Morgue Seduction

This is a short script I had to write for my Screenwriting module at university. The premise was to write a scene about seduction in an inconvenient place. Naturally, I went as low as I could go.

INT. MORGUE - NIGHT

FADE IN.

TOM (25), a student of the dead, enters with his girlfriend colleague HOLLY (25).

TOM carries a CANDLE which acts as the only source of light in the dark room; its grey walls absorbing the light.

The tables are adorned with autopsy tools, such as forceps, chisels and brushes.

The place is empty, save for some CORPSES strewn on tables covered by TARPAULINS.

TOM places the CANDLE on a table, next to a CADAVER.

Their breath can be seen as they talk.

TOM

It's quiet.

HOLLY

Are you sure about this?

TOM

Quite sure.

TOM holds HOLLY around the waist.

TOM

Besides, you've always wanted to do it in a public place. 'It's more kinky', you said.

He kisses her neck.

HOLLY

I didn't mean the morgue of all places. I mean, really! I thought we were leaving through the back entrance into the alleyway.

TOM

(Indicating a corpse)

No, I prefer it here. Besides, I don't think he minds.

HOLLY BREAKS away from TOM'S grasp.

HOLLY

Show some respect!

TOM

Showing respect is my day job.

TOM checks his watch.

TOM (CONT'D)

It is now approximately 6:02PM. We both finished work two minutes ago, so we both should be free for the night.

HOLLY, shaking her head, SHOVES TOM.

HOLLY

Showing respect is not a job, it's simple morality!

TOM smiles.

TOM

Holly, we have no morality, that's why we became undertakers; we make money off of the dead.

HOLLY

Unlike you, my job is just a job, it doesn't inform the rest of my life.

TOM

Are you sure about that? Can you happily watch television without thinking that someone's death has paid for it? We're not going to exploit death here; no, our friends will simply be scene setters.

         

TOM removes the tarpaulin by the CANDLE, revealing the CADAVER of a woman of a similar age to HOLLY.

The CADAVER has long dark hair and a pale skin tone; rigor mortis still affecting the body. It looks vampiric.

TOM grabs the dead woman's hand.

TOM (CONT'D)

Don't you find the dead erotic?

He strokes the hand of the CADAVER.

HOLLY shivers.

TOM (CONT'D)

Utterly helpless as the tides of time and progress bury them.

HOLLY walks towards the door.

TOM runs after her and stops in front of her.

TOM (CONT'D)

Okay, think of it like this. Isn't it poetical that we will create a new life here, in the place of death?

HOLLY

No, Tom, it's sick! Just like you.

TOM

Meaning?

HOLLY

I've learned more about you in these five minutes than I have in five months.

TOM raises his eyebrows.

HOLLY (CONT'D)

You're not the kind person with dark poetry that I thought you were. You're a selfish, amoral sicko who has nothing better to do than seduce people in morgues!

HOLLY again heads for the door.

HOLLY (CONT'D)

It's time I left, Tom.

TOM runs after her and grabs her arm tightly.

TOM

Stay, Holly. Please?

HOLLY

You're hurting me.

TOM lets go reluctantly.

HOLLY (CONT'D)

I'm going. Don't worry, I'm sure a few ladies here would take you up on your offer. You're not interested in me... You're interested in them!

HOLLY exits, SLAMMING the door behind her.

TOM shrugs and uses the candle to light a cigarette and smokes it in long drags, EXHALING audibly.

TOM

(Talking to the CADAVER)

Was it good for you, too?

FADE OUT.

THE END.

Why I hate the term 'anti-social behavior'.

Before I start, I want to make clear that I do not condone this behaviour. I think that I make this abundantly clear throughout this piece, but I can imagine some obtuse people would look at the writing at its face-value and not delve into its sub-text.

I fucking hate the term 'anti-social behaviour'. To me it reeks of the over-sanitised, over cautious and over sensitive discourse that infects our culture. Political correctness is a cancer and when it spreads to people who abuse the relative civility of our world, you know it's malignant. I'll expand upon this point later, but for now, let's conjugate the term 'anti-social behaviour', because at its base form, it could mean anything. In its most extreme case, the act of being social, one would assume, is to communicate to a person's fellow peers; he is an extrovert: the life and soul of the party, putting it around more than the bitches' from The Only Way is Essex vaginal draught. In a more subtle case, the act of being sociable can also apply to those with more than one brain-cell. You could be a quiet maladjusted wanker like I am, but you do have the courtesy to talk to others and lend them your ear when shit goes down for them. In essence, the human animal is a social animal. He needs company to sustain his existence, otherwise he'll die broken-hearted. Never mind the trite nonsense that people spew when they say they hate people (for the record, I'm one of those people) because that is to do with taste, not the primeval need for companionship embroidered into our being. I'm waffling now, but to summarise, the act of being social is being aware of other people and conversing with them.

Now, put away all of your preconceptions of what the term 'anti-social' means and analyse it in reference to the previous paragraph. What does 'anti-social' truly mean? It can be something as simple as ignoring someone at a party, for example. Say you're at your friend's house party and your ex-girlfriend arrives, her cheap cologne suffocating you, killing the cells in your throat from one painful popped nucleus to another. She walks up to you and says 'Hi'. You ignore her. You anti-social bastard. In mere semantics, you're now on the same page as those with anti-social orders; you have transgressed societal norms by ignoring an interlocutor, so you're anti-social. I keep using that word because I want to highlight how utterly ridiculous the term is in its common usage. There's a huge difference between ignoring someone and bricking an old woman's windows in yet the two distinct actions can be labelled as 'anti-social'. True, one is a criminal act and the other would just burn social bridges, but the point of the matter is is that these two disparate actions share a unity in that they can be called the same thing. The term 'anti-social' need not exist anyway; the act of ignoring people can be, and generally is, referred to as being rude or ignorant; while the criminal use of the term can be termed 'thuggery' because that's what it is. You and I call thse people thugs; it is only the official people, the ones who do not need to deal with them directly in their daily lives, who call them 'anti-social'.

