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10-09-08

6M

p3

Phorgetful Mind

by

Nathan East

Synopsis:

   Howard Michael Davidson, or Her Majesty’s Disaster as the British people would label him, is a Prime Minister with a difference; he was not voted in by a general election. Coming to power through a series of unprecedented incidents that decimated the two men most likely to succeed Tony Blair, David Cameron and Gordon Brown, Howard and his unprepared Liberal Democrat party find themselves at the helm. With national polls already

declining after just seven months in office, the story follows Howard, his staff, and his wife Jenny and their

daughter Annabelle. The three Davidson’s enter an eccentric maze of McDonald’s breakfasts, thoughts of

renovating Number 10, and late night runs to Dunkin Doughnuts; others are unwillingly dragged along for the

journey.

(Beginning of)                                                  Chapter 1:

    It was a cold May morning. The English winter had now dragged on for a full seven months, as had Prime

Minister (PM) Howard Davidson’s dramatic decline in popularity. In fact, the damning descent through local and national figures had begun as the weather had turned; from once being a warm hearted, spring in the step guy, PM Davidson had transformed into a dormant and cold blooded individual. In addition to these mannerisms, he also seemed to be getting complacent regarding his duties towards his cabinet and in steering his nation.

    It was currently May 6th and the clock rolled around to 7.30 am - today was the day when Davidson would turn 50, and not even he could hide from it. Howard was turning more cynical, more cavalier and more imprecise with every passing second. To illustrate this fuzzy-thinking, and instead of the expected public wave and photo

opportunity for the British media on this the PM’s special day, Howard had wished for a family day-out to the

cinema.

   The visual feast was Tricks of Life , and the visit, the third in a matter of seven days, seemed excessive to

everyone else but Davidson; Howard argued with all that crossed him on this and said that the film would go on to be a national blockbuster and is a must see for everyone genuinely interested in good artistry . However, the film had no A-list actors, was extremely low-budget, and lasted for only sixty-four minutes. That golden hour and a bit included monotonous introductory music and endless credits, due to so many bandwagon-hoppers becoming

attached to the production. Even the scarce acting ability, or the ad-hoc screenplay, did not deter PM Davidson;                 Howard had been paraphrased in The Times as saying that Tricks of Life , a biographical slant on the mediocre magician Paul Daniel’s life story is funny, outrageous, and Paul is an example not only to budding-magicians, but to us all. (In the interview Davidson had twice said budding musicians, and this part had to be edited as not to

embarrass the Prime Minister). The un-missable extravaganza was due to jump into action at 10 a.m., midway through the public expectant salute and speech.

   “Prime Minister,” whispered James Townsend the PM’s second-in-command as he stood outside the sleeping quarters of his superior. After hearing no response, James tried once more.

   “Prime Minister”, the repeating line sounded more like a concerned question than a call to arms. After a brief while, a third attempt was made to communicate with Howard. This time the verbal enquiry was accompanied by a light knock on the thick wooden door, as well as a stride inside the room.

    Peering round the door, James said. “Sir. Is everything alright this morning?”
   “Yes of course it is,” snapped Howard. “What do you want at this hour James?”  was the dramatic response from Davidson to a routine question;  the PM was stood in just a pair of black socks that were pulled halfway up his legs; boxer shorts with a solid black background and red dots; and an unbuttoned shirt. His back was facing his right-hand man and no effort was made to turn. It was now 7.31 am, and Davidson’s special day of bravado and showmanship to his nation was due to begin in just under fifteen minutes.
   “Well Howard,” continued James. “The car is ready and waiting as advised for an 8:00 am departure. Just let me know when you are.” And with this James began to close the door.
   “The Car James?” said Davidson, screwing his face up into a frown and trying to think of what the car meant.
   “Yes Howard,” replied James quickly, not heeding the PM’s tone of voice. “The car is awaiting your arrival. Breakfast is at 8.15 am as you planned.” The PM’s dogs-body had to crouch through the narrow opening of the door like a Japanese man bowing to a superior to make his point heard.

   After a slight pause the PM continued speaking, but on a slightly different tangent.
   “Where’s Jenny?” Howard asked in haste. The PM meant Jenny Davidson, formerly Jenny Windsor, and the

enduring wife of Howard. However, though the maiden name is synonymous with English monarchs and prestige, this happens to be merely a coincidence.
   “Jenny, Sir,” said James, quickly responding to the change of script. “She and Annabelle are in the lobby

clock-watching and,” pausing for a brief moment James looked at his own watch and sounding impatient,

continued. “To be honest, becoming quite agitated with your attitude!” James had sped up the further he got into the sentence and, to his embarrassment, had got louder as well.
   PM Davidson had felt the insubordination; by the time James had stuttered and attempted to mask his watch with his suit jacket sleeve, Howard had turned and walked right up to his aide.

With eyes wide, the PM grabbed the door knob tightly and said:  “My attitude? What the devil is the matter with my attitude?!”

   But before James could even attempt to redeem himself with a transparent response, the door was slammed shut.


   Three-hundred miles away from Downing Street and the passive existence of PM Davidson, Jack Hobb and his wife Jane were at loggerheads once more. This time it was not the mortgage repayments or the fact that Daniel (their only child) had dirtied his clothing. It was not even about whose turn it was to shop, but rather something as trivial as breakfast cereal: apportioning Weetabix to be more precise. Both needed to leave at the same time for work, to begin at 8.30 am, and consequently tension was at its peak. Angst was running high as the sun came out of the clear dawn sky, illuminating the kitchen as rays of light flooded through the patio doors. Any other married couple would have embraced the warmth, and each other, but Mr and Mrs. Hobb paid no heed. Reaching into the kitchen cupboard Jack took down the Weetabix. He placed two oblong-shaped slabs of wheat into a bowl and then opened the fridge.

   Slam! The fridge door was closed, the milk getting squashed in the process.
   “Leave them for me please.” said Jane, being relatively polite given the time of day and month.

   Jack just frowned, and extracting the crushed carton from the Hotpoint guillotine, he carried on. Time was

ticking and Jane knew she had to wake up, and indeed get up, her and her hubby’s offspring: an introverted fifteen year old who seemed to exist in his own time parameters.
   “Daniel,” squealed Jane. “If you want that lift to school you gotta get up!”

   That lift was guaranteed. In fact, it was as sure as rainfall during the Wimbledon Tennis Championships in

London; Daniel knew he had great leverage and therefore could always afford to extend his sleep a little more each day under the warmth of the duvet.
   Having peered and leant around the kitchen door to yell up to her son, Jane had foolishly let the primary target slip out of sight. Returning her focus on the kitchen, and her beloved husband, Jane bellowed once more.
   “They were mine! You had some yesterday!” The high pitched noise acted as an alarm for those in the

surrounding streets, let alone houses, who were still asleep. The motive for this latest over-reaction was that by the time Jane had sat down at the table and reached over to the bowl, Jack was devouring the last of the Weetabix.
   “Sorry honey,” said Jack, with twig-like pieces of wheat protruding from his mouth. “But you best eat something quick, it is almost time to leave for work!”

   When he was finished Jack placed the bowl in the sink, the clinking of crockery on metal becoming almost peaceful given the tension. He then took his jacket from the back of his chair and pecked his wife on the cheek.        “   See you soon honey.” said Jack as he closed the kitchen door, leaving Jane in an empty room.

   The white bowl, with remnants of cereal glared at Jane. It was her turn to wash up.

 

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