Tuesday, 29 May 2012
These few things I take with me
A covering of moss,
The colour of lime,
And three forget me nots.
They felled trees the other day
To make the space seem wider,
And now the robins fly low,
The scent of nettles, sharp,
softened only by dandelions;
We let the grass grow wild
Beneath the bark and birch
and last remaining horse-chestnut.
A man lived here,
Forty years, a life -
No wife, no child, no pet;
Just a library of books
And every letter kept.
Dearest Uncle, your niece here,
I blew a dandelion free -
Nothing to wish for;
You were loved
And you loved, fully.
© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
for Uncle Motu
and the dverse poets
Saturday, 26 May 2012
So there I was, on twitter, recommending 'The Princess Bride' to Marian Keyes, best-selling Irish author of fabulous books, when she replies saying she's never seen it. I offered to send it of course, but privacy and all that... anyway, there was a silence for a while. A couple of weeks later, Marian Keyes goes on a hunt for me - me!! - to find the Lupusgirl who recommended the lovely film. And then I was found. And Marian asked how I was, and I said I was off into hospital and she said, "Can I do anything? Anything at all? Signed copy of a book?" And I says, "Oooh yes, please!" Shameless, I know. But this may NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!!!!
So just to be clear...
MARIAN, I LOVE YOU!!!!!
(from 'The Brightest Star in the Sky')
Thursday, 24 May 2012
I gave her a thumbs up and shimmied back to my chair. Who knew I could be so bossy??
Later on today, when my lymph nodes gnarl and gnaw, when the fevers start and my heart kicks up an unruly beat, I shall remember the deliciousness of a single moment. I don't mind the pattern of sun and shade. I hold them both in the palm of my hand.
Father, who is baking his tootsies in the sun, has just bellowed for a coke float (vanilla ice-cream scoops in a glass of coke - it's an Indian thing)...
Ah... we sure know how to live it up, here in the Shires...
p.s. have just received comments on the coke float not being an Indian thing - a universal thing, in fact. I stand, happily, corrected.
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
Some months ago I wrote to a poet called Dorothy McCarthy - I had read one of her poems online and loved it. I wrote to tell her so... she, in turn, read mine and recommended me to a glassworks artist, who was looking for poetry to weave into her glass. A few weeks ago, Flora de Ospina exhibited these works in Oxford, and sold a piece with my words crafted in.
Poetry on leaves, poetry in glass, whatever next? :)
Poetry on leaves, poetry in glass, whatever next? :)
Sunday, 20 May 2012
At the foot of the birch,
and birds arrive to speak -
falling silent only when
the church bell
sounds her turn.
Summer seduced us yesterday,
but this morning
when we woke -
the blackbird sighed
and sang of rain
in mourning, lilting tones.
Close I get, and closer yet,
to the blackbird's orange beak;
He holds his ground,
the counsel stays -
I, flightless, retreat.
© Shaista Tayabali, 2012
for dverse poets
for dverse poets
images from dakini's bliss
and dave stewart album
Monday, 14 May 2012
... took photographs like a tourist... of the Church and graveyard..
...but very imaginative, don't you think?? Note the little interview tacked on at the bottom...
Posted by Shaista at 21:21
Sunday, 13 May 2012
For all your lovely comments on my screenplay - thank you! And since you asked for more, here it is :) The next ten minutes hot off the press. Well... alright, the only next ten minutes that exist.. I haven't actually written any more than this!
INT. BEDROOM, HUGH’S COTTAGE - NIGHT.
World maps on wall, children’s movie posters, packed bookshelves. Hugh, on unmade bed, looks like he is working but close-up reveals him rifling through digital photographs of Olivia - with Hugh on graduation day, with James at the beach, with girlfriends in Venice, with Hugh at parties, dressed formally - a handsome couple. In contrast now, Hugh unshaven, dark hair askew, books, papers, strewn untidily across bed. Suddenly alerted to a sound, listens for it again. Thrusting laptop away, walks quickly out of room, down the stairs, fills glass of water at kitchen sink and rushes back up, into James’ bedroom.