This goes back to one of the first points I made about political correctness. Why can't the two actions have different terms? In its words, anti-social behaviour just means transgressing what is expected of one in a social situation. While this can be labelled to the criminal act, that of opposing the norms imposed by the law, it is such an understatement. Beating up an old lady is anti-social? Yes, but 'anti-social' doesn't even begin to cover it; it's thuggery or yobbery. Are people afraid of offending these crooks? Don't call them ASBOs, call them thugs because that's what they are. Calling them that will make the lifestyle of an ASBO less attractive to children. As dubious as he may seem, Frankie Boyle hit the nail on the head when he said that ASBOs and Super ASBOs will make children want them because they sound 'cool'. (To me, ASBO sounds like an STD, but that's beside the point). By calling these scum 'thugs', the police can establish a reputation as a non-nonsense organisation not content with prosecuting people under vaguely defined and erroneous terms, but in straight down the line, bullshit-free labels that restore people's confidence in them and deter the would-be criminals; you're no longer the clinical 'ASBO' but the hateful thug. Reserve the 'anti-social' tag to those who are really anti-social; the miserable twats like me who just stand there and never talk to anyone; don't dare compare me to thugs who assault innocents because they too are 'anti-social'.

May be I'm thinking much too deeply about this, but it is an issue for me because I used to be called 'anti-social' as a child because I didn't mix well with others. If I were labelled that today and someone overheard it, they'd mistakenly think that I mug single mothers, not put me in for confidence counselling. It annoys me as a law-abiding citizen that these criminals can be called such a tame term. But what do I know? Words mean nothing after all, they only comprise our language.

'Friday the 14th'- An Only Fools and Horses Episode Review (from 2013)

In terms of overall consistency, I consider Only Fools and Horses' third series to be the single greatest series of the programme rivalled only by its sixth series, however the two series have so many differences between them that it is almost impossible to compare. While series six lounged comfortably within one of the show's many peaks, series three had something to prove; it pretty much had to consolidate the programme to the masses after the slow start of the first series and the sudden interest in the second series. Fortunately, writer John Sullivan was more than able to tackle the issue in providing the fans with the best episodes, some of the most quotable of the show's jokes and one-liners as well as cementing the Trotters' hold of Peckham. The one abnormality of this collection of episodes was the third episode, 'Friday the 14^th' (1983), which shows Sullivan's first foray into experimenting with his formula. For the majority of the five, half-hour length series, Sullivan stuck to the show's main premise, that of three people trying to become millionaires eventually becoming more liberal and expansive with it as the show evolved. 'Friday the 14^th' is one of the first episodes that shies away from the established rules; the only real goal the Trotters have in this episode is to survive. Indeed, the show's concept of Del getting rich by fishing salmon from a stream by Boycie's weekend cottage in Cornwall is a MacGuffin; Sullivan wanted to portray the Trotters as fish out of water and what better way to do that than isolate them in a cabin in the middle of the woods with a crazed axe murderer trying to kill them? 'Friday the 14^th' moved from the established template, threw the Trotters out of the comfort of Nelson Mandela House, and straight into a dangerous unknown.

In spite of it being a sitcom episode, there are a lot of cinematic flourishes courtesy of Sullivan's script and Ray Butt's direction that borrow from the conventions of film noir, thriller and horror films. Sullivan takes these conventions that are deliberately clichéd, such as a thunderstorm, power outage, heavy breathing, a mysterious hand through the undergrowth and shadowy figures to create a truly suspenseful experience; I admit that during my first viewing of this episode around ten years ago, I was watching through the cracks of my fingers, my insular mind pondering whether or not the writer was going to kill off the Trotters. These ambitious ideas were aided by the location filming in Iwerne Minster, Dorset. In one of my favourite images from the entire series, the sight of an abandoned cottage amidst a heavy thunderstorm can make one forget that they are watching a comedy- until the three-wheeled van hobbles its way onto the screen like the anachronistic sight of a car in the distance of a Lord of the Rings shot and the unlikeliest of heroes emerge from it. The cottage set is also well designed making it especially claustrophobic for the climax as well as dangerous with the incessant claps of thunder and flashes of lightning in the background.

Of course, it wouldn't be an Only Fools and Horses episode without comedy and 'Friday the 14^th' has this in abundance. Ironically, one of my favourite scenes is the one where the van is stopped by a policeman who warns them of an escaped axe murderer. Despite it being expository, the facial expressions of the Trotter trio are priceless; Rodney and Grandad display pure terror while Del is simply dumbfounded, inconvenienced that his money-making weekend has hit a snag. The scene where the Trotters first arrive at the cottage is also Only Fools at its best with Sullivan's one-liners delivered perfectly by David Jason, Nicholas Lyndhurst and Lennard Pearce, cementing this threesome as my favourite in the show's history. The three have a perfect sync with each other and never miss a beat; indeed, my favourite lines in the episode are made even funnier because they flow impeccably between the three actors:

Rodney: Oh, he's most probably half-way to London by now.

Del: Yeah, of course he is. He's most probably looking for an empty place up there.

Grandad: Hope he don't find our flat.

Del: Will you shut up?!

The Monopoly scene is a welcome break from the tension. It's novel to see the Trotters talk about something other than money or girls while the thunderstorm still exists in the distance reminding us that although they're playing a 'safe' board game, they are anything but safe. Perhaps as a foreshadow to the climax, Del still adopts his business prattle when conning Rodney out of Monopoly money for putting him in the 'penthouse suite' of his fictional hotel, showing that he is always thinking about money, even in a friendly game. This scene also unearths some facets of Rodney's character: he's a sore loser who sulks like a petulant teenager when things don't go his way. Perhaps Rodney is still reeling from failing after the previous episode 'Healthy Competition' (1983) and still feels that he has to prove himself to Del and Grandad? Regardless of its purpose, this notion reminds one of Harold Steptoe; Rodney has to lose to Del like Harold has to to his father in order to maintain the sense of paralysis and stagnation that all good sitcoms try to instil on their characters: the young has to lose to the old and have to gain experience, but ultimately never muster enough to leave. It shows that Sullivan was not only inspired by films in 'Friday the 14^th', but also other sitcoms like Steptoe and Son. The scene culminates in probably the most famous moment in the episode: Rodney seeing 'the face in the window'. John Sullivan fans would recognise the man as Bill Ward; not Black Sabbath's drummer; but an actor who had appeared as a semi-regular as Reg the barman from Citizen Smith. His somewhat haggard looks are rather startling the first time, especially with the lightning flash emphasising his stern look as he stares at Rodney aimlessly, but the moment returns to comedy after Rodney pulls the curtain back sheepishly and is frozen by fear and disbelief. The moment is a perfect complement to the Monopoly scene because that is so light-hearted while the thought of a stranger nearby is so terrifying. Sullivan allows the drama in this episode to breathe because of the frequency of the comedy and the fact that he can change gears easily and combine them.

