Tuesday 25 December 2012

Xmas 2012

Christmas, once again I made arrangements in advance for a quiet getaway again this year, last years attempt at that Swiss chalet didn't turn quite as planned when Mai Ling and Sandrine, the girls from that model agency in Milan turned up by surprise but it was great fun. This year I thought go for a complete change of scenery, a small beach residence in the Caymans, perhaps this I'll get a bit of time to myself to contemplate this special time of year. As you might expect thing didn't go according to plan again, went out diving yesterday for a few hours in the afternoon and got back to the cabin about four, who should I find there, you guessed it, honestly those crazy girls. Anyway, got a bit of hangover, the girls invited a party of Japanese tourists, high school girls from Osaka, over for a bit of bash, my first experience at Karaoke. It got really wild but it gave me a chance to learn some of the language, not exactly sure what Kimochi means but it seems you can have an entire conversation with just one word. The place is a bit of mess now but Sandrine and Mai Ling are busy tidying up as I'm writing this, the things Sandrine can do with a feather duster! In fact both the girls take their housework really seriously, you wouldn't think girls with such active modeling careers would bother such but they've brought their own maid's outfits and everything. Oh well, must dash Mai ling's asking for help with some thing, I'm not exactly sure where the cat is she's talking about, I haven't seen one here but I better get it sorted.

Merry Xmas

Saturday 22 December 2012

Cassandra 1.

1 Muzz

"Who is Cassandra Wheatfield?" This one was staying for breakfast, don't ask me why I brought her back to my place, Rule no.1 of The Casual Sexual Encounter Bible: Don't do it at home. It's a rule I've broken a few times and borne the regret for doing so more than once, She was too good a catch to pass up over concerns of the risk of provoking another stalker though. Well, too good a catch last night, considered in the dim light of our evening encounter and the urgings of my libido left unquenched by lengthy drought. She was doing the domestic thing, which was a source of surprise -- I haven't seen that for a while, I thought they'd had all that knocked out 'em. She started as soon she raised herself from her brief bought of slumber, folding my garments I hastily discarded the previous evening, well, she'd either folded them or I've acquired a laundry pixie over night because I found them neatly stacked on a chair when I awoke. I'd regarded the pile of folded garments with trepidation, it was a sign, a sight seemingly left deliberately to greet me as as I awoke, as explicit as a horse's head in its statement of intent. It was the ominous clatter from the kitchen that got me out of bed though.

"Bugger!" Sunday is the only day I bother with breakfast, it's my treat for the weekend, bacon, fried eggs, toast and marmalade if there's any bread left. My exclamation was uttered in concern that the previsions set aside for this weekly treat would be thoughtlessly denuded by my temporary companion. Hastily, I made a grab for the  pile of cloths as I got up but halted myself in favour of fresh ones from the wardrobe, though doing so it would take an extra minute or so to get the kitchen and ease my mounting concerns. I arrived there with a feigned nonchalant air even though I was still tucking my shirt as I did so. "Morning!"

"Oh hi" she smiled broadly as she spoke, briefly I recalled the labours of the previous
night, I'd had a good time too -- then, the light of day brought more prosaic considerations to the fore though. She was sitting at the table sipping black coffee from my mug and helping herself to the last of the bread that she'd toasted, rather too lightly for my taste, and lightly smeared with marmalade. I noted Saturday's mail and a second mug of coffee on the breakfast table as I sat opposite her, she had been a busy girl. That's when she posed her question, just as I was about to take my first sip.

"Cassandra Weatfield?" In all honesty, the name was lost on me within this incongruous context, so my puzzlement as I reiterated her question was genuine.

She handed me an envelope, "Looks official," she said, "has it been delivered by mistake, you think? By the way, there's bacon in the Fridge, I can fry some breakfast if you like?"

Oh dear, that's how it starts, I noted how she's said, some breakfast, not you breakfast, I resented the notion that she could share my hard earned bounty that this implied. I thought on me feet, "Er, yeah, I should throw that out I suppose, found the cat nibbling at it when I'd left it out the other day," I spoke as I examined the brown envelope. For a few moments I was confronted with a genuine mystery, then the light dawned, "Casandra Weatfiedl!" my exclamation was too loud and exited to go without comment by my guest even while she was apparently still reeling in disgust at my remark about the bacon.

"Someone who used to live here then?"

"Er -- no, it's nothing like that" I wiped the knife that lay on the table clean and made to open it.

