Have I stepped into a Western Film?

Boardwalk, train tracks, Town Square complete with gazebo, this is clearly a Western town.

Hello?  Is anybody there?  No?  Fine, I'll just address these queries to the ether then, shall I?  I'm assuming by your silence that you are not in charge of the madness here.  That could be a rash assumption, true, but what else am I to make of it?

Nevertheless I demand an explanation of some sort.

To start with I'd like to know how I ended up in this strange western film.  I don't remember auditioning.  I clearly remember packing my things up in London and traveling across the ocean and then the continent to arrive in California.  I remember that my visa was up and I had no choice but to return home.  I remember that California was drier and less green than I'd recalled.  And then, I remember waking up here in some sort of strange western film without John Wayne in it to lead the action.  I do NOT remember an audition.  When exactly was it that I was selected to play the heroine in a western film?

Again, train tracks, boardwalk, small house from Gold Rush days.  This feels like a film set.  It can't be my life, can it?

So you're choosing not to answer I see.  I am assuming by the protracted silence that you are denying such things are, or could ever be, true.  People do not just wake up in Western films you say with your decided lack of words.

In this dry western desert I struggle to grow any flowers.  Note the overwhelming amount of dry dust around.

And yet, here I am.  I live in an old farm house, parts of which date to the 1880's.  There are chickens running around in my yard and I have to worry about defending them from the coyotes.  I stamp my boots on the mat to get the dry brown desert dust off of them and I have found a hat indispensable in this hot sunny climate.  I had to chase a "bad guy" out of my house the other week as if this were a lawless town where help and the sheriff are several miles ride from here.  I stomped across a board-walk last weekend to listen to the community band play in the town park's gazebo.  And there are lots of little tumbleweeds growing in my yard.

Tumbleweed!!!  I am growing tumbleweed!

Two months ago I was living in London and now I'm chasing criminals out of my house and raising tumbleweed, dust and chickens.  I used to stroll down wrought-iron lined pavements and now I'm stamping along wooden board-walks.  Two months ago I neatly side-stepped inebriates on London's streets and now I listen for the howl of coyotes before I let my cat outside at night.

Sometimes it all feels like a terrible joke.  Except I'm not laughing people.  So, if you happen to be in charge of casting, or you're the director, or some such nonsense, I have a few things to discuss with you.  Firstly, I would like the bad guys to stop visiting my ranch and busting in through my door.  John Wayne isn't here to help out with the brawling and jailing of said nasty individuals.  Until he is I will not stand for any more intruders.  Secondly, I'm not sure why you cast me in a western, but I'd like the plot to change a little.  I'd like a little less madness if you don't mind.  Not to mention fire.  Why is there always fire in a western?  This southern California film has been no exception.  I'd like to request a cessation of fires as well.  And if you happen to throw in a few strokes of good fortune and maybe give me a job or money I won't complain either.

Well, that's about all for now.  I've got to go corral a few chickens and herd some tumbleweed before I sit peaceably on my front porch watching the sun as it sets over the desert hills.  And I need to ponder the acquisition of a horse.  If I'm to continue living in this western film I may need one.