Millie Hardiman and the Red Parrot Fever

Bun in the Oven - Part 4

George, the old, yellow Labrador, bounded back with the yellow tennis ball in his mouth and dropped it on Barry's sandal. Barry picked it up between finger and thumb, trying to avoid the doggie saliva dripping from the ball. He threw it away underhand, down the beach. It was still pleasantly warm at six o'clock on a Friday evening in September. George panted and drooled, before turning and trotting after the ball.

"I'm blocked," Barry said glumly to his wife, Gwen. He was a pleasant looking man of thirty four, wearing khaki shorts and a brown, Django Unchained t-shirt, bearing the legend, I like the way you die, boy. Barry thought it was cool. Gwen thought it was childish.

That was his beach outfit. The rest of the year he wore t-shirts, cargo trousers and Timberland boots. Gwen knew that that fitted in with his fantasy, undercover SAS persona.

"Take Ex-Lax," Gwen advised him.

"No, I mean I can't think of anything to write."

Gwen had heard this complaint many times over the years and she didn't take it seriously. "Fake it, copy it. It's all rubbish anyway." She was in denim cut-offs and a tight, white t-shirt, and imagined herself as a young Gwyneth Paltrow.

Barry kicked the ball this time for George to chase. "That's what I have been doing," he said miserably, "but Elaine's onto me. You know I never wanted to be a writer anyway. I got into this business to direct, and ended up as a scriptwriter."

"Boo hoo." Gwen didn't have any sympathy for him. "I don't want to cut hair for the rest of my life. There's plenty of other things I'd rather be doing, but they don't pay the mortgage. If you want to direct, then man up and tell Elaine."

"I'm scared she'll laugh at me." Barry tried the honest approach, then wished he hadn't.

"Oh for God's sake! Do you want me to kick sand in your face?" Gwen didn't try to hide her irritation. "Do you think Hitchcock waited for a producer to offer him a job? You've got to go after it."

At the water's edge, a teenage boy and girl wearing yellow beach patrol, hi-vis vests, were collecting litter with pointed sticks and bin liners. Barry felt a sudden surge of envy for them. I wish I had a nice, simple job, where I didn't have to think and there was no pressure to produce results.

"For the time being, there's something a bit more urgent to sort," Barry changed the subject. "Elaine's fired Olga Korbut. "Budget cuts," she said. "Now I'm on my own and she wants two new storylines on Monday morning, or she'll find a new scriptwriter."

Olga Korbut was actually Olga Borzov, Barry's fellow scriptwriter. She was a Russian woman who was seriously into bodybuilding, hence the ironic nickname of the tiny gymnast. Olga's recent scripts had relied heavily on gay storylines. At one point, six of the top ten darts players in the macho world of Double Top were gay.

Barry's producer, Elaine, had finally had enough and told her to straighten out at least four of them, and send them back to their WAG's. Elaine's actual words were, "I want them getting drunk and cheating on their wives; not drinking herbal, sodding tea and shopping for man bags."

"Bloody hell," Gwen exclaimed. "When does Olga go?"

Barry shrugged. "She walked, yesterday. Apparently when Elaine told her, Olga just sneered at her and said, "Good, I'm sick of writing this crap." Barry put on his best Russian accent. "Now I can go to London and become assassin for Russian mob."

The beach patrollers had now gotten really bored and were sword fencing with their sticks. Or maybe they were light sabers? Barry pictured them as Luke and Leia, but then couldn't think why they'd be fighting each other. Maybe Luke fancied Han Solo too and they were fighting over him.

"Always good to have career options," Gwen acknowledged Olga's ambition, then she suddenly turned panicky. "No! You can't get sacked now!"

"Why not? I quite fancy lying on my sofa watching Diagnosis Murder every day." Barry was only half joking.

"You wouldn't like it," Gwen told him.

"Have you ever met me?" Barry protested. "It's what I was born to do."

"No, you can't lose your job now!" Gwen had stopped walking and was looking worried.

"What's so special about now?"

Gwen sighed. "I was waiting for the doctor to confirm it, but I'm up the duff."

Barry looked at her in shock. "What? You mean pregnant?"

"Knocked up. Bun in the oven. In the club. Take your pick."

"How did that happen?" Barry regretted the question as soon as he'd asked it.

Gwen couldn't hold back the sarcasm. "When a mummy and a daddy love each other very much."

"But you've got that thing you use, haven't you?"

"I forgot to take it with me when we stayed at your mum's in July," Gwen confessed.

"Well this is great news; it's wonderful," Barry said unhappily.

"Yes it is," agreed Gwen, equally unhappily. "But you need to keep your job on that rotten soap now."

"It's not a soap, it's a continuing drama." Barry knew it was a feeble comeback.

Gwen gave him her death stare. "I don't care, Barry! We just need to find you some inspiration. Who do we know who can't stop telling ridiculous stories?"

As if the clouds had parted and God had spoken to them, they both said her name simultaneously, "Millie!"