This is my current pet project, as outlined in the synopsis.  It came from my thoughts about houses, more often than not vicarages, seeming to be forcing-houses for talent in the offspring - the Powyses (Powysau?)  for instance.  You can imagine the little beggars scuttering around, and popping up at the most inconvenient moments;  this would surely spur a call for a man to deal with the problem - I've just thought of terriers, but it is not the way to deal with young ladies, and the Powyses would probably kick them to death.  Anyway, once you have an idea or a plot, it's a matter of consequences and details.  The consequences deal with themselves, but the details entail imagining and filling in - I remember at the age of eight or so, seeing a car with a sphinx as a bonnet mascot and a boot-lid with windows for the seats within.  That had to be the car.  I'm worrying, though, about the lady's costume.  I'm living in Portugal and her fashions MUST be British.  Maybe she's stuck in the time of her life, 80s or 90s.  There's a fair amount of time-warping here

PLOT:

.A couple move into a Yorkshire and find that it is infested by Brontes.

Brontes:  about three small, intense 19th C ladies.  Male is a branwell.unseen, given to falling about and swearing at night.
She:  tall, fashionable (80s the time of her life?)
He:  floppy-haired, moustache, romantic dress, calabash pipe.

ACTION:

They move in.
Discover infestation.
Ring the council - old number,70s, no help at all, jobsworth.  Try another, fifties, pure Yorkshire dialect.
Call in a Uni lecturer (he suffers from an infestation of female students).  Recommends trollops.  Trollopes?  Anthony?  No...  Joanna?  Sooo 80s, can't install an Aga.  No,  trollops, cheap, cheerful bottle-blondes (Kathy Kirby, Barbara Windsor),  anathema to brontes.  Husband thinks about the style of the 60s...
Success!   Brontes flee.  Trouble is, must keep at least one trollop in the house, just in case.

END A:  Great embarrassment at dinners and soirees.

END B:  Husband in a 60s sports car (Daimler Dart), trollop in passenger seat.  Then noises off of wife in violent congress with branwell.

ALIEN LESBIAN OCTOPUSSES FROM OUTER SPACE!

You can see some laughing dustbins in an earlier blog. Well, these are the culprits.  They are also on a quest to planet Earth, dunno why, maybe they have forgotten because they are thick, as per notes.  Having overpowered the armoured guards, surprised how their weapons have reduced said guards to rubbish, they have put on their uniforms as disguise.  One thing leads to another, so I find myself building a world.  The male octopus is watching football on one of the first colour TVs, the ones that shot through to Warholvision after a few months.  Maybe they would be better talking out of their bottoms, drinking the way, I am sure, that British sherry and Buckie should be taken, tastes vile, and that is about the quickest way to shoot something into your sysyem.  More sherry, vicar?  Anyway, these creatures were a passing thought, and might grow, if I feel like it.

I`m working on another project, funny how a random thought can grow.  Anyway, this a fragment in which the fogey finally loses it.  In the vicarage, his sanctum sanctorum has been violated.  Ouch!  It hurts all right - his hoard of old whiskies, armagnac etc. has been wiped out.  I`ve yet to storyboard this, but first I`ve designed the set, as it were, helps the grammar.  Whatever the medium I imagine this to be in, the room has to make sense.  It can be flexible, as I have seen when watching a TV commercial shoot as walls were moved to and fro to suit the shot.  For comics, of course, walls can flex, but it has to make sense.  This is a kind of set design, and it gives a chance for spaces to be filled with little details, trophies, elephant feet.  I wonder what this will look like when he goes 60s...