"Should you do that?" she said with a note of reproach that had a ring familiarity about it that me want to shudder. Now I was really annoyed with her, she beginning to pester me, why the heck should I have to explain to her about Cassandra Wheatfield

"It's for me" I spoke as succinctly as I could and with the minimum explanation, given the constraints of the circumstance. I wanted to tell her to, get lost and mind her own business but I was wary of the peril of spawning post-coital regret.

"Do you have a cat then?" Oh dear, the cogs in my guest's mind where turning laboriously slowly as she now considered my lie about the bacon.

"It belongs to a neighbour," I said as I opened the envelope

"We used to have a cat..." my attention was fixed on the contents of the envelope but my guest's apparent unconcern for the possibility that I might want to read it undisturbed gave her licence to compete for my attention with her aimless recollections, "...Lucky, we called him, he was..."

"Dear Muzz Weatfield..." my inner monologue balked at the salutation, I couldn't recall the detail of Cassandra’s biography but I knew she'd addressed herself as a Miss.

"...he got sick after eating a bir..." she continued while my still sleep sodden eyes flickered over the wording of the letter.

"...Muzz Weatfield... your submission.. .rare insight... pointed commentary... successful... suitable for publication... arrange... at your soonest convenience..."

"...the vet said that she..."

"Yes!!" I shouted, my joyous exclamation prompted by my hasty scan of the contents of the letter was enough to halt my guest's compelling anecdote. Grateful for this cessation and anxious to expedite her departure, I decided it was time to exercise some discretion and ease some charm out of the tap. I used up a good smile on her while I placed the letter back in it's envelope and secured that within the relatively safe confines of my shirt breast pocket. "Oh right --- do you miss her?" I gleaned from the mention of the vet that her precious kitty was no longer with us.

"He!" she said "...it was a he" but my multitasking hadn't been up to the task of providing me with the unfortunate kitty's gender apparently. She greeted my smile with a knowing look, not the fatal look, the one say's you've been found out in your efforts to sneak under the radar. No, this one was the one tinged with suspicion but used to let you know you still have a chance at redeeming your efforts if you try hard enough. I wasn't in the mood for games though, neither did I have the time.

"I know, that's what I said: do you miss him" I lied starkly and batted her look back at her. The incident was trivial enough for her to accept my casual deceit so I took advantage of the opportunity and changed the subject hastily. "By the way, I've got a chance of some tickets to see John Cooper Clark, do you fancy coming?" I smiled as I equivocated glibly, I do have the opportunity of tickets to see Clark this evening but I've no intention of going or a taking her with me. [note: changed tense -- in this sentence] The look she giving me in reply to my query told me she had no Idea who I was talking about, "He's a poet, big a few a years ago, making a bit of a comeback," I prompted, still no light dawning so I tried a different tack, "if you don't like poets though..." that was enough.

"Oh I think I know who you mean, when..."

"Tonight" I Interrupted, "I'll have to pop out soon, pick up the threads from the cleaners."

"Are you dressing up for this?" she asked, "Will it be that kind of thing?"

"Dunno" I replied, "but I'm not turning up without a tie." I reached for my mobile, "Here, take my number and give us as a buzz about three ish, I'll let you let know what the situation with the tickets is." I said, making sure that she was fully aware of the provisional nature of our date. She took the phone in hand and didn't notice that it wasn't the one I was using last night. It was while she was manipulating the phone, something she accomplished quite deftly, I made my move regarding the issue of of her exit from my abode, "Call a cab while you're at it. Don't worry about the price of the tickets, it's my treat, we'll have time to get a meal before too, if you like."  I said, speculating that the prospect of future generosity would waylay any quibbling over the taxi fair. She obliged without protest and after some prompting from me on where to find the cab service number on the mobile she'd booked the cab.

Luckily the cab driver arrived promptly and within fifteen minutes she was out the house. I  walked her to the cab and and put on a faux show of affection for the diver, planting a kiss on her cheek as we parted, a perfectly executed exit I thought to myself, I couldn't help but let out a laugh as i made my way back indoors.

I should have known it couldn't last, things never go that smoothly without the terrier of bad fortune biting you back on the ankle, I'm just not that lucky.