JUMP CUT TO:
Fire. Riot being ‘controlled’ by British forces. Chaos. Screams. We see the rioters closely now. Young students, bearing Indian flags, hastily crafted signs - some protesting for peace rather than partition, some promising equal violence in return. 1947 made visible via newspaper cuttings pasted onto signs. Focus on a beautiful 1940’s version of Lara. Clear blue-grey eyes swimming with tears. She has been shot. She is disbelieving at first, and then, heartbroken. Looks up into the eyes of a British officer, the 1940’s version of Hugh, watching her, helpless. As she closes her eyes, he reaches out for her, shakes her shoulders.
Hugh shaking James awake. Switches on bedside lamp to reveal James, struggling out of duvet, slightly sweaty; he reaches out automatically for the glass of water, gulps it down.
Was it the accident again?
James shakes his head violently.
Do you want to talk about it?
It was scary. There was a lady. Someone I... She got shot. There was blood and everything.
Did she look like...?
Nudges the edge of a photograph on the bedside table. Beautiful Olivia, her arms around a younger James. James doesn’t look, merely shakes his head again. Camera pans around James’ room. A strong interest in India goes some way towards explaining nightmare: map of India on wall, small Persian carpet, cricket gear, posters of Tendulkar and Khan. A tidy room for a little boy. Perhaps unnaturally so.
Dad? You know Emma?
Yes, I know Emma. She’s 12 and knows everything. Just like your Aunty Bess was at her age. Why? What’s she said now?
She said... she said Mummy had... She said that Mummy was having an affair before she died. With the Hungarian.
Christ! What does she know about the Hungarian? I mean... I mean, no! I mean, look, James...
I remember him. He was in the car with her when she... when they...
You know book 4?
James looks confused.
I was thinking about a trip... for research. I was thinking of going... to India.
(at James’ expression)
Just thinking about it.
Dad. Please. I have to come with you. I have to!
What about these nightmares?
Maybe they’ll get better? Please? You always go without me.
(taken aback at accusation, but rallies)
Look, we need to really think about this. Sort stuff out. Visas. Immunisations. Let’s talk about it with Granny Grampa this weekend, alright?
Dad, seriously, please? For my birthday?
The clincher! Come on, try and get some sleep again.
Can I read a bit first?
Hugh stretches out and reaches for a book lying on the floor, part of a neatly stacked pile. An Adrian Mole story. James, safe and yawning now, snuggles back with book. Close on Hugh’s face, creased with concern.
EXT. GROUNDS OF LARGE MANOR HOUSE, GLOUCESTER - DAY.
On a bench, Hugh and niece EMMA (12) are cheering on a cricket match between James, his cousins RICHARD (7) and THOMAS (5) and grandfather PETER (63). Hugh and Emma are mid-conversation.
He’s nine years old!
He’s too young to understand! You’re too young! How do you know anyway?
I hear things.
Hugh gives his niece a look, rises from bench, shaking head in disbelief, and starts walking towards house, Emma in tow.
The point is, Uncle Hugh, that you need to move on. Find your destiny.
Where do you get this stuff?
The point is, we were doing fine until you decided to educate your nine year old cousin.
Nearly ten. And the point is he’s still having nightmares...
Her voice fades away as they enter the house, and head for the kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN, LARGE MANOR HOUSE - DAY.
Inside, Indian theme continues, with various objet d’arts, antique miniature paintings of British horsemen, forts, temples. Connection to Raj via ancestors firmly established. Hugh’s mother VERA (61), sister Bess, and brother-in-law TONY (37) are in the kitchen. Vera is making tea for everyone. Hugh moodily watches his son play through the kitchen window.
All I’m saying darling, is that it isn’t the end of the world, him knowing. Children are resilient. Look at the two of you, and you too, Tony darling - you all turned out just fine.
Yes, because you weren’t busy having affairs through our childhood!
And you’re still alive.
I heard that - terribly insensitive of you, to both Hugh and your dear old Mum - and in the presence of your child!
Darling, could you run upstairs and find my glasses?
You’re trying to get rid of me.
Only for a little while, I promise.
Emma reluctantly obeys, dragging feet.
Anyway, how do you know I wasn’t playing around? In fact, I’ve been meaning to tell you..
Not funny, Mother.
Oh don’t be so po faced, my love - affairs happen all the time! Tell him, Tony. Enlighten my poor deluded boy as to the ways of the world.
Yes. Do tell us, Tony.
Cheers, Mother. In Law.