The axe murderer (or the 'Madman' as described in the cast list) is an interesting character because he is one of an exclusive club who manage to draw out fear from Del. Throughout the series, Del has been frightened of very few people; Tommy McKay (initially) in 'No Greater Love' (1982), The Driscoll Brothers in 'Little Problems (1989), Eugene McCarthy from 'Stage Fright' (1991) and, arguably, Roy Slater because of his tenacious and illegal efforts to imprison him in 'May the Force Be With You' (1983) and 'To Hull and Back' (1985) are the only few that spring to mind, however, as violent or manipulative as they may seem, they are only gangsters, thugs or bent coppers; the axe murderer, on the other hand, is worse than all of those because he is of course a killer, but he is also insane and unpredictable. He's raving mad of course, but he does speak some logic about how winning can leave one 'open to attack'. The only competition for the murderer would be the Occhetti family from 'Miami Twice' (1991) yet Del never confronts the Don directly nor does he engage with the Mafia after he knows the truth about them, so it makes Del's encounter with the axe murderer in 'Friday the 14^th' one of the more intense moments in the entire series. It is to Sullivan's credit that he can twist such a frightening situation into a classic comedy scene. Sullivan mainly kept the drama and comedy separate save for a few select moments, yet here he writes the scene as nail-biting but also very tongue in cheek. Lines like 'It's all right, it's Barratts!' diffuse the tension and make what could have been a hard to watch scene very watchable. Also amusing is Del's attitude to the whole situation. Del has shown to be streetwise, so this episode highlights how much of a survivor he is; his natural charisma persuades the murderer to give him his axe and he effectively stalls the murderer until the authorities arrive. The crafty facets of Del's personality come to the fore when he progresses from trying to save his life to his taking liberties with the murderer such as wagering on an invisible snooker game. This shows a kind of refuge for Del; he's in deadly danger yet he thinks about money and earning the upper hand. As Sullivan himself said: '...even in his hour of need in a terrifying situation, Del will still try to find a way of earning a fiver! He's in another part of the world, but Del Boy's still trying out his Peckham tricks.'

In closing, 'Friday the 14^th' is my favourite episode of Only Fools and Horses and one of my favourites of any sitcom because John Sullivan did something different and successfully married comedy and various forms of drama to create a perfect example of comedy-drama that films such as Scary Movie should watch and study. The fact that this episode runs at thirty minutes and is nigh on perfect is a testament to Sullivan's accomplished writing talents and his knowledge and faith in his characters. Taken out of Peckham for half an hour, they are allowed to grow a little more and indulge in behaviour they wouldn't normally have to. The joy of 'Friday the 14^th' is other than it being hilariously funny, the crew create an atmosphere that isn't found in any other episode of Only Fools and Horses making it totally unique. While 'Miami Twice' had a very similar premise, basically that the Trotters were under the mercy of killers, it has an entirely different mood, that of consciously being a film; while 'Friday the 14^th' has the quiet dignity of being a drama akin to an episode of Tales of the Unexpected except with far more laughs and this, to me at least, makes it more enjoyable to watch. Less is more after all. It is just the Only Fools episode to watch at Halloween or any Friday the 14^th that happens to be on the calender. It is just one of series three's many gems and a part of John Sullivan's attempts to experiment with mood for that particular year; 'Homesick' was a tearjerker, 'Healthy Competition' had a strong Steptoe and Son vibe, 'Yesterday Never Comes' was a caper, 'May the Force Be With You' was a parody of cop shows, 'Wanted' and 'Who's a Pretty Boy?' were simply laugh out loud funny and 'Thicker Than Water' started to retcon and shape the series' backstory. It was them and episodes like 'Friday the 14^th' that demonstrated that there was more to this series than met the eye and the belief that the series would have a bright future was more than a suggestion.

-John Sullivan quotations from issues 6 and 18 of The Only Fools and Horses DVD Collection.

'A Royal Flush' - An Only Fools and Horses Episode Review

The end of the fifth series of Only Fools and Horses was 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?' (1986). One of the more dramatic episodes, it almost ended the series with Del leaving Peckham for a chance of a lifetime partnership in Australia. If the next episode 'A Royal Flush' (1986) was indicative of the show's quality after that episode, the proposed spin-off staring Rodney and Mickey Pearce, Hot Rod, sounds almost desirable. Thankfully, just as much as David Jason's opting to remain in Only Fools and Horses was a welcome relief, 'A Royal Flush' was just a misstep in the show's then flawless history and the show would regain its wings a year later with 'The Frog's Legacy' (1987); however this does not wash away the fact that 'A Royal Flush' was written, filmed, produced and aired. 'A Royal Flush' is the unloved child of Only Fools and Horses hated by its writer, John Sullivan and its two leads, David Jason and Nicholas Lyndhurst. It's also the least repeated episode of the sitcom, shown only on GOLD around Christmas time. But why is it hated? The premise, while atypical for the series at the time, owes many opportunities for laughs. Rodney befriends Victoria, the daughter of the Duke of Maylebury, due to their mutual love of art and naturally enough Del smells money and encourages Rodney to propose to her before interfering.

First of all, the positives. Like every other episode, 'A Royal Flush' has some funny one-liners. My favourite has to be Rodney reading a book of peers and Del notices the title as 'Burkes' and asks him if it's a teach yourself book. It also has some humorous scenes; the scene where Rodney fires a rifle at clay pigeons is sometimes classed as one of the funnier moments of the series as is his reaction when he sees the three-wheeled van appear suddenly at Maylebury's estate. The appearance of June from 'Happy Returns' (1985) was also a welcome piece of continuity for the series, making the universe of Only Fools and Horses seem more complete. I also must digress that the moment when Rodney breaks his hand at the end of the episode is actually a moment I still laugh out loud at, but this may be due to me hating the episode so much I never watch it so I forget the little moments that are done right.