Tuesday 18 December 2012

Some truth -- some fiction

You know the novel you're trying to write? c'mon admit it, there isn't a blogger alive that's not writing a novel or written one or revising one or trying to get one published. So It'll be no surprise if I reveal that I'm also writing a novel -- sorry, trying to write a novel. Mine's on holiday at the moment, short of the minimum length by about a factor. Whether this pause in development becomes permanent is something I'm not too sure of. My enthusiasm for the project took a minor hit when I discovered my new and original story outline wasn't so new and original, in fact it turns out to be quite well trodden, oops, never mind, still worth a poke I thought. So maybe, I though I might change the format, make it an anthology, not a cobbled collection of old material mind you, a proper one with a central premise shared between the stories. So I calculated 7000 - 10,000 words for each segment that gives me about 5  or 6 stories for a train journey size work. While I'm going over my jottings and, making a few continuity notes, that kind of thing I come across a line that startled me, I'll quote it in fragment here:

"...he realized that whatever happened, from now on there would be a piece of his soul that always belonged to this girl who called herself Sandrine."

Phillipin-eck, Mills & Boon or what? Perhaps I should re-read, a little slower this time, I think to myself. Which I do and next I find:

"...she'd kindled the spark within him into a blaze..."

WHAT!!!! what the hell's going on here? That's not the end it, I find similar examples throughout. Somehow, I'm not quite sure exactly how, I find I've written a teen romance. That's not the end of it though, it gets worse -- it's unfinished see but by coincidence it ends at a natural break, where the cliffhanger would be. So I've finished reading and I'm wondering: what happens next? and with more than just a little anticipation. So I've written a romance story, read it, enjoyed it -- apparently and now I'm hungry for the next installment. I'm not feeling well, this is worse than the time I watched Cats. I've gotta buy some beer and go through a stack of Tarantino DVD's, I've got Rio Bravo around somewhere too. That'll be good, an evening, beer and the old time tough guys, Bogart, Tracey, Wayne, Gable. Yeah Clark Gable, fabulous actor, really great in Gone with the Wind, fantastic cinematography, outstanding wardrobe too, Vivian Leigh's dress, the one she's wearing on the stair, the green accessories looks so vivid in Technicol...


...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh.




Sunday 16 December 2012

Inking examples

This is a response to Sharon Souter who mentioned she'd like to see some inking examples that I considered to be suitable for comic art. These are a couple of items from my portfolio that I think match that criteria. As you can see the line work is quite bold, bolder than is probably necessary with today's improved reprographics but I like the style that arose through the strictures imposed by reproduction methods, so i tend to stick with this kind of line weight, if i'm thinking comics. I think today, an artist has much more latitude if they want a finer line weight or they can even go into, fine halftone rather those coarse mechanical tints applied in the past.

These scans have been prepared for repo but it really would be more useful to Sharon to show some photos of the unprepared artwork too, so I may update this post when I can dig them out and snap them.

This one's been reduced to about 60% of the original, it was rendered in Indian on drafting film. The broad areas are applied with size a 3 brush, the finer lines with a size 0 that's had the kick on the tip removed by searing the point. Tipping the brush, gives a flatter, more constant line and eliminates flaming which is the tendency for strokes to end in a point. The downside being that you have less control for finer linework. One big advantage with applying ink with a brush is that it dries a lot faster than pen because less ink is applied, this is particularly true on hard surfaces and drafting film is 100% impermeable to ink.



This drawing is about 80% of original size on my monitor, it complements the other one nicely because it's executed in pen on drafting film. As you can see the character of the line work is much more vigorous, there's lots of scratching about, I don't like hatching, so much of my pen work tends to more spontaneous than the brush stuff, with less penciling in of where I'm going to but my strokes. As I mentioned, pen dries slower (a lot slower on drafting film) on all surfaces but the upside is that it needs less retouching, there's a more consistent film of ink applied.

On occasion portions of the work will need to be dried under a lamp before you can finish them. That's not such a bad thing in a working environment as you might think, there's always something to do while the ink is drying.

Monday 10 December 2012

Comics -- a caveat for artists

As I mentioned in my last post, in my younger days I did put a toe in the water drawing comics on as an amateur. Most of my efforts were pretty abysmal  and unfit for any airing before being committed to the bin. I did however collaborate on a few occasions with aspiring writers and this was, I'm afraid, without fail, an exasperating experience. As you might imagine a certain degree of creative disagreement is always gonna arise with a collaborative project and for a few reasons this is especially true within an amateur context. One cause is that people are protective of their creative input, this plus the absence of a commercial imperative gives rise to unrealistic expectations and a lack discipline, I suppose what you could call an unprofessional attitude.