(turning to Bess)
I know nothing! Nothing!
I’ll tell you everything you need to know, later.
(pinching the first cup of tea)
But speaking of les affaires de la famille, wasn’t there one in ours? On Dad’s side? I remember Granny mentioning it once... you remember her way... Je sais des choses... Je connaître les secrets du passé...
She waves her hands about, like a gypsy fortune teller. Emma, who has rushed back, breathless, hands Vera her glasses. She is in time to hear this latest enthralling snippet; it is clear from where her source of information derives.
Oh yes, must have been a very interesting time in old Ashton’s life, pre your grandmother. Adrienne was always dying to talk to me about it. But she was very respectful to your grandfather. Ahh. Those were the days...
(opening the door and yelling to her husband Peter)
YOUR TEA’S GOING COLD! COME AND GET IT!
(faint voice from garden)
Am keeping score, my angel, can you bring it out here please?
Now, where was I?
Ah yes. India. Well I wish I could tell you more, my darling, but Peter never asked his mother what she meant and...
Peter and the boys tumble in, riotous flinging off of pads, gloves and discussion of cricket scores. Peter rescues the last mug of tea.
Did I hear my name?
We were talking about Ashton darling, and his mysterious Indian affair.
What affair? In India?
Really my love, you can be so terribly indiscreet.
(whispers to James)
Granny’s losing her marbles.
I am not!
(but taking the hint)
Alright my lovely ones, off you go, wash your hands. And feet!
Our feet aren’t dirty!!
Granny’s joking, Thom.
Bess gathers the boys together, hustles them out of the room. James gives Hugh a searching look before he leaves.
(before Peter can say anything)
Yes alright, alright. Completely thoughtless of me. Sorry, Hugh.
No, it’s pretty fascinating actually. Quite relevant in a way. Am thinking of sending Casper off to India for one of his travels. So, heading out there myself. And maybe taking James with me. What do you think?
Bess comes back in trailed by James.
Sorry, Hugh. I’ve settled the others in front of Pirates, but this one..
She shrugs helplessly.
What did Great Grandpa Ashton do?
(simultaneously to James)
You’re going to India!
The cousins look at each other excitedly.
No idea. No one seems to know anything, which is absolutely typical of the Trevelyans.
(pointedly to Emma)
Plenty of gossip, no substance. Right. Now what about that delicious looking spongey cakey thing..
Grampa’s got substance - he’ll tell me!
Oh. Dear boy. But I must disappoint. Father loved India, but never spoke to me about a lady friend.
Uncle Hugh! This is perfect! You can find the lady friend and your destiny! Two birds, one stone!
Yes, Hugh. Go find that lady friend.
So, the general consensus, positive?
And it’s your birthday soon - a tenth birthday is no small matter.
That’s what I said!
Wish I could come too.
Let’s all go!
Hugh is alarmed at suggestion of whole family traipsing off to India, but smiles at their enthusiasm. He exchanges a look with James. The stirring of adventure lights their eyes, uniting them properly for the first time.
INT. AIRPLANE - NIGHT.
James in the window seat, fast asleep. Hugh, in seat beside him, watches him sleep. In Hugh’s hands, a thin sheaf of letters, slightly yellowed with age. He opens one and begins to read.
INT. CORRIDOR, MANOR HOUSE, GLOUCESTER - NIGHT.
Hugh, standing in doorway of bedroom, watching James sleep. PETER comes down the corridor.
Is he asleep?
Exhausted with all that excitement. What’s up?
Got something to show you.
Hugh gives James a last look. There is vulnerability, a grief still alive, in Hugh’s eyes. He follows his father down the corridor to a study, densely populated with bookshelves, photographs. A portrait of ASHTON TREVELYAN, familiar figure now, takes up space on one of the walls. Peter unlocks a drawer and removes the yellowed sheaf of letters.
Told a small lie earlier.
He hands the letters to Hugh.
Father’s letters - to someone who didn’t want them. He sent the first in 1947, and the last in 1950.
The letters are all stamped ‘Return to Sender’. The recipient is D. SHROFF; the address, BOMBAY, INDIA. Hugh unfolds the first and begins to read aloud.
'Dearest DD, now that I am about to leave the mountains for the fenlands of the ‘shire, I suppose I shall spend the rest of my life chasing the sun...' Quite the poet, wasn’t he? Who was DD?