The character of Vicky is also well-written. It was an inspired choice by Sullivan to make the upper-class character bored of her status; it contrasts well with the Trotters and their apathy with being at the bottom of the social ladder, and this decision forces her to have good chemistry with Rodney. They're both tired of their backgrounds and they share a symbiotic relationship: Rodney can learn about opera, game hunting and expand his knowledge of fine art, while Vicky can learn about women spitting, greasy spoons and market spiels. She is wonderfully portrayed by Sarah Duncan, and despite my opinions about the whole episode, I think Vicky is the woman most compatible with Rodney in the entire series, even beating Cassandra, and it is refreshing to see Rodney engaged in a romantic friendship as opposed to an intimate relationship as usual. Another thing that this episode excels at is adding another dimension to Rodney's character. Previous to this episode, Rodney claimed that he was sensitive, yet this was seldom seen outside of him mourning the latest ex-girlfriend that wasn't right for him. Here, however, we finally see a distraught Rodney, stripped of his pride in front of the highest company he would ever share. I like to think that the events of this episode are a by-product to the more mature Rodney that is seen from 'The Frog's Legacy' onwards; he wouldn't be able to trust Del as much as he had in the past in danger of him ending up in a similar situation. The final scene between Rodney and Vicky where Rodney suggests that he goes home and Vicky can't finish her sentence that their time together was nice is one of the most heart-rendering scenes in the entire sitcom. The two had a perfectly good friendship that was razed to the ground by the tyrant that is Del in this episode.

The character of Del is the main problem with 'A Royal Flush'. Simply put, he isn't Del, he's a cruel pastiche of the character that makes one doubt that the character seen in this episode was written by Sullivan, but by some over-zealous fan-fiction writer who had exaggerated every negative trait about Del: his greed and zest for money while suppressing his main attribute that he genuinely loves his family. The Del of 'A Royal Flush' will be termed hereafter as 'Evil Del' because evil is what he is throughout for reasons that will be explained throughout this essay. While the Del of every other episode isn't totally intelligent, he has common sense and tact; here he is a total buffoon that embarrasses not only his family, but his social class. To Sullivan's credit, the episode needs a villain, someone to snatch Rodney's dream away, but one would not expect it to be one of the show's principal characters. Granted, this episode isn't 'To Hull and Back' (1985) in which Slater is the villain of an international smuggling ring; it's a personal episode, more to do with emotion, so may be Evil Del's villainy in this episode is necessary. However, this tough love approach had been seen before in the show and had been portrayed better. In series 2's 'No Greater Love' (1982), Rodney falls in love with the wife of a convict. Concerned for Rodney, Del tries to sabotage his relationship and succeeds. Del isn't the antagonist of that episode because the audience is aware that nothing good would have come of the relationship and that Del was interfering in the best possible motives of protecting his brother from a criminal. In 'A Royal Flush', however, his defence of his actions that Special Branch would be checking on Rodney's background is a rather presumptuous and tenuous one. A more dignified approach would have been may be having the Duke be dismissive of Rodney so Del protects him, and, in doing so, burning bridges with the upper class and maintains Rodney's dignity. Instead, this version of Del is at odds with the established one. While he protected his brother in 'No Greater Love', he stoops as low as causing him emotional harm when he totally destroys his brother's pride at the dinner party and physical harm to him when he twists his broken hand; while he was fighting off Rodney's rival in 'No Greater Love', he was selling Rodney's exile from Vicky to Maylebury to make money which leaves one to ponder whether this was Evil Del's intention all along. In doing this, he has destroyed what could have been a fruitful friendship between two like-minded people just so he could earn a few thousand pounds. If this is indeed the case, Evil Del is actually more intelligent than the usual one and definitely more ruthless; he has lied, feigned stupidity and offended his way through several innocent people in order to achieve his own ends. While it is was written to be indicative of Del's occasional mindless nature, his shaking Rodney's broken hand could be seen as a victorious pose of Evil Del that well and truly supplants his defeat of Rodney. Del has had a fun evening in a country estate that has rendered him drunk; while Rodney may have been reeling from emotional scars caused by embarrassment. All of Del's actions leave a bad taste in the mouth because they are so out of character. Derek Trotter is not Edmund Blackadder or Albert Steptoe, he has good qualities that are all but absent in this episode.

Speaking of Albert Steptoe, 'A Royal Flush' bears similarities to at least two episodes of Steptoe and Son. The opera scene is reminiscent of 'Sunday for Seven Days' (1964) where the Steptoes go to the cinema but Albert ruins the experience by making a nuisance of himself. The whole dinner party scene is similar to a scene in 'Loathe Story' (1972) where Harold relays to a psychiatrist how Albert ruined his engagement to an upper-middle class woman. The point is, while Only Fools and Horses can be seen as an '80s equivalent to the '60s Steptoe and Son, Rodney is not as pretentious as Harold nor is Derek as loathsome as Albert; yet, in this episode, they are just like they were written by Galton and Simpson. In the past, Del would call Rodney a 'plonker' and no one would think anything of it because it was obviously affectionate, but his actions in this episode, like Albert's, seem to also stem from entrapping Rodney and appear vindictive and hateful. Perhaps he is reacting to Rodney's attempt to tie him down to England in the previous episode, 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?'? It is also disconcerting to see Evil Del threatening violence to pretty much everyone who dissents against him; whether it be a potential customer in the market that doesn't buy into his spiel or a furious opera goer who, quite rightly, castigates Evil Del for his obnoxious behaviour during the performance; Evil Del seems angrier than normal Del who seems to revel in the trouble that he is causing.

Unfortunately, loose characterisation and awkward scenes aren't the only flaws this episode possesses: it also suffers from being rushed. The tight schedule ended up with the crew finishing the editing on the day of its broadcast on Christmas 1986 so the episode lacks a studio audience. Unlike 'To Hull and Back' which didn't have an audience because it is more like a caper film than an episode of a sitcom so it's forgivable and perhaps preferred; 'A Royal Flush' however needs the reaction to dilute the discomfort of the opera and dinner party scenes. It is not to 'tell us when to laugh' as the practice is commonly misconstrued, but to maintain the comedic atmosphere and in a show like Only Fools and Horses, this is essential in setting and preserving the mood. On top of that, sound effects are missing. This is mostly prominent in the final scene (ironically my favourite scene in the episode) where the corridor outside the flat lacks the ambient noises one would hear from London. While a minor flaw, it is a perfect metaphor for the episode: it is a cold and nasty episode to watch, just like the unnatural silence that had hit the council estate the night where the Trotter brothers are arguing about their character derailment.

