2. Rewrite the song "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan" into a short prose story. When you rewrite you should consider the meaning of the song in order to make the right priorities in your prose story.

My story starts in a comfy bed, underneath the silky-soft covers. My name is Lucy Jordan. My life has never been easy. I am thirty-seven years old, and I am probably never going to ride through Paris in a sports car, and never going to feel the warm wind in my hair while sitting in that same sports car. I’m what you usually would call a housewife. And reconsidering this title, you could probably call me a desperate one too.

I spend my day by doing several very exciting and challenging tasks. For example cleaning my big empty house, with no-one, except myself of course, too speak with. I also have an over dimensional gigantic garden. I can spend hours out there, planting flowers, remove weeds, or just let my eyes slide across my beautiful work, which I probably could have done a little better, but no-one never notices what I have done, so what is the point. Once, I actually ran naked through our own, normal human-empty, core-family street. What I did not know was that Mr. McJohnson had a day off, because of a cold. So of course he called the men in the cars with the blue and red light. They let me go, with a thousand dollars less in my pockets.

The age thirty-seven is not as bad as everybody say it is. I actually like my age. I know for sure that I am never going to drive in a sports car as fancy as Mr. McJohnson’s, but my biggest dream will always be to get away from this miserable place, empty from feelings and hope. Just drive through Paris, and feel the warm wind in my, newly washed and combed, hair. But I know that it will never happen. Or maybe it will.

I still remember the sweet voice of my dad, when he used to sing for my. I sat on his lap, and he sat in his big thick padded chair. The sweet voice he had. I still remember him singing me to sleep. It has been a while, since I have been sung to sleep. I usually sleep by myself. What is the point of having a husband, if he is never home? What is the point of having kids, if they do not even want to have a hug from their mother, because their father, friends, and parents of their friends, call her crazy, a lunatic, mental... insane!

I still remember my last memory from my very clean home, with pretty flowers, and silky-soft covers on the bed, and newly washed and combed hair. One day when I woke up I just felt like taking a walk, so I did. I still had my nightdress on. I remember seeing the sheets on my husband’s side of the bed. No signs of him being home this night. I started to giggle a little by myself. This has gone too far. The first thing that went through my mind was the warm wind in my hair. In the middle of august, the best place to feel the warm wind is at the top of the library. This is the biggest library in this state. So I went. I remember my quiet giggle back home, to have grown the closer I got to the library. I started to climb up the roof. A man told me to stop it and come down. But what does he know about me? All I wanted was to feel the warm wind in my beautiful, newly washed, nicely smelling hair. When I got to the top of the roof, a lot of people have gathered to watch me feel the wind in my hair. And they were not the only one. Again the people from the cars with the blue and red light came to see me. But this time it was not to take my money, but to take my dream away from me.

The white car with the people, and the blue and red light, transported me to here. Here where I always can feel the warm wind in my hair. I can feel the warm wind, even while I am driving a very pretty sports car. A lot of the people living here with me are very weird. I would even say some of them are insane. But that is alright, because everybody I used to know always say I am insane too. But what do they know? They have never felt the warm wind in their hair, and they are probably never going to drive a sports car half as fine as mine.