The hopes and dreams of an almost 22 year old
Mamma: What do you want from life, Maddie?
Me: A small house in the suburbs, a cat, a stable job. Nothing extravagant.
Mamma: Not going to be a glamorous actress playwright, darling?
Me: No I have an incurable desire not to starve to death.
Mamma: You were never going to do something normal, dear. Make something of yourself.
Me: I am. I’m going to own a house in rural Cambridgeshire and have a cat. And work.
Mamma: Doing what? Daddy thinks you should be a screenwriter.
Me: Yeah I was thinking more something that actually pays.
Mamma: You want to earn a lot?
Me: No, I want to earn more than a pat on the back from some greasy executive.
Mumma: Insist on being paid.
Me: Have you met me? I’m meek. Shy. Painfully shy. I can’t ask a guy to move on the bus.
Mamma: You are a brilliant writer. Fight for it.
Me: That’s not enough. You need to have shagged Hugo Oxbridge, be a one legged badgersexual from Narnia, have done 18 unpaid internships in Mayfair, and be prepared to write flat flatmate sitcoms and tired detective shows.
Mumma: Show them something totally different. Then they’ll be interested.
Me: To them I am a big eyed fantasy they’d never actually carry through. I’m well aware the only reason I exist on this circuit is my body.
Mumma: Play the system. I did.
Me: Mummy, I’m a feminist. And the city in the 80s is rather different to media in 2017. It all has to go through casting or HR. Not that I’d actually screw Hugo anyway.
Mumma: Don’t have to.
Mumma: Shag Lord Oxbridge. Just be flirtatious and then stuff your scripts in their mouths.
Me: I don’t have to, they do read it. I think.
Mumma: And what do they say?
Me: Mostly nice things.
Mumma: And they don’t think you are the worst actress ever?
Me: Certainly never said that to my face.
Mumma: There then. They know you are an ok writer and a decent actress. That will be important later on.
Me: You always know what to say.
Mamma: Of course I do, I’m you but 55.
(Fade To Black)