One of the strengths of Only Fools and Horses is that it showcases identifiable characters and, for the most part, uncanny situations. It isn't a 'gentle' sitcom like As Time Goes By or Butterflies neither is it a dark comedy like One Foot in the Grave and Bottom; it fits firmly in the middle. While Only Fools and Horses sometimes explored the darker side of comedy, such as Del's reaction to Cassandra's miscarriage and the misplacement of Grandad's hat at his funeral; it is generally an optimistic comedy; indeed, most of its catchphrases are optimistic: 'This time next year, we'll be millionaires!' and 'He who dares wins!', so this episode, which would have been more at home in the dark universes of One Foot in the Grave and Bottom sticks out like a sore thumb from the rest of the episodes. Even the more reviled trilogy of the early 2000s was somewhat easier to watch and kept the characters consistent.

More interesting is the story behind the episode. While he did write the episode, John Sullivan was away in Paris shooting the third series of Just Good Friends when 'A Royal Flush' was filmed, so he was not on the set and could not write re-drafts for the episode. As stated, he hated the episode and it languished in obscurity for many years, no more prolific than the 'unofficial' episodes such as 'Licensed to Drill' and 'Christmas Trees' until finally released on VHS in 2000. In spite of the release and the fans lapping up the chance of seeing an Only Fools and Horses episode they possibly haven't seen before, Sullivan still remained dissatisfied with the episode and when the story was finally released on DVD in 2004, it was heavily edited under Sullivan's guidance. A whopping 18 minutes were cut from the original, such as cutting out the majority of the opera and dinner party scenes in order to minimise Evil Del's faults. The biggest change however was the added laughter track, which, for reasons already specified, was a welcome addition. That being said, the original version was released on DVD along with 'The Frog's Legacy' in 2005 as part 13 (the irony) of The Only Fools and Horses DVD Collection. To this day the DVD has appeared on eBay for higher prices than the official DVD and is sought after by hardcore Only Fools and Horses enthusiasts to see what the big fuss is.

In conclusion, 'A Royal Flush', while not as bad as 'If They Could See Us Now' (2001), which was the first part of the show's misguided revival, is the absolute nadir of the show's original run; hated by its creators and the fans alike, it is a wonder that fan outcry is large for the BBC to release the unedited version of the show on retail DVD. 'A Royal Flush' is such a pessimistic episode that goes so far from the grain that it is uncomfortable, unpleasant and cringe-worthy to watch and it is not at all recommended for the casual Only Fools and Horses fan. If one does want to see 'A Royal Flush', I recommend the 2004 edit over the original because it is more like an episode of Only Fools and Horses; tracking down a copy of the original is time consuming, rare and, ultimately, disappointing. I like to pretend it doesn't exist. To me, 'The Frog's Legacy' follows 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?' and 'A Royal Flush' was just a nightmare of Sullivan's that showed him what would happen if the show was written by someone else.

The Puzzle Box

This is a short story I wrote for my Creative Writing course.

‘What’s this, Mother?’ Abigail asked as she cleared the dust off of the bric-a-brac that had entrenched itself in the cupboard. Unlike the other items, the box was not covered in residue. The old woman did not know which item she was referring to.
‘What, this toy sail boat, you mean? That’s Michael’s from when he was a child, don’t you remember? He loved that sail boat as if it was a real one. I always said that he had the blood of a sailor flowing through him. Even when it bobbed in his bath he felt like he was controlling it. Then of course he grew up and he became interested in numbers instead.’
‘No, Mother’, sighed Abigail, ‘I meant this box, this box here.’ The old woman’s smile of nostalgia waned and she grabbed the box and hid it from her daughter’s view. ‘It’s nothing, really nothing.’
‘But it’s unique. It has some kind of pattern on it and there seems to be something in it,’ Abigail insisted, ‘please, let me see it at least.’
‘No and that’s final. This item is precious to me and I’m not having clumsy removal men wrecking it and chipping the paintwork from it.’ The box rattled as she tried to hide it.
‘Okay Mother, I’m sorry’ said Abigail, slightly offended and surprised at her mother’s offhanded curt behaviour. The old woman smiled, thanked her for understanding and retired to her living room, box in hand.

Ariadne Harris had lived a full life. She had two children whom she both adored and her husband, God rest his soul, had died ten years ago leaving the mental anguish that came with death plenty of time to heal itself. She still thought of him, not in sadness, but in resigned nostalgia. Whenever she reached for a book she could see him sitting in his old chair, smiling and recommending her a novel. Sometimes, she could see him staring at her in the corner of her eye, with a similar love he felt when he first met her; a love not dwindled by time and familiarity but enhanced. Although she missed him, she never depressed herself about him gone; she was to join him soon and she could picture him welcoming her with open arms into the land beyond the pearly gates. She had been blessed by the fact that she had not yet succumbed to her heart condition and that the pacemaker she was fitted with was better than a new heart, so much so that her condition was virtually non-existent. She promoted good health and was rewarded with good health. It was only now, in the cusps of her twilight years, that her mind was beginning to desert her. It was a sudden change that brought about a gradual decline. One day she was attending one of the various social events that she had organised and socialised with her many friends and the next, she was reeling in her bed with a chronic headache and most of the etiquette she had learnt about knowledge and behaviour had begun to leave her. It was a reminder that she was getting old. The day after she had forgotten the odd morsel of trivia that she was adamant she knew and for each day, another piece of the jigsaw of her mind had disappeared. Two years later, her intimate knowledge was a small town in her head surrounded by a moat of emptiness that had isolated her from the rest of her mind. Whether the diameter of the moat was large or not was immaterial; it was there and it separated her and essentially evicted her out of her mind.

She sat in her red felt bound chair and fingered the pamphlet for the care home she was destined for. It was unfair. She had started her life dependent on others and now it seems that she will end her life in much the same manner. She scrunched up the leaflet and threw it on the floor like a defiant child so she could forget about her predicament, even if it was only for a minute. Unfortunately, the uncertainty of her future continued to prey on the remains of her mind so she grabbed her box from the coffee table. It was a pretty thing. It had a foundation coloured in tan and it was decorated with a sun on one side and a moon on the other. The other two vertices were concerned with the inner-workings of the box and contained an assortment of knobs, levers and buttons of varying shapes, sizes and sensitivity. Despite their differences, they all suited the same purpose: mocking Ariadne Harris for all of her life.