The major problem I encountered as an artist was inflexible scripts, writers would submit half a page of script repleat with all the trimmings, directions and descriptions and such like. The trouble was they had little appreciation of visual story telling, often these pages would have line after line of dialogue with nothing happening except the comic equivalent of noddy shots. So you'd have four pages of artwork dedicated to a conversation, between, two, in one room, great. You see what I mean by the absent commercial imperative? there's no way that could happen if you wanted to make money, you'd just run out paper and bore your customers rigid.

The other point, which is related, is that there's a problem when the guy doing the writing has no sense of economy, it's all very well describing a elaborate scene full of detail, it's something else to actually realize that scene on the page. So as an artist you could encounter huge demands on your skills with no input on how to realize a story more effectively visually, that's quite frustrating, especially when your collaborator is a bit naive.  In film and television where there a whole creative team, the producer actually has to find the money to make the script happen on screen, so there a check to counter excessive demands  in scripts.

That's it really, just a small warning to artists, who might encounter this post and are wanting to try their hand at a collaborative effort.






Saturday 8 December 2012

Drawing with ink, some tips

It's been a while but when I used to earn cash as an illustrator I preferred to used what even then was seen as as a traditional medium, that being, ink applied with a dip pen or brush. The reasons for this were practical really, It was the easiest way to get a consistent black for repo purposes and I'd spent a bit of time in my amateur comic days monkeying with different materials and I just didn't like the flat lines that newer types of inking implements gave. Now a lot of people who've tried inkwork are a little surprised at my choice, probably because they've struggled with pen and ink and got a bit frustrated, well I did too but once you've worked through the problems it turns out that they're not such a pain after all. The main thing is that you've got to be aware of the pitfalls, once accomplished this you'll find that even under the crush of tight deadline, ink applied with a pen or brush is very productive.

I'm a avid fan of good inkwork particularly when applied with a pen, I love the inky quality of illustrators like Ken Reid and his contemporaries and I'd like a see a resurgence of that kind of draftsmanship. So to enchourage this ends I've decided to document a few tips regarding this subject, I'm gonna cover four topics, pens, brushes, inks and surfaces.


Brushes
This one's pretty easy, you need a brush rather more slender and longer than you'd use to apply paint. The bad news is that brushes are expensive because they're made from sable, at least the ones suitable for inking are. The type of brush I used was the Windsor & Newton Series 3A Designers Sable, sizes 0 to 3. For god sake look after them, clean them immediately after you've used them, especially with indian ink. Don't let anyone else use them either, they'll ruin them. If you're working in a studio with other people, lock them away and then you won't suffer the problem I did when a particularly inconsiderate and arrogant colleague left an expensive brush ruined my in brush holder because she considered anything in the studio as communal property.

Pens
Gillott 404 pen with a William Mitchel No. 2 ink reservoir, the reservoir helps control the flow of ink as well as allowing you to load your pen with more ink. If the ink is getting a bit sticky, just open the reservoir up slightly. You can get a good variety of line with this pen, use it sideways for finer lines and normally for a thinker lines, you can apply a fair amount of pressure too to get broader lines, depending on the resilience of your surface. One thing you should be aware of when using pens, is that gravity is your friend so orientate your drawing board towards the flat and this should prevent any problems with ink flow.

Ink
I can recommend Winsor and Newton Indian Ink or Higgins Fountain Pen Ink too which is a non waterproof ink and can be easier to work with especially for a beginner. One problem with Indian ink is that is that it should really come with a sell by date because a lot of the stuff you get in the shops has been sitting around or years and its various constituents have settled out into two parts. A sticky goo that will gum up your pen and a anemic fluid that is quite translucent and useless for repo. You can buy huge bottles of W&N Indian and that's probably the best way to go, if you do, be sure to stop the bottle immediately you've decanted a quantity into a dip vessel, this will prevent evaporation which is a problem if you only buy small bottles of ink and you're working in the summer without  air conditioning. If you're indian ink is getting sticky, through evaporation, don't dilute it with tap water unless you're willing to throw the bottle away when you've finished your drawing. Indian that been diluted this way will solidify into a gel, usually overnight and will have to be thrown away. I have heard you can use de-ionised water to dilute it, this may be true, I don't know, I've never had to try it.

