FIRST DUOLOGUE OF THE COLLECTION! This can be split into a monologue, just choose either homeowners or mums!
BOTH: All my friends are-
1: -mums. 2:- homeowners
1: Mums! I’m not ready to be a mum.
2: They own their own homes. Own them.
BOTH: I’m an actor.
1. I mean my mum knows everything.
2: They have bought a house.
1. Confused? Call mum.
2: They have an actual mortgage.
1. Sad? Call mum.
2. They put down a serious deposit.
1. Stressed? Call mum.
2: As in they saved a lot of money and put down a deposit.
1. Sick? Call mum.
2: I’m still waiting for the deposit back on my last, small, mold-ridden London flat.
1. I am so not ready to be giving that kind of mum advice. I can make a mean roast potato and my resting job is keeping kids entertained but seriously…
2: Ok, so they live in small towns up north and I live in London but I can barely afford my rent and have no idea when or where my next job will be. (Beat) HOMEOWNERS!
BOTH: I am so not ready for that.
Tell him what?
What would I do if I saw him?
I couldn’t tell him how I really feel. What would I say?
I wouldn’t say anything. I’d say hello. I’d smile. I’d have a good, civil conversation and I’d leave. Then I’d probably spend the next year wishing I’d said something and then hoped he had said the same thing back, and not walked away.
But it’s too risky. Anyway we never speak as it is, you can’t just not speak to someone for months and then tell them you love them. I don’t even know if I do still love him, actually. Or if I’ve just not met someone who makes me feel like he did.
And we’ve both changed, and grown up. To me that’s a good thing but I bet he doesn’t even think about me anymore. And I can’t, I won’t ever be someone that wants him for money. And no-one is gonna think that of me. He’s doing well now, and that’s great, I’m proud. But I’d still feel like this if he wasn’t. Sometimes I wish I could turn the clock back and, like, not leave. Or work something out. But what’s regretting? You can’t regret things. That’s the type of thing I’d say to you, I need to take on a bit of my own advice. If I turned the clock back I probably wouldn’t be where I am today. And I’m proud of myself. He’s off living his dream and mine is just beginning.
I guess I just thought, and convinced myself cause it’s easier, that it’s never over. I always thought we’d find each other somewhere and get married and have kids. No matter how far apart we got, it’s never over.
He won’t be thinking like this. He’ll be off enjoying himself. But if he does ever think of me, I should have said something. I thought about writing it all down but it didn’t sound like me. Maybe it’s just not the time.
Are you from London? Do you live in London? No. Do you love the tube? I bet you love the tube. And the bus. You love it don’t you, cos it’s London. You probably got a picture of yourself with an underground sign and next to a red double decker in an album of a million photos on Facebook, called “My weekend in London.” Or something to that effect…Are you going to Leicester Square? Going to watch a show? I’ve seen loads of shows.
I didn’t get my oyster out quick enough the other day and stood at the side rummaging through my bag like a dick. That was in Leicester Square. If you don’t have your oyster ready, you are a dick. And you’re probably gonna get trodden on. People are like dinosaurs in tube stations.
I can tell your not from here. How? People know you’re not from London, if you haven’t got an oyster.
Do you know you can’t actually use the bus without an Oyster card?
Oh actually, have you got contactless?
Works like an oyster.
I haven’t got contactless yet.
I hate public transport. At home I’d never get the bus. As in home home. Not London home. In London, you have to. I don’t mind the tube, until it robs my money. It actually does that you know, robs your money. They do eventually give it you back but still..
I’ll tell you, the best bit of the journey, if you walk along the top deck whilst the bus is in motion without stumbling- nailed it. Or or- if you manage to find the exact spot on the platform where the doors will open you are a winner… Until some fucking rude idiot pushes in front of you and doesn’t allow the people off first. That’s not cool. That’s against the rules. Something else against the rules is talking. Don’t speak to someone you don’t know whilst on public transport in London. It’s weird. You’re weird. I’m sure you’re a lovely human being, but in London, you’re weird.
I’m just helping you out.
I’m not weird.
No wonder I’m tired! I just spent two hours scrolling through Pinterest!
I FUCKING LOVE PINTEREST.
It’s got my- future house… Future creative plans, even though I’m no good at art, umm, like, places I wanna live, places I wanna travel, holidays I need to go on, future wardrobe, future…getaways, relationships I wanna be in, really fit men I wanna date. I just don’t have the money or the lifestyle, so I just live my life through Pinterest.
Pinterest is the way to live your life.
All I want is a house that Pinterest can be proud of! I want a small, little house that I can do, like, loads of creative stuff in and cook all my Pinterest recipes and, like, have space to do all my Pinterest workouts. And then I’ll be really fit, with a really nice house… and a dog.
That’s all. That’s all I want. That’s not much to ask is it?