It was the only thing that her loveless parents had given to her all those years ago. For, while she held fond memories of her life that were gradually fading due to her senility, she felt disquiet about her infancy and it was this that made her life seem fake; she could hide from the truth for as long as she could, but in the end, she would have to confront it if she wanted to leave this world in peace. Ironically, now that most of the memories of her constructed life had almost vanished, the dark memories she had kept dormant for sixty years were as clear as if they were happening in the present. Running away from the past was no longer an option because she had reached a dead end. For a brief moment, she returned to the pose she held as a child, flinching from some invisible force that taunted her and laughed at her impotence. For all of her life she had lived scared, because even in the midst of the bright sun that can only hit the country in the middle of July, the clouds of her psyche left her in the shade. In the past, she could escape these onslaughts. She could find security in her husband's embrace, joy in her daughter’s creativity and pride in her son's achievements. Her receptive behaviour had also acted as a blanket protecting her from scandal. The smiles of her patrons and the fact that the proceeds were going to worthy causes were the only things that kept her going. In spite of this, there was still fear of discovery. How would the chairwoman of the coffee mornings be received when it was revealed that she was a frightened little girl? It would be her ruin. She would not stand the finger pointing, fake sympathy and whispered gossip from her closest colleagues because they would have made her parents martyrs. Even fifty or so years after their death, her fear of them overshadowed her like her father's fist often did.

The reason they gave her the puzzle box was a mystery more veiled than the box's contents; unlike the solid object that had lived in the box for sixty years, it was an idea lost to time. She had considered asking for help with the box, but Ariadne felt that this was her problem and if there was an item in it and the puzzle box was given to her, then it is a fair assumption that the item inside was for her; another thing given to her by her parents. While they were beyond redemption, perhaps there was something in the box, an item, a poem, a sentiment, that proved that they loved her. In spite of her prevailing curiosity, she never cheated and she had committed herself to opening her box fairly and receiving the item by her own wits. In short, the puzzle box was a challenge, and she had always been tempted by the trials a challenge would pose. Her patience was a virtue in that, although the box remained sealed, it had not defeated her, and even now, war-torn and lacking her full mental facilities, she was more determined than ever to open it. Her only deadline was her impending death, but seeing as she no longer had any purpose to her life except to vegetate, she accepted her parents’ challenge.

----

The sunlight was rare but when it hit, it lightened up the room. It amplified the white painted walls and created a spotlight of natural life that separated itself from the stagnant air and artificial light of the facility. It was as if real life was trying to intrude on fantasy. The room was small, but homely. The pictures that adorned the wall were of battles long gone that were confined to history. The furniture was not extravagant either; there was a settee against the western wall and it hardly stood out against the minimalist décor. Below the window was the biggest surprise, the monolithic shadow of a television.

'This'll be your room, Mrs. Harris', said the head carer, Mrs. Dunstan as she guided Ariadne and her daughter, Abigail, into the room. 'It's your home now, treat it as you wish.'

'It's very nice, isn't it, Mother?'

'Erm... yes, very nice.'

'Yes, Mother, I think you'll have a lovely time here.'

Ariadne's eyes filled with tears. 'Are you sure, Abigail? I've heard horrible rumours about retirement homes.'

'We have caring staff here and wonderful people, Mrs. Harris. You're not alone any more', said Mrs. Dunstan.

'See, Mother, they just want to help and look after you. Remember, I'm just one phone call away.'

'Thank you', said Ariadne, 'but I'd rather just sit in here with my thoughts if that's okay.'

'Mother, you have to make friends, you can't live the rest of your life on your own. That's why Michael and I put you here. You were going mad living alone.'

'Mad? I've only just started! I loved the peace and quiet I could get at home. Look at this room! It's devoid of sentiment. I wouldn't have the walls painted cream and I wouldn't have asked for a television set instead of a bookshelf. I'm an old-fashioned person, sure, but I'm proud of it. Here I am, betrayed by my two children, kicking and screaming back into my childhood.'

'Mother, I didn't mean...'

'Get out.'

'Yes, well we'll leave your mother to get used to her room. There's still some paperwork we need you to fill out, Miss Harris. Could you follow me, please?'

'Yes, of course. Will you be all right, Mother? I'll be back soon to help you unpack.'

'Get out.' Ariadne repeated not raising her voice above a whisper. She watched as Abigail and Mrs. Dunstan left the room. She moved to the armchair that hid in the corner of the room. Recoiling from the shock that the chair was not as comfortable as her red felt chair from her home, she searched through her handbag, stopping on the small pine object. With a sigh of relief that she had not lost or damaged it in transit, she began working on it. In the sparse room that she now had to call home, Ariadne devoted all of her energy to the box.

Days, weeks and months passed and Ariadne had hardly left her room. Mrs. Dunstan often tried to ingratiate Ariadne in group activities and introduce her to fellow residents but she would not have it. She qualified time and time again that she preferred her own company and she was only in the home on sufferance. In conjunction with her social life deteriorating, Ariadne's appearance had sunk. Her doll-like features which previously betrayed her age had sagged, creating trenches of wrinkles that decorated her face. Her eyes, which were once warm and open had now shrivelled black balls that resembled currants. Her mouth also suffered injustice. In crafting her receptive behaviour, she had mastered a certain kind of smile that tried to welcome people without actually saying anything. She had no need for that any more as she did not entertain guests. With a permanent snarl, she was the face of determination. The only things that could be heard from the room were muffled curses, sobbing and loud banging of the walls as she threw the box in exasperation which could only be subsided by the doctor sedating her. Abigail and Michael visited her weekly, but she never said anything to them as she preferred to listen. Abigail's art was selling quite well and she had moved to a new house with her fiancé while Michael had got a job at the local university lecturing on mathematics. After a while, her children were conscious of the fact that their mother was becoming distant. Mrs. Dunstan told them of her progress, which was always the same, and they resigned themselves to just observing her. Ariadne, now becoming unaware of her surroundings, recognised the young people who watched her, but were likely not important; after all, they were stalling her progress in opening the box. Likewise, Abigail and Michael knew that their mother was gone and what they were observing was merely a mockery of her.

