A tale, nay, an epic, of....epic...proportions

Timothy Franklin was an accountant. He lived in Gore. Timothy lived alone, in a modest flat just off the main street of Gore. He was a thin, ash blond, pale, tall man who enjoyed wearing long sleeved shirts, even in summer- though he never seemed to sweat. Rather, he just eked out his existence in which the only exciting thing that happened was bingo night at work every Thursday.
You might say that Timothy was a boring man.
Ok, he was downright dull.
And in the evenings that he wasn't staying in late at work to process accounts or get some last minute reports done he used to sit on his couch and watch Home Improvement re-runs. Yes, he had the entire series on tape.

But there was someone out there who wasn't so boring. Timothy's neighbour, Yolanda. She was a weed-smoking hippie who played loud flute music all hours of the night and had a singing voice resembling a rhinocerous. And she didn't care what anybody thought of her. Red hair, long skirts, playing her out-of-tune guitar to God, she epitimised the phrase free spirit.

One day, Timothy met Yolanda. And something bizzarre took place.

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