This is a clip from a play wot I wrote - well, am still writing. Very simple stuff, two middle aged blokes, Bob and Dave, chatting about life.
Dave has just turned up at Bob's flat for a DVD and beer evening.
Bob sits down one one sofa, Dave on the other. Dave puts his coat on the sofa.
Dave:
Hey, guess what, last night I saw Susan!
Bob:
Really? And, er, how is.... 'Susan'?
Dave:
Oh she's looking very, very nice indeed.
Bob:
What was she doing?
Dave:
She was undressing. Getting ready for bed, know what I mean?
Bob:
Uhuh, ok. Look, Dave, don't you think it would be polite to stop calling her 'Susan'?
Dave:
Why on earth should I?
Bob:
Because that's not her name. You made that up. And if you're going to spend every spare evening peering into her bedroom window you might at least find out what her real name is.
Dave:
You're just being unreasonable. How am I supposed to find out her real name? I can't just go and knock on her door and ask. I just call her 'Susan' because it's a nice name and it's a convenient way of referring to her.
Bob:
Does Andrea know you've got binoculars?
Dave (irritably):
Yes, she does, of course, I use them when I go fishing every other Sunday.
Bob:
Fishing?
Dave:
Yes, fishing.
Bob:
But why the f**k do you need binoculars to go fishing?
Dave:
Because Susan's house backs on to the river.
Bob (almost at a loss for words):
How, uh, how is Andrea? Keeping well?
Dave:
She's fine. Not long to go now, just another week or two.
Bob:
Another baby eh? Another mouth to feed? And you get sex again. How long is it now?
Dave:
Don't remind me.
Bob:
Sorry.
Dave:
I wouldn't mind but every f**king night she wants me to rub coco butter on her tits. Every f**king night. She lies there like a, like a...
Bob:
Beached whale?
Dave:
Exactly. Stark naked, lying there, telling me to rub coco butter on her tits. I tell you mate, it's more than flesh and blood can stand. I mean, the last time we did it was, like, a century ago. It's doing my head in.
Bob:
Why can't she rub herself - I mean, why can't she do it herself? Rubbing, I mean. On her, uh, on her own.
Dave:
She's lazy. Always has been. Nope, she prefers to lie there, reading her bloody Harry Potter and the wotsits of whatever, while I rub her tits. And after that she tells me to go and make a cup of tea. Like I'm not carrying a telegraph pole in my pants.
Bob:
Well, I sympathise mate. I had a similar problem when I was with Yvonne.
Dave:
She was never pregnant. Was she?
Bob:
Uh, well, no. Not by me, anyway.
Dave:
Oh, yes, yes. Sorry mate. Forgot.
Bob:
Doesn't matter. Water under the bridge. Anyway, she was very fond of her baths. Every evening, in the bath. Nothing wrong with that, except she always demanded my presence. Apparently she couldn't relax unless I was in there with her.
Dave:
What, in the tub? That's a bit saucy.
Bob:
No, we tried that once. I got the tap end, of course. You ever tried relaxing with your head like this? (He demonstrates by twisting his head). Plus the hot tap dripped in my ear all the time. Anyway, she said I had to sit on the toilet and talk to her. She spent hours in that bloody tub and I missed every flaming episode of Heartbeat as a consequence.
