE BREAD SHOP WORKER, THE CANDLESTICK MAKER."

AH, SO IT IS BREAD SHOP AFTER ALL!

YOU CAN OVER THINK THESE THINGS.

A customer comes through the door, and the door bell rings. Not the doorbell. The door bell. It's not, like, one of those push-a-button ding-dong bells that people have in houses. It's a bell that's on a door - a shop door - a bread shop door - to let the shop workers know that someone has come in to the shop.

The customer is HILLARY, a middle-aged woman.

She goes up to the counter. Behind the counter is NICK, the bread shop worker.

NICK

Yes, madam. 

How can I help?

HILLARY

I'm looking for 

a very specific 

loaf of bread.

NICK

Ah, well! We'll 

see what we can do!

HILLARY

It's brown, and it's 

not one of those ones 

that are all... segmented.

NICK

Segmented?

HILLARY

Yes, you know. With 

lots of flat segments. 

I don't want that.

NICK

So... unsliced?

HILLARY

That's it. Yes. And brown.

NICK

What about this one?

NICK takes a brown loaf from a shelf behind the counter. But as he moves it to the counter, something falls out of a hole in the side of the loaf. It is a gun.

The gun lands on the counter with a metallic thud.

For a moment, NICK and HILLARY stare at each other, and then at the gun, and sometimes a mixture of the two.

NICK

(cautious) Was this the specific 

loaf you were 

interested in, madam?

HILLARY

(cautious) Yes. I think 

that will do nicely.

NICK wraps up the loaf in paper, and also the gun in paper, and puts both of them into a plain white carrier bag.

No money is exchanged.

NICK

So. Tonight's the night?

HILLARY

It is.

NICK

Anything I should be 

aware of?

HILLARY

Let's just say: I wouldn't 

be taking any trains today, 

if I were you.

NICK nods. HILLARY leaves.

Then another woman comes in, and exactly the same thing happens. But this time, with an iced bun.

***

It's a struggle.

But that's the beauty of life, isn't it? If there was no struggle, there would be no stakes. Everything would be sterile, and there would be no screenplay extracts about a bread shop and some kind of clandestine plot that affects trains.

It's a bit brighter now. The sun's not out, but the rain has stopped. It's still grey, but it's a brighter grey.

It's funny how things can be improved with a little hard work.