I thought it might be interesting to try rewriting a script originally intended as a TV sitcom as an audio script. It's set at an undertakers' office.
SCENE 1. INT. LOCATION #1 - DAY 1 [9.00]
MIDDLETON & SON'S PREMISES. NIGEL MIDDLETON'S OFFICE.
NIGEL MIDDLETON, THE 'SON' IN THE FIRM'S NAME, IS 53. HE'S IRASCIBLE, SEEDY, SCRUFFY AND GOING DOWN THE PLUGHOLE. BUT HE'S NOT GOING DOWN WITHOUT A FIGHT. HE'S IN HIS OFFICE.
FX: DOOR OPENING AND CLOSING, MIDDLETON ENTERING ROOM AND SITTING DOWN. KNOCK ON THE DOOR.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Yes, yes. Come in!
DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES. SUSAN TALBOT ENTERS. SHE'S 44 YEARS OLD, NOTIONALLY MR MIDDLETON'S PA, BUT IN FACT RUNS THE FIRM.
Ah, Susan. What a joy to see you. What a splendid morning this is. It gladdens the heart doesn't it?
SUSAN TALBOT:
Hardly. It's three degrees above zero and snowing. In May.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Precisely. Perfect summer weather for those of us in the undertaker's profession. Summers aren't up to much usually - just the odd school-leaver, full of the joys of youth, motorcycle test recently passed, that sort of thing - but this cold snap should send some of the old sods toppling off their perches, hmm? What do you think?
SUSAN TALBOT:
Possibly.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Hardly the note of unbounded optimism I was hoping for. Anyway, what can I do for you?
SUSAN TALBOT:
Mr Percival has sent in the accounts for last year. I have them here.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Splendid! Oh no, probably not splendid. I suppose. Probably pretty far from splendid altogether.
SUSAN TALBOT:
It's not the first word that springs to mind, no.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Disappointing?
SUSAN TALBOT:
You're moving in the right direction.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Worrying?
SUSAN TALBOT:
Horrific is the word I'd use. This can't go on, Nigel.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
I don't see why it can't. I mean, how can we stop it? There just aren't enough natural deaths these days. Did you see the paper this morning, hmm? Shocking. Doctors reckon 80% of cancers will be curable within the next five years. And smoking's down. People are taking exercise. What sort of chance have we got?
SUSAN TALBOT:
Look on the bright side, Nigel. The obesity figures are very promising. Diabetes is on the up.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Yes, diabetes is the new gout apparently. Read it in the Mail. Works too slowly though.
SUSAN TALBOT:
And the NHS is doing its bit.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
The NHS is doing its bit, bless its dicky heart. Some of the local hospitals are veritable beacons of atrociousness. But still it's not enough. Give me those accounts.
SUSAN TALBOT:
Here they are.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Leave me for a while, Susan. I need time to think. I need to profoundly rethink the entire course of my existence.
SUSAN TALBOT:
You don't want me to go through the figures with you?
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
No, that won't be necessary.
SUSAN TALBOT:
It's just that last time there was a bit of confusion about the difference between a minus sign and a plus sign. You are sure you've got that clear in your head now?
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Yes, I'm perfectly sure.
SUSAN TALBOT:
You don't want me to draw you a diagram?
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
No.
SUSAN TALBOT:
Well, so long as you're sure...
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Go on woman, clear out! It's perfectly alright. It's not as if I've got a revolver and a bottle of scotch in my desk drawer. (BEAT) Just the bottle of scotch. And that's purely medicinal.
SUSAN TALBOT:
Alright. I'll bring you a cup of tea at 11.00.
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Do so. That should give me just about enough time to write out a new will. Joke.
SUSAN TALBOT:
Would you like arsenic in your tea? Joke.
FX: SOUND OF DOOR CLOSING & MIDDLETON LEAFING THROUGH ACCOUNTS
NIGEL MIDDLETON:
Oh God, these accounts are appalling. Oh God. (PAUSE). Might as well, do it properly I suppose. On your knees, Middleton. Oh God, and indeed the other fellow - particularly the other fellow come to think of it. I know you're busy, but could you please in your bountiful mercy visit some dreadful tragedy on our defenceless seaside community, preferably within the next fortnight. What about, Oh Lord, an old-style judgment upon the wicked people of Sunny Bay, particular the second home owners who are beginning to descend upon us once again, with their sundried Labradors and golden tomatoes. A plague of locusts, for instance Lord - no scratch that, Lord, not locusts, they're hardly fatal. But a plague of - well, plague itself would be pretty effective, so long as you could see your way to sparing all those at number 54 Lombard Avenue - Lombard Avenue indeed. Oh well, Lord, thanks for listening.
NIGEL FARTS LOUDLY
Suppose I better let a bit of air in. Squatting down like this is rather conducive to flatus - well, you don't want to hear about it do you Lord?
FX: FURTHER FARTING. WINDOW OPENING. TRAFFIC NOISES.
Hey you! Yes, you! Old couple standing at the traffic lights. What are you waiting for? It's perfectly safe to cross. Yes, that oncoming juggernaut's made of marshmallows and eiderdowns you know. Go on! What have you got to live for? No? Are you sure? Here - I'll chuck you my card, just in case you change your minds.
FX: HEAVY VEHICLE WHOOSHES PAST. THE WINDOW CLOSES
Another opportunity lost!