Surface
When I first took up inkwork the surface that was recommend to me was Frisk CS10, which was probably the cause of my initial problems, it's was awful, totally unsuitable for dip pen work, it had a toothed surface that was meant for mechanical Rotoring pens which does nothing but splatter ink everywhere with dip pens. You can use various grades of illustration board. Daler wash and line board takes ink quite nicely especially from a brush and it dries quite quickly, it's main disadvantage being that you can't apply too much pressure with a pen because it will tear up the surface. Anyone with professional experience would have told you that Letraset papers and boards where in class far superior to anything else that was produced, unfortunately they seem to have given up that part of their business, which is obvious of course, wouldn't that just have to happen? the best inking papers and boards disappear from the market, typical. Their 5000 line paper was a harder surface but it didn't take too long to dry either and you could erase small errors with a scalpel blade or sometimes a T20 eraser.

One surface that a lot of people don't consider is drafting film, drafting film is the hardest drawing surface and can take the most pressure from your pen. It's a polyester translucent material meant for use with mechanical pens again but the tooth is much finer and works well with dip pens. It's quite hard on pens though and will wear them out much quicker than other surfaces. It's main advantage is that you can trace straight off your pencil sketches and you can erase errors with relative ease with a T20 or, because it's plastic not paper, you can wipe whole drawings out with a suitable solvent for indian ink,  just water with water soluble inks. It's disadvantage is that, because it is totally impermeable, it takes an age to dry, especially with indian ink.

One point about all surfaces is that they need to be kept clean and the harder that surface the more important this becomes. When I say clean, what I mean is that they will acquire an oil film from your hands as you're working and this will be enough to cause the ink not take to the surface. To prevent this you can use a piece of paper to minimize skin contact with the surface but you will also probably need to clean the surface periodically with lighter fluid or a suitable studio solvent like Clean Art.



Wednesday 5 December 2012

The Hard Road

"Nice performance" said Clive as James sat opposite him, James looked at him with a quizzical eye but did not speak while he acknowledged the fading applause. a few moments passed, the lights faded and the crowd's attention moved once again towards the dais at the end of the room.

"Performance!" James asked, feeling free to express his reproach now they were safely screened from close scrutiny.

"Sorry, was that a poor choice of words? I meant you were really impressive, held the crowds attention. I didn't mean to imply any insincerity."

"That's OK, it's just that I get so many snide remarks, it makes you a bit..." James paused and was grateful when Clive acknowledged his reluctance to explicitly voice any vulnerability to someone he barely knew with a silent nod. "Where're the others?" he asked, as he looked at the empty seats in the booth.

"Gone outside for a fag I think."

"Typical," he moaned with feigned exasperation.

"Look..." said Clive, James sat back in his seat, readying himself for yet another contemptuous opinion with weary resignation. Mindful of James's assumption and anxious not to cause offense Clive paused while he reconsidered his words, "I agree with you..." that's a good way to start he thought, "..,self determination, self will, freedom, personal responsibility, I like all those things."

"But it's all just Ayn Rand or The Life of Brian," James interjected, preempting what he thought was coming.

"No, I'm not saying that..." Clive paused again and took a swig of his dark coffee. He seemed to ponder for more than a few moments then spoke again, "There's a story I know..." he paused long enough to let James give roll his eyes and groan, "...once long ago there was man who lived in the desert, he was a kind of a hermit but not a recluse. He was a sort of visionary who lived in troubled times and the people considered him to be a prophet."

"That's a bit rich, an atheist raiding bible stories," James smiled sardonically as he goaded Clive.

"Who said I was an atheist? but yeah, well done for spotting John the Baptist." said Clive and shifted his attention back to drinking his coffee, seemingly giving up on his story telling.

A few moments passed before it was obvious to James that Clive wouldn't recommence his fable without prompting, "You gonna finish that story then?" he asked.

"I thought we were done? You're not really interested in what a nobody like me has to say are you?"

"I'll listen to what someone has to say before I decide they're a nobody," said James.

"OK then -- This guy, John, he had a lot to say about the times he lived in. He told the people that there was a better way, that they could live a better life and not have to live under the heel of fear or their masters. And the people liked what he had to say because that's how they'd lived till then and they wanted something different. Wanting something different isn't the same as making something different. You can point the way but travelling on the road is something else and that's what John couldn't do, It takes something more than he had. Then he met this guy, I think he was Mexican but he was ginger and had blue eyes. He'd traveled a great distance to learn form John and John taught him all he knew. When he left he decided to continue Johns work but instead of telling people, there was a better way, he said: 'I can take you to the better place, follow me there but there's a price. You will have to give up everything you own and sacrifice everything you are to reach it with me.'' That's how he changed the world, he knew that to reach your goal, you have to tread the hard road, and see your blood drain away in its gutters, there's no change without tears and sacrifice."