I mean, I haven’t gone as far as planning my wedding because I think that’s, like, testing fate too much BUT my house is gonna be perfect. I just need money to buy one, someone that can do all this creative stuff, and somewhere that you can upcycle stuff, but nowhere sells anything. I found a chair in a charity shop the other day but it wasn’t for sale. I want a chair that I can paint, and, like, a really cool… desk. And some really inspirational quotes on the wall, because I’ve also got hundreds of inspirational quotes. If you’re ever feeling down, Pinterest is the place to go.
Pinterest. Is. Amazing.
It’s, like, my life.
My life is on Pinterest. When I’m bored, I’m on Pinterest. When I need inspiration, I’m on Pinterest. When I wanna do something cool and quirky… well I’m on Pinterest. I’ve got it all sorted but then I’ve not actually got round to doing any of the cool things I’ve found on there which is not what it’s supposed be but I like all the pretty things.
“You’re a dick. An absolute fucking dick. I can’t believe how ridiculous your behaviour was before. You’re so rude and it’s like you don’t even care. And then you don’t even consider how it might make me feel. I really don’t want to argue with you, because I haven’t got the energy anymore. I’m just tired of it.”
That’s what I should have said.
When he asked me “Is everything ok?” What I should have said was “No actually it’s not because you’re a dick. An absolute fucking dick. Your behaviour was ridiculous. You’re so rude and you don’t even care about it or how it might make me feel. I really don’t want to argue with you, because I haven’t got the energy anymore. I’m just tired of it.”
Instead I just said “fine.”
I don’t even know what fine means. I shouldn’t have said fine. I should have said what I just said, but I’ve had 3 hours to think about that and write it down properly, and now he’s gone home and things like that should not be said over text.
Oh god. I need to tell you something.
I had sex-
It was awful. He was gifted, but he just didn’t know what to do with it…
We finished- or he did- and he was like “mm that was so good!” And I was just like “… Yeahhhhh…”
He’s 25, and he must have had other women, but he just didn’t know how to work himself, never mind me. It was a long time coming, the sex, not him, God definitely not him, but it just wasn’t good. I think he thinks I loved it, but I’m hoping he doesn’t want to do it again because I can’t be arsed spending the next few months teaching him how a woman’s body works. Dyu know what I mean?! I don’t think I’m being a bitch, I mean it was never serious.
He’s probably telling his mates how good it was, but it just wasn’t. Size is definitely not everything…
“I’m not coming into work today, I’ve been hit on the head with a ladder.”
That’s what I thought on my way in this morning when this guy came round the corner with a massive ladder. He was carrying it on his shoulder and all I could think of was the ladder swinging round the corner and smacking me on the head. Then I wouldn’t be able to come to work would I?!
I don’t want to be here today. I wish I didn’t have to be here. I wish I didn’t have to work at all to be honest. Imagine you didn’t have to work, but you had all the money. I’ve already planned what I’m spending my lottery money on… I should probably buy a ticket.
It’s not that I don’t like working here, but everyone sometimes wishes they didn’t have to come to work. I’m knackered. And I can’t be arsed dealing with pissy people. They’ve got loads of money. I mean, they probably work for it, but they’ve got loads of money and it’s like they know I haven’t. So they’re a dick.
Imagine I was hit on the head with that ladder. Dyu reckon anyone would believe me? Weird that innit, “I’ve been hit on the head with a ladder.” To be fair, I probably wouldn’t be able to say I’d been hit on the head, I’d just not just turn up and then everyone would be thinking I was asleep and probably being a bitch but then it’s all because I was smacked on the head and got concussion.
TINNED MUSHROOMS ARE OFFENSIVE.
Have you ever tried tinned mushrooms?
Well don’t. They are offensive.
I bought some because I love mushrooms and thought they might be good to chuck in some dinner when I’d run out of food and needed to cook with the remnants of my cupboard. I thought, “hey, if I run out of fresh veg at least I’ll still be able to enjoy mushrooms.” It’s advisable to have tins in the cupboard. Long-lasting. Sometimes you just can’t find the time to do the weekly shop. That’s ok. That’s what cupboards are for. And tinned vegetables. And why would you think they’d be awful. Tinned tomatoes, I always use. Sweet corn, great from a tin. Beans, perfect. Mushrooms, no.
I mean really, deep down, I wanted a pizza but nowhere nearby was open and I couldn’t be arsed waiting for a delivery so I thought mushrooms (and something else but I can’t remember what that was) on toast would do. Still bread, veg, ketchup. Fills a hole.
Boy, was I wrong. They ruined my toast and I love toast. They tasted like they’d been out in a hot room for a good year or two. They were not good for a hungry, post-work, coming to the end of a hangover, me.
Lesson learnt: never lower your standards. If you want pizza but can’t find any suitable, don’t settle for tinned mushrooms on toast. Say “no” to tinned mushrooms. Don’t be fooled.
I’ve got a date tonight. A third date. That’s pretty serious, right?
I was showered ages ago but I’m in still my dressing gown. I’m not meeting him till 8. No need to be too keen. I met him on this app, Happn. It’s like Tinder but less about getting in my pants. I think. Or at least I’ve convinced myself that it is.