Well, I’ve always wondered. I thought... since you mentioned going to India... maybe you could trace this D. Shroff?
Do you think this was her? The one that got away?
Well, it was him that got away. Those were terrible times. Maybe she...
The word ‘died’ weighs heavy in the air. Peter moves toward the door, ready for bed now.
It’s all a bloody business, isn’t it? I mean, what’s the point of any of it?
Peter makes no response.
(as though compelled)
Do you think we’ll be alright? James, I mean. Do you think James will be alright?
I think you’ll both be alright. Nothing like an adventure and a bit of mystery to solve. Good night, Hugh.
If Olivia hadn’t - died - I wouldn’t have taken her back. Not if she’d begged.
Well, she’s gone now. Time to take a leap of faith, Hugh.
He speaks gently, and coming back into the room, gives Hugh’s shoulder a light squeeze. He leaves. Hugh turns to the portrait.
Well, I wouldn’t. Not if she begged.
EXT. SAHAR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, MUMBAI - LATE MORNING.
Morning sun beats down on Hugh and James as they stand, almost shell shocked, outside Sahar International Airport. Feroze, wreathed in smiles, sorts out their luggage. Jostled by fast moving bodies, Hugh thinks he sees a girl, with a pair of blue-grey eyes and a mop of soft curls, amid the chaos. Tries to place her. But there are too many people and he is too tired. Passes hand across eyes.
EXT. MUMBAI HIGHWAY - NOON.
Car travelling full pelt down connecting highway from airport to inner city. Mumbai flashes past. Huge advertisements. Colonies of slum dwellers. Cows meandering. Sudden downpour of seasonal rain. Hugh, in the front seat, looks back at James, who is quite shattered, overwhelmed by everything.
Hugh and James in a holiday sequence of exotic and banal discoveries. Imprint of the Raj obvious in names, architecture, linguistic play on signs and posters. James ecstatically playing cricket with Feroze’s sons; finally - the real thing. Hugh exploring libraries, museums, old British clubs. Discovering the city by himself. Taking notes.
INT/EXT. FEROZE’S FLAT, MUMBAI - NIGHT.
James asleep, sharing a room with Feroze’s sons. Camera tours flat briefly, pausing by Feroze near drinks cabinet, pouring hefty whiskies. Strains of sitar accompany us as we focus on Hugh leaning against balcony railing, looking out at Queen’s Necklace - Mumbai’s skyline lit at night. Lost in perusal of one of his grandfather’s letters, as Feroze approaches.
A toast, then. To inspiration. Of every kind.
What’s that supposed to mean? You aren’t going to introduce me to someone, are you? Look where your last introduction got me. Widowed, heartbroken and becoming crustier by the day. Probably the world’s worst father too.
Desist with the violins, Hugh. Not one of my kids looks at me the way James looks at you. The boy hero worships you. Now, let’s have a gander at that address again.
Hugh hands him the letter.
Churchgate. Close enough. Will take you tomorrow, no problem. Once you’ve sorted out these family affairs, no more procrastination. Then, once the book is on its way, we can get to the real business.
Finding your destiny, man.
If I hear that phrase one more...
Drink up, drink up yaar. This is India, baby. If you can’t find your fate here, there’s really no hope. Cheers!
EXT. DEVONSHIRE HOUSE, MUMBAI - DAY.
Feroze, nursing hangover, drops Hugh and James outside a beautifully maintained building. Turns car round and peels off in cloud of dust. Leafy residential area. Many-storeyed houses have names like Somerset and Sandringham Villa. An old-worldly feel, in contrast to the usual Mumbai mania. They enter building. An ancient lift-man escorts them inside a rickety lift.
INT. OUTSIDE CLOSED FRONT DOOR, DEVONSHIRE HOUSE - DAY.
Plaque beside front doorbell reads D. SHROFF. James looks nervous, but Hugh, taking a deep breath, rings doorbell. Door is opened by Lara. A moment of stunned surprise. Then
What? How do you...?
But how did you...?
Amid the confusion, an elderly woman appears behind Lara. She is DINA SHROFF (80). She wears a sari, the old fashioned Parsi way, eyes alight with intelligence and humour. Humour that dims on closer sight of Hugh, replaced by fear and the beginnings of tears.
