Using a line from our partners work we wrote another piece, I chose to write a monologue but any form was allowed.
I chose the line, ‘I want to tell you about my fidgety brain.’
Oh it’s you, I’m glad you’re here. Come in. Come through, sit down. I want to talk to you.
Yes, I know, but what-
Yours can wait, mine can’t. I need to talk to you. I want to tell you about my fidgety brain.
Don’t sigh like that. Are you rolling your eyes at your mother?
Listen to me. All my life I’ve been sensible. I studied…I became a teacher when that…No don’t tut. It’s true. I was a good mother. I’m sure I was.
Yes, I was. I know I was a good wife. I couldn’t have been any better.
So what I’m saying is, all these years I was good. Not just good, I was ordered, neat, well behaved, controlled. And now, well, there’s no need for me to…
Your dad’s gone. You’re living away. I’m retiring.
So why should I behave? Why should I be polite and calm and help with the cleaning at the church?
Listen, son, I’ve had enough. I never got to have wild teenage years, I was nursing Granddad and then I got married to escape that and ended up looking after your dad and you and its not that I didn’t love him…not that I’m happy he’s gone…
It’s just. Sometimes I wish I’d done it first.
God, how would he have coped? What would he have done with this place, with you? And I know it’s hard for you to hear, son, but I think my brains had enough. Of drudgery and dinner at six, and washing just expected, can you iron this, lend me some money, help at the fair, read with the kiddies…
I’ve been getting these…urges…
No! No! Not like that you dirty…take after your dad, you do.
I want to paint.
Need to paint.
You see, now you are surprised. I just. I’ve started seeing in colour. Thinking in colour. Bright blues, vivid reds and the sun. My mind jumps about, seeing it all. Taking it all in and churning new ideas out. I just want to sit in the sun, not the vague sunlight out there. The real, hot sun. And I want to paint and paint until I don’t care that I didn’t get to drink before I was eighteen, until I don’t care I’ve only ever slept with your dad. You’ve had more partners than me. Don’t deny it. Irene next door showed how to work the Facebook.
And the thing is, why shouldn’t I? Go and paint, I mean.
Your dad’s left me the house and I know you’re worried about your inheritance, but…well…tough!
I’m selling up and I’m going to the heat.
Don’t try and guilt trip me.
If your dad can bugger off with a thirty year old red head, I can run away with an easel and a paintbrush.