I might have showered 3 hours ago but I still need to paint my nails, moisturise, pick out some nice underwear (not that he’ll be seeing it but still nice underwear is always best.) What should I wear? We are going for dinner. What do you eat? What if I make a mess? What if my breath smells? What if my choice of meal makes me look fat? What if I eat too much? What if I eat too quickly?
Salad. Go for salad. But salad is such a lame choice in a restaurant. Salad is probably a safe option. Unless he’s sitting there thinking “Why has she ordered salad. I don’t care what the hell you eat.” Which is probably what I’d be thinking.
He’s Jewish. Not that that’s an issue. Jewishue. I mean he’s as Jewish as I am Christian and I’m a very accepting person and this is a pretty mammoth generalisation, I mean if they’re a nice guy, they’re a nice guy, but what if he wants me convert? And his mum might not like me, and you always have to win over the mums. Once a Muslim guy asked me out at work, which is fine, but all I could think of was “What if I have to convert to Islam?!” I wouldn’t be able to drink and there wouldn’t be any more Sunday morning hangover bacon sandwiches? Even though he definitely drinks… I’ve thought too much into this, but you have to consider everything. What if he were to think I was leading him on and then I just said “I’m sorry but I just can’t convert to Islam?” I’m not ready for that kind of commitment.
You’ve probably guessed by this point that I don’t really go on many dates.
I should probably start getting ready…
I haven’t got a date tonight. No third date. 20 minutes before leaving the house, I’m stood here in knickers and a blouse trying to decide what pants to wear and he’s text me fucking me off to be sick. What the fuck?! Maybe he realised I’m not Jewish? Why am I even sad about it? Bullshit. That’s why I don’t do dates.
I feel like shit. I think my head might fall off today. I’m sure it weighs about 15 stone.
I woke-up hungover. I fell over putting my tights on. I had to clean the crisps out of my bed that I don’t remember eating. What is my life?!
My hangover diet consists of water, a McDonald’s large chicken nugget meal with a diet coke and a McFlurry and of course a free student cheeseburger, water, crisps, water, free food at work and more water.
Why didn’t I drink water last night? And why the hell don’t I remember getting into bed? And why is my shit all over the floor? And why did it take me an hour to find the bus stop?! I hate buses as it is but I hate them even more when it takes me an hour to find one and in the process of searching I fell down, on all fours, in the road. Why is London so difficult? I’m telling you, there are little pixies or something that steal the road signs and move them around just to confuse people. So I fell down. I mean, I stacked it. Then I cried. I might not remember the crisps but I remember that much.
I also remember that Baker Street station has toilets. They are free. If it wasn’t for the nice guy in Baker Street station I probably wouldn’t have found the bus stop for another hour or so and may well have pissed myself. Drunk in one-way-system-central London after the tubes have finished is not the one.
Saturday afternoon off work. Obviously; pyjamas, tea, tea, more tea, Sex & the City, tea, Sex & the City, baking, tea…
I am single.
And I’m sitting here, in my bed, in the afternoon, still in my pyjamas, about to watch the second episode of the second series of Sex & the City and I just think to myself, “I am practically Carrie Bradshaw.”
I’m sat in my room, in a small flat in London writing about my life. That is so Carrie Bradshaw. Minus the pretty Manhattan place, the New York cocktail bars, the money, the shoes, the sex…
I live in London. I’ve been here since September. There are millions of men. Why am I not having sex with one of them?! Instead I come home from work to my pyjamas and listening to Radio 4.
I downloaded one of those dating apps a couple of months ago. Happn. It’s like Tinder, but less about just getting in my pants. I sort of hated it, because I don’t want to meet someone on an app that I passed in the street, but I just thought “Fuck it! I’m in London, who cares?!” Then after one too many (so three) people sending me ridiculous lines, one failed date and one terrible excuse, I deleted it. It’s nice to get a bit of attention but seriously, you’re not going to meet the one, or anyone with any real connection, on an app, are you? You just like each other’s faces? Yeah you might be fit but you’ve probably got the personality of a pea, and I doubt you’re going to find my dreadful jokes as hilarious as I do!
Commitment though, I am not ready for that shit. I’ve been single for about 2 years and spent those two years worrying about myself and my dog and star fishing across the bed. Anyway, all I actually want a boyfriend for is to eat pizza in bed and make me a cuppa tea on Sunday morning. Although the pizza thing is probably not gonna happen because men have a weird thing with eating in bed.
I have just started writing, for my final project on my MA at Central. I’m writing a collection of monologues- “Life of a twenty-something”
So far, I have a book full of scribbles and random wonderings based on Twitter, hangovers, dates and the shower! Over the next few weeks these will be developed into a set of stand-alone monologues, some of which might be showcased in a new writing night I’m hoping to plan in the summer.
I’m an actress, without an agent, wanting to showcase the talent of new actors and writers.