She reaches out an arm, unsteady on her feet. Hugh rushes forward to catch her.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
Opening credits inked in by pen, against faded sepia postcards of British occupation in India; days of the Raj through a romantic lens. Sepia images turn to colour; cool blue of Himalayas, brick red of Vice Regal Lodge. Card reads: SIMLA 1947. Camera pans into a room in the Lodge. We see a young Englishman, beautifully neat in uniform, sitting at a desk, writing a letter. He looks up and we catch a glimpse of his striking face, dark hair, grim expression. As he begins to write again, we focus on his hand writing the film title. We pull back, and see the hand now belongs to a remarkably similar looking young man, but setting has changed. Card reads: CAMBRIDGE 2012.
INT. WATERSTONES BOOKSHOP, CAMBRIDGE - DAY.
HUGH TREVELYAN (33), tall, handsome, slightly scruffy, signs book with a flourish. Tables are piled high with his latest bestseller about the adventures of young time travelling hero, Casper Smart. TOBY (8), a fan, is recipient of this final signed copy.
TOBYWhen will you be writing the next one, Hugh?
HUGHGive me a chance, Toby! Read this one first.
Already read it.
Hugh smiles, but appears slightly stressed by idea of next book. His mobile begins to ring; with quick waves all round to staff, grabs jacket, scarf, heads out of bookshop and onto quiet cobbled streets of CAMBRIDGE. Early spring day. Hugh wraps scarf round neck against brisk breeze as he answers.
HUGH (CONT’D)Hugh here.
MATCH CUT TO:
INT/INT. CAMELBOOKS OFFICE, MUMBAI/LIBRARY - EARLY EVENING/MORNING.
FEROZE CAMA (33), children’s editor at Camelbooks Publishing House, one-time university friend of Hugh’s is puckish, cheery sort. Comfortably ensconced behind desk, his eyes devour the cup of steaming chai being delivered by obsequious minion.
FEROZEHugh? Where are you man?
Hugh moves phone slightly away from ear. Feroze, typically Indian, barks conversation as though from very far away.
Rosy? You old goat, it’s been a while. I just finished a book signing. Where are you?
Where else? Where the sun always shines and where no-one, I am glad to say, calls me Rosy. In fact, they call me Children’s Editor Sahib of Camelbooks.
HUGHMy new Indian editor is you? I don't know whether to congratulate you or cry.
Good one. Moving on. So, another book signing. All very well my friend, but have you started book 4 yet?
HUGHJesus. No! Maybe it’s time Casper got Smart and settled down.
Very good! You made another little joke! Now, get serious. There are 196 countries in the world - Casper’s been to 3.
Ever heard of writer’s block?
Now you’re really joking, aren’t you? Hugh? Hugh!
Hugh is silent. Lost in thought. Two cyclists whiz past, laughing. A young man and woman, college students.
FEROZE (CONT’D)Tell me what you need man. I am here for you. Anything. Name it.
I need inspiration, my friend.
Inspiration for a time travelling hero... hmm, which country am I in again?
I’ll think about it.
Do more than think! West Road Library. Research. One million resources!
Hugh shakes his head and rings off. A road sign indicates he is in fact very close to West Road Library.
INT. CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY, WEST ROAD - DAY.
Hugh scribbles notes in moleskin journal. Scruffy as ever, but change of clothes indicates this is different day. Around him, heavy volumes of British-Indian history. He is in a quiet reading room, seemingly empty but for himself. His mobile phone begins to ring. Snatches it up, but not before hearing a shocked intake of breath. Looks around for owner of sound as he speaks.
MATCH CUT TO:
INT/INT. AN ART STUDIO/LIBRARY - DAY.
Well. Excuse me for calling to check that my little brother is alright. Excuse me for...
Am in the library. Trying to work!
BESS (35), attractive, dark hair pinned haphazardly, carries on pottering around her studio. Her paintings are rather flamboyant, in the style of Georgia O’Keefe.
Have you given any more thought to what I said?
(still looking around, but no longer whispering)
I am not in need of therapy, Bess. It’s been almost two years for God’s sake. I am, as my lovely niece would say, ‘over it’.
A distinct ‘hmmf’ heard in the reading room. HUGH whips head round but sees no-one.
