…(Yes, I saw ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ last night! Then I wrote this):

WS: I ask you both to help me write a play. A romance I must have, and I’ll use your opinion.

FD: The world is stuffed with artworks! If it is art you want, you’re spoiled for advisers.

WS: A man may draft a score and beat his spouse; no, I want real advice, and he who boasts a happy wife and children – he’s the expert.

JW: Then I’m your man, with all the art besides. I know this well: to write a woman truly you must write not just a face, but heart and mind besides. Thus, he who knows them least does write them worst, and he who knows them deepest writes them best. Scrutinise my women, real and dreamed – you’ll not find them wanting.

FD (under his breath): Except in chastity.

JW: There speaks a priest. You ask a collared man to treat of love? I query the inclusion; I am not fooled by any pulpit-voice. What e’er he says, he got it from a book.

FD: Watch it – or I’ll stop your insults with a magic word.

JW: You threaten me with curses, yet call yourself cloth?

WS: Men! Men! We’re here to write a play. The ladies think us brutes enough already; shall we disprove the accusation, having us our first recourse to blows and malediction?

(Joss Whedon and Father Director mutter resentful apologies).

FD: I’d like to speak a word in my defense.

WS: Yes. Speak your word.

JW: And I can’t wait to hear it.

FD: I sit behind a grill six hours a week and listen as the women of every state surrender to me every secret act: the blushing sin and pale desolation, unburdening themselves of ancient griefs, of bitter poisons and of clinging fears. Outside the grill, they find the sacristy, and there confide in me their dearest thoughts of every man both high and low; yes; they go with my counsel, court with my permission, marry with my blessing, and, should they fall, behind the grill I hear it.

WS: Clerk! Let us taste your grilled secrets – I’ll wager there’s no morsel so delicious – my play needs fattening!

FD: Then it must starve, for I’ll disclose you nothing, but say this: there’s no complaint, no hope, no tragedy, but I have heard it, and heard it oft, for men and women both are tardy learners; the tale varies only in its tellers.

JW: Well, I’ll be a painted authoress; there’s truth in that man’s words. Too generous am I to lie about it or grudge him that concession, for I’ll not be the son of a poached egg.

WS: And so we are agreed? I may consult you both?

JW/FD: Indeed!

WS: A round of beer!

All: Huzzah!

WS: So, to the play!

Finis