It was now winter. The falling snow, illuminated by the moonlight, cast its heavy shadow over Ariadne as if she was infested by gnats. She lay in bed with her box in hand. She had attempted the puzzle so many times that she had devised a strategy. After an hour of desperate tampering, she felt satisfied that she was close to opening it. She predicted that the puzzle box was composed of a hundred and one turns and, by turn eighty-eight, this was the closest she had ever been to solving it, at least in her mind. She turned one of the vertices to the left and the patterns changed into something she had never seen before. She was now so close. She pulled a lever. She turned a knob. She pulled another lever. Finally, the sound she had been waiting for: with a click, the box was open. Like a grasping animal, Ariadne grabbed for the item inside the box, the very thing that had taunted her for sixty-four years. Due to her frenzied movements of accomplishment, the box and its contents fell off of the bed. In excitement, Ariadne was about to pick the box up again but she suddenly realised that the exertion was becoming too much for her heart and it was hurting a lot more than before. Cradling her heart, she knew that her time could be measured in seconds. With the last remaining energy left to her, she bent her back and allowed her hand to descend the endless slope of the side of the bed. She clutched the box, still containing its mysterious contents, held it tightly and reeled it back to her with the same effort a fisherman would pull a prized fish. Now, as relaxed as she ever was, she was about to peer into the box. Before she could see inside she fell back and the box dropped onto the floor with a clatter that echoed in the still room.

Digressions

One has not experienced true terror until one has relied on public transport. It's a symbiotic relationship: those greedy bastards need money, and we, the people, who are too lazy, too old, too ugly or too disabled to drive, need them. Unfortunately, the public transport busy bodies take a huge liberty on the faces of its consumers. Trapped in the maze of cancellations, delays and red tape there exists the unfortunate flurry of people reliant on the 'service' and when the 'service' stops 'serving', these people are required to emulate this efficient mode of productivity by cancelling or delaying their own appointments and the cycle continues eternal, ad nauseam. I was, and continue to be, one of those people. Anyone would believe my destination spanned thousands of miles and I was complaining about the ferries or airports; but it was nothing so glamorous. My destination happened to be the decrepit slums of Birmingham in the depths of winter. My goal was simple: to get to university. I only had to go in once a week in my first semester as both of my modules were on the same day; so, although I had six sevenths of the week to myself (barring studying and writing) the day ended up being excruciatingly long. Each of these days followed the same pattern. I had to get up at six o'clock, pour cold water over my face to break any illusion that I was still dreaming, put about three layers of clothes on my wiry frame to fight the Arctic conditions of early November, and high tail it out of my front door whilst my family slept like newborns under the effect of tranquillisers.

No sooner had I removed the key from out of my front door and locked it, the cold air had hit me like a thousand tonne anvil. The foreign cold particles in the sky infested my virginal, still warm body like a virus, and, in a microsecond, the symptoms: fine strands of hair on my arms and a shiver in my body, began to appear. I sighed and began to walk zombie-like to the bus stop. The only ally I had was my iPhone which had over a thousand songs at its disposal. After a quick touch, the 'shuffle' function activated and the song 'Black Sabbath' met my ears. It's one of my favourite songs and I was glad that I heard something familiar, but during the early hours of the morning, things that are treasured and respected take on a whole new quality: they're uncannily eerie. The song fitted my thoughts perfectly. While there wasn't any actual rain like in the song, there was a figurative storm raging in my head. It could have been symbolic of my digressive thoughts, pelting away, insignificantly into the abyss of my mind, never to be thought of again. If my ears didn't deceive me, I could hear the distant ringing of a church bell crying out for a bygone age in which there weren't any commitments in life; we lived by our own measures and values, free of the worries of Travel West Midlands, the Lib-Dem/Conservative Coalition and strict deadlines. Suddenly the riff by Tony Iommi and the high- pitched wails of Ozzy Osbourne would convince us that it was all an illusion. My reluctance to trek to the bus stop was matched by the slow, lumbering guitar riff and the grimy, miserable tone of Geezer Butler's bass. It acted as a not so subtle reminder that the rest of my day would seem like this. I was heading for my doom; something, anything, I do in the day would result in my embarrassment in some form or another.

As I left my street, I examined the houses. All of them seemed bereft of life. Not one of them in my street had their curtains opened or any form of light on. A rather insular thought, I recounted later; the neighbours may have been having orgies behind those 'dead' curtains and I wouldn't have known the difference. After all, my higher functions don't begin to work until after I've fallen asleep again. After slipping through frozen marshland that may or may not have been people's gardens, I almost made it to the bus stop. The only thing that stood in between us was the alleyway. This infernal passageway has been the bane of my existence since I moved to my current house when I was five years old. I've fallen down there more times than I care to imagine; whether it be frost, flood or fire. After dusting myself down, I was never sure whether I was red from injury or embarrassment. The occasional graze on my skin never bothered me; my white blood cells could repair it in no time; but no amount of biological and medical research can do anything to cure a broken reputation. In spite of my personal grudge of the gully, I always felt that the place has an aura of evil and has had a continually odd effect on me. It's hard to describe, but the buildings around it seem to bend and twist as if they were props in a German expressionist film and block the only source of light. The wall that houses the grassy bank has an eternal resident in the form of a black cat. Whoever it was who said that a black cat brings you luck is a fool; that cat always passes my path, yet I'm the most unlucky person alive. The parking lot adjacent to it is adorned with Gothic looking gates and they amplify the feeling of deprivation and abandonment I feel whenever I walk through there. It was almost inevitable that they'd build those gates there. Even now, twenty years young, I tread carefully. I'm not scared of muggers or anything like that; after all, they'd be sleeping on top of their ill-gotten gains whilst I was pondering that thought, it's just the atmosphere that unnerves me. I'm not superstitious in the slightest, but that alleyway makes me question my grip on reality. I know that somehow, somewhere, there are some unusual powers emanating from there. Being neither a smoker nor a drinker, sleep-deprivation is my hallucinogenic.

After stumbling through the alleyway of hell, I finally arrived at the bus stop and, naturally, it was deserted. It now seemed like a Twilight Zone episode. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Rod Serling in his trendy suit from the sixties narrating my life in meticulous and elegant purple prose, punctuated by Bernard Hermann's intense soundtrack. In my naïve state of mind at half six in the morning, I could delude myself into thinking that a neutron bomb attack had occurred in the time when my eye was moving rapidly. The buildings were still standing, but all life had been eradicated. Nathan Lloyd, sole survivor of the human race. Forget the atomic attack, humanity would well and truly be at a disadvantage now; its last hope in the form of a long-haired, charmless cretin who had all the grace of a maggot! I suppose it'd be a fitting indictment of humanity if they left me in charge. I smiled at such a sentiment, at least survival would break with the monotony of day to day life. Although I discarded morals, would I shed a tear to those who had perished? My girlfriend was the only important person in my life, so I would definitely cry over her. I'd probably yell out her name in vain over a smashed landscape until I expire of loneliness, regret and old age.

