Friday 26 April 2013

A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Five

Pricilla Courtess

You wouldn’t believe it. I can’t even believe it myself. A man licked his bowl. Licked it! The soup is piss water, and he licked it clean. Imagine, this place refused my darling Fifi when the people themselves are mongrels. My hair is falling out. My. Hair. Is. Falling. Out. Don’t even get me started on my eyelashes. The one I have anyway.
If it weren’t for dear Simon, well, I don’t know. He’s as loopy as they come that one, but bless the lamb. I mean, the guy takes half an hour putting his stuff in the right place, by my, oh my, he is a star.
Which reminds me, I called that no good Patrick Star. I gave the scum a good old piece of my mind, I told him, I said ‘You, you are the scum on my shoes. The most useless piece of crap I ever did see.’ I said a good deal more, believe me.
Anyway, I hung up but I started thinking. I thought to myself, thirty years I’ve been doing this. Thirty years and all that I have to show is a free bowl of soup in a morning. I mean, look at me, Pricilla Courtess, no make-up on and sat in a homeless shelter. Well, I pulled out my sketches and took a good hard look and I thought, who was I kidding? Even I don’t wear my designs.
Well, I started sobbing to Simon something fierce. I could have just settled down, popped out a few kids like normal women? No. Pricilla Courtess had to give herself a dodgy hip pleasing the men who were gonna make her dreams. Pricilla Courtess had to have Botox, and fucking Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh. Pricilla Courtess isn’t even my real name, can you believe that? Thirty years I’ve kept that charade going.
 I would kill for a Pall Mall now, you know? Literally, anyone of the mongrels in here, even for just one drag. Oh, and a lighter that works for once in my damned life. I think of my poor little angel pie, in some damn dog ‘home’ like she hasn’t got anyone who loves her.  It makes my hair start falling out all over again. Can you imagine the humiliation?
Anyway, even dear Simon couldn’t put up with my tears, the poor fruit-loop. He walked right on out of the shelter, clutching his bird book. Honestly, he treats that thing like it’s more precious than my pearls, flattens every page out before bed and everything.
Now, you will not believe what happened when he got back, you simply won’t. He’s got a face like a slapped arse bless him, twiddling his thumbs like he’s just lost a leg or something. Anyway, he turns round and you know what he says? He says, ‘I got you a job’, well I cut him off straight away with this big old shriek and started flapping my damn hands around like some cuckoo bird. And believe me, that wasn’t even the best part. He turns round and says, ‘You’re going to be a designer for Monica Green.’ Well, my jaw damn near dropped though the floor. How stupid was I? I’d just nearly given up, nearly convinced myself I was no good. Laughable isn’t it?

Well, Simons got this big grin on his face and says something about, ‘We can leave today’. Anyway, I’m already busy packing up my designs, passing him my free soup and shouting ‘What we? I’ve got to go!’ and running out the door. Can you believe it, Pricilla Courtess is gonna be a star

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