But have you started seeing other women? No. Clearly you haven’t forgiven Olivia, and clearly you need help. That’s all I’m saying.
And all I’m saying is she isn’t here to say she’s sorry for having an affair and then dying! I mean, who does that? Who goes and dies in the middle of a steamy affair? It’s so - so - counterproductive!
Hugh narrows his eyes, embarrassed and annoyed.
Hello? Hello Hugh? Are you still there?
Yes, still here Bess. But the mobile phone police are out in force. Must go.
MATCH CUT TO:
INT/INT. CAMELBOOKS, MUMBAI/LIBRARY, CAMBRIDGE - MORNING/EVENING
Easy tiger. Where are you?
(as though biting the words off)
West Road Library.
I could kiss you! Progress?
Not even close, Feroze. I feel stifled.
How can I write about India when conditions here are so... unfavourable.
Like I said. Unfavourable.
You hear that? Just come here! Write here, man! The juices will flow, deadlines will be met - win win!
You seem to be forgetting a small problem.
(batting away fly, and also problem)
If you mean James, bring him along! You’ll stay with us of course. My three can’t wait to meet him. Win win!
A rather stern looking gentleman makes his way towards Hugh, who ducks his head down.
Got to go, Feroze. Phone police.
INT. RECEPTION DESK, LIBRARY - LATER.
Look, could you please check again? I don’t really care about the other volumes. That’s the one I need.
See that man? I’m afraid he just checked out all three volumes.
(turning, calling to retreating figure)
EXT. LIBRARY STEPS - DAY.
Hugh whistles as he makes his way down the stairs, laden with books. His mood much improved. Almost collides into a young man rushing up the stairs. Tall, very precisely dressed, natty in tweeds; fresh faced HARRY VERNON (22), apologises profusely.
Sorry, sorry! Tearing hurry! Late! Lara!
This last directed at Lara, who has emerged out of the revolving doors, still looking cross. Harry dashes up the stairs and embraces Lara. Hugh looks on, less amused now, then whistles louder on his way down the steps. Resolutely does not look back at young love behind him.
River running through Grantchester - The Orchard Tea Garden, green deck chairs below early blossoming trees; darker tones of Byron’s Pool, Rupert Brooke statue on front lawn of J. Archer’s house. A peaceful writer’s haven.
INT. KITCHEN, HUGH’S COTTAGE, GRANTCHESTER - EARLY EVENING.
Hugh, frowning, taps away at computer, deleting lines as soon as he writes them. Coffee cups half drunk, slice of toast curling, hard. JAMES TREVELYAN (9) pokes his head round the kitchen door.
Dad? D’you want a game?
No answer. James enters, dragging cricket bat and pads inside, propping them up against the Aga.
What?Tearing away from screen, Hugh’s eyes still glazed with concentration.
He skulks away. We follow his small slumped shoulders outside.
EXT. GRANTCHESTER VILLAGE - EARLY EVENING.
A figure already leaning over bridge when James arrives. We only see her back, and a mop of curly hair. She is crumbling bread into the river. James hooks arms over the parapet mirroring her. She shares the bread with him. They watch the swans for a while. She turns and we see her profile.
Hullo. D’you live here?
Sort of. In town. This is much prettier. I come here for inspiration. You?
I live here. S‘kind of boring. Can you play cricket?
I think so, but I’ve no-one to play with.
Oh. Don’t you have brothers and sisters?
Nope. And no parents either. Or even a dog!
I’m an orphan too. Well, sort of. A half orphan.
Sorry to hear that. I was only 3 when mine died.
Then who looks after you?
Well, I’m quite old now, so I suppose, no-one. My grandmother’s still in India. I just study a lot. I’ve been to a lot of schools. I’m really clever now.
This last said a little tragically. A sudden shower of rain. They laugh and start to run towards shelter of bus stop. Lara unlocks her bicycle.
Can you come tomorrow?
Can’t, I’m sorry. I’ve tons of work but it was nice to meet you.
How about day after?
There’s an old Indian saying my grandmother loves. If it’s meant to be, it will be.
My Grampa says that too!
See? Then it must be true. I’m Lara by the way.
They shake hands solemnly. James watches Lara cycle off into the distance, then turns towards home. Both cut slightly lonely figures, in their own way.