My reverie was interrupted by a passing car. I knew I enjoyed fantasy, but I wasn't aware that I positively revelled in it. No more digressions. I began to resolve myself to keeping my mind on more pressing matters of what time the bus was supposed to arrive. Even though I knew what time the bus would come: forty-four minutes past six, I checked the bus schedule affixed to the bus stop. 6:44. For once in my life, I was right about something. I checked the time on my iPhone. At 6:37, I was too early for the bus. Shit. One of my pet peeves is waiting. I'm either early or punctual; my nerves can't take me being late. On the flip-side; however, if someone else is late on my time, words can't express the anger and anxiety I feel. I checked my watch again and only a minute had passed. Even though it was useless to pray for an early bus, especially when its vendor was Travel West Midlands, I could not resist cursing. I suppose my rising anger was a blanket for my paranoia. What if the bus didn't arrive? I'd have to wait half an hour biting my nails down to the bone as the world of university would continue without me and I'd still be stuck in the dark hole that is Gornal.

Why is it that every minute seems to wane on pointlessly when you are waiting for public transport? It's almost as if we are in a time warp in which the basic mechanics of time are distorted by some fatuous joker who gets some sadistic or, worse, sexual pleasure on spying on us checking our watches. Each minute waiting for that damn bus makes several thousand of my brain cells jump off cliffs like lemmings in my cranial cavity. There simply isn't anything as soul destroying, especially when your bus ends up not only being late, but non-existent. It's the same with trains. There you are sitting or standing at the platform alone and the only thing you can do to stop your mind from wandering is to inspect the arrivals board, which is placed in a strategic position above you in order to mock you. Waiting for a bus is worse though because Travel West Midlands still live in the Stone Age and haven't invested in the same technology to track buses or, more challengingly, hire competent drivers.

Inevitably, my patience was rewarded with nothing. As soon as my iPhone said 6:45, my inner voice assured me that the bus wouldn't come. I shook my head out of craven disgust for the company that I relied on and examined my bus pass. Was the £233 entirely worth it? Did it justify the utter disdain that the bus company felt towards its patrons when their drivers do their job only when they feel like it? Was I subsiding this cavalier attitude that seem to ooze from the company's noxious existence? Possessing anything that had Centro's name on it is a severe castigation of my outlook on life: that meetings should be honoured and service is what you pay for. It was perhaps relevant that my bus pass was in a red case; it did a perfect job in provoking me like a bull in a toreador outfit. The time continued to melt away in my head. I no longer felt cold because my growing anger acted as a boiler and with each passing second, the boiler became more and more overstocked with fuel. It was at 6:51 when I exploded. I never remember much when I have an episode of rage. 'Fucking pricks!' I must have shouted at the top of my voice, scaring off a murder of crows that had made nest in the nearby tree and doubtless waking up people in the vicinity. We have truly failed with humanity if buses cannot make a simple time. It was early in the morning. There was no excuse for such a shoddy service. There was little alternative: I would have to jog up the huge hill that links Lower and Upper Gornal to catch the number 1 bus with the added chance that I would rupture my back thanks to the huge volumes of Romantic poetry I had in my backpack. With a loud sigh accompanied by a growl, I began to lengthen my maelstrom into madness by walking up that hill.

Due to it being nearly seven o'clock, the roads were busier now. I had to take caution when crossing the Five Ways crossroads as it is a site for street racers, pensioners and learner drivers and I didn't quite fancy becoming pate for a cannibal's sandwich. After a swift jog, I was finally on the road to Upper Gornal. With a curse in my throat and a reluctance in my step, I was now ready to make the massive trek that awaited me. The vertical climb was akin to scaling Everest to me. I have never been into sports or exercise; in my opinion it's a gargantuan waste of time because we are all going to end up in a pine box, whether we exercise or not. It were times like that that I resented my hostility to exercise. If I were an athlete, I'd have been able to climb that hill in huge leaps and bounds and not even have the time and space to think; but, alas, due to me being built like a Swingball pole, I plodded along like a swan with its foot cut off by poachers.

As I walked up the hill with my head bowed down, I finally realised that I was exhausted. This went beyond me feeling tired as I did when I left the house; that was merely due to me not being awake fully, but after enduring what I had endured in that hour, my soul was crying out for a break. There were multiple possibilities as to why I was feeling lethargic. The first explanation that cropped up was, of course, my paltry physique and how a chicken could be seen as Arnold Schwarzenegger when I stand by it. It was a moot point as it goes without saying. My second explanation was that I had a low tolerance level to bullshit. Attracting misfortune as I do, one would expect me to adjust to it, but one never adjusts to it and rising to fate's bait every single time is indeed tiring. I usually wouldn't mind, but, as I have stated, days at university end up being terribly long; I'm out of my house for fourteen hours and if the first hour is tedious, it serves as an incredibly optimistic omen for the rest of the day.

I passed the myriad anonymous houses as I searched my mind for any vestige of positive thought. The grimy surroundings of my home town did little to raise my spirits. A school, church and a drinks shop stood between the replacement bus stop and I and none of them made me raise my head to even acknowledge them; I was too preoccupied by the sudden bright light in the distance. The sun had finally risen. Before I could scowl with disappointment at false hope, I could see a dwelling illuminated by the opal rays that cast a shadow that extended to my feet. Miracles do seem to occur as I identified the peculiar sight as the bus stop. I went towards it and inspected the time: 7:04. Seeing as it was 7:03 on my iPhone clock, I hoped and prayed that it'd arrive. People who argue that patience is a virtue are not people; they are androids programmed by some petulant scientist to believe that everything in life is positive and have no grasp on those ever present imperfections that make it so exasperating to live. As luck would have it, the bus actually arrived on time. Being utterly gobsmacked, I presented my bus pass to the driver. He was a typical Travel West Midlands employee: all charm with an eternal frown that emanates invitation and a strong desire to perform his job by nodding mechanically that allows passage like a contemporary 'open sesame'. I smiled mockingly and took my usual seat on the bus. I looked out at the back window and waved at the darkened slums and relaxed: the day could only get worse. Dolly Parton once said that 'if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain'. There wasn't a rainbow, but there was a hell of a lot of rain.