James's sardonic look returned, "Render unto Caesar...!".

"I said he changed the world, not that that he was right" James spoke just as the absentees returned and made their way to the booth. "I see a lot of people like John, someone new almost every week here, they're as common as the salt on this table. The other guy -- well they're as rare as Mexicans with blue eyes."

"Someone going to Mexico?" asked one of James's friend as they took their seats with them in the booth.

Sunday 2 December 2012

Naughty Boy Island

This isn't mine, it's something a friend wrote after a phone coversation, "I've got a fantastic idea for a children's book..." ah yes -- one of those conversations. "...wanna do the Illustrations?"

So I did a couple of scribbles and sent them to him after I received this, alas his creative font dried up after he got these few lines out of his system, which was a shame really, although I understand because he was under quite a bit of stress at the time. It's a shame because it was interesting project, something tangential to the norms of children's literature but like all such projects much more of it was committed to the aether than paper. No hope of picking up interest from a publisher of course but it might have prompted some creativity in the rejection notices.

One aspect that would cause consternation for publishers is kitty's predicament, in fact I think that would fatal as far as interest from that quarter, resulting in a swift transit of a manuscript to the bin. Of course I share those concerns but this issue highlights a interesting point for me, in that I think the obstacle represented by this aspect of the story is cultural specific. Not the animal abuse aspect, although I acknowledge that the UK along with most of the English speaking world, is more sensitive on such issues but the copycat concerns that it would prompt. You know, the same kind of thing that had people berating the producers of Batman in the sixties, although here I think such concerns are more likely to be reflected by reality than the faux perils represented by the moral panics that persist in relation to comic characters.



NAUGHTY BOY ISLAND

Maffew was a naughty boy. One of the naughtiest boys in town.

Sometimes he would put grapes down the loo.

“Maffew, stop putting those grapes down the loo!” his Mum would cry.

“No, shu’up!” said Maffew rudely, as he ran away.

Other times he would throw Kitty down the stairs.

“Catch!” shouted Maffew. But there was no-one there to catch his poor cat.

“Maffew, you mustn’t throw Kitty down the stairs,” his Mum said crossly.

“No, shu’ up!” said Maffew.

One day Maffew was in his garden and was pushing the lid down on a box where he had hidden Kitty.

An old lady was watching him over the garden wall.

“You mustn’t put your cat in a box like that, she said. “It doesn’t like it.”

“No shu’up!” cried Maffew, “I can do what I want!”

“We’ll see about that,” said the old lady and off she went. A short while later, over the din that Kitty was making, Maffew could hear the whirring blades of a helicopter.

It got closer and louder.

And closer and louder.

Until it was right above Maffew’s garden.

Suddenly a net dropped from underneath the helicopter and fell on top of Maffew.

“Hey!” he shouted “Hey, stop!”

The helicopter’s net scooped Maffew off the ground and lifted him into the air.

“Help!” he cried, “I can’t get out!”

But the helicopter pilot took no notice. The helicopter flew higher and higher. And higher and higher. And took Maffew further and further away.

Until they came to a place far away. A rock. In the middle of the sea.

The helicopter went down and down closer to the rock and then lowered Maffew in the net until it was almost touching the ground.

Then without warning the net opened and Maffew fell out onto the ground.

“OW!” he said.

The helicopter hovered above him for a moment and then it flew higher and higher. And further and further away.

“Come back!” shouted Maffew. But the helicopter didn’t come back. It just got further and further away until Maffew couldn’t see it or hear it any more.

“Who are you, big nose?” said a boy standing on a rock next to a tree.

“What’s it to you fatso?” said Maffew. “Where are we?”

“Don’t you know?” said the boy. “You’re on Naughty Boy Island”



I've no idea what should happen to, "Maffew" after he arrives the on the island, beyond maybe a few japes in the same mold as those that might appear between the pages of the Lion or Valiant. Maybe that's a bit mundane though, perhaps he deserves a more surreal treatment, just this side of James and the Giant Peach, I think.