First Draft of Monologue (500)

A HAUNTED HOUSE

A monologue from the short play by Josie Cubie

18 year old Isabel is sat alone at the kitchen table, her legs curled beneath her and her head resting on one hand. With her other hand she is playing with the one-way ticket that brought her back home from boarding school.

ISABEL: I didn't think it would be very different, but it is somehow. The outside walls of the house are still the same dull yellow colour, still filled with dark windows, and yet I don't recognise it. Even the smell of the place has changed – thick cigarette smoke no longer hangs burning in the air beneath my nose, tickling my top lip, curling up into my nostrils to rest. It’s funny, really, but without the dry tobacco leaves muddying the air…the house seems a little more alive. That is funny right? How his death – the absence of him and his oldest habit – has made this live-in graveyard pulse with life.

[Stops playing with ticket.]

My mother sent for me a week after his death. She wrote me a letter, vague and dry enough that she could have been talking about losing her job or even a set of keys. It was only the last line that had even hinted at my father's death. She had added it right on the end, like it was an afterthought. I know what she would have said. “Oh, perhaps I should let Izzy know that her father has died. Maybe she'd like to know. She's peculiar like that - maybe she'll even cry. Who knows what odd things that girl will do.”

Of course I wanted to know. Wouldn't you? Am I the only one that thinks it cold to tell your only daughter such an awful thing at the very end of a letter so stuffed full of formalities that I might forgive you for thinking it was from an employer rather than a parent?? Three words were all she deemed necessary to break the news: Your father's died. Thank you, mother. Thank you.

[Unfurls legs.]

I know it's silly or stupid or maybe both but I've been back for a week now and I feel homesick in my own home. I'm not even sure if calling this place my home is fair any more; I've been away at school for so long that the word tastes funny in my mouth. It doesn't help that there is no family here. “Home is where your family is” they say. But if that's the case I'm not sure where my home is.

You see, after the letter I had expected to come back to one less parent – that was a given, he had died - but entering this house meant peeling back an old dusty curtain that hid the corpse of my mother.

[Pause.]

It's like she's decided that if my father's gone, she might as well be too. But don't think of her as romantic or sad and lonely. Because for the past few years their feelings towards each other have grown into something more akin to distaste than affection. And if she were lonely...well I'm here, aren't I? Shouldn't I be enough?

[Looks down at ticket.]

First Draft of Comment Article (500)

It’s time to let the cat out the (school isn’t everyone’s) bag

There is a fine line between disliking school and genuinely struggling with the system, one which is too often blurred

Josie Cubie

The Observer, Monday 21 October 2013 13:00 BST

Struggling students are often seen as 'stupid' or 'naughty'
Photograph: http://www.soulbuilders.net/soulblog/

 

It’s no secret that school's not exactly everybody’s idea of Heaven On Earth, so it isn’t a surprise when we hear children grouching through their school years, proclaiming to all who will listen ‘I HATE SCHOOL’. And who doesn’t remember grudgingly slamming a hand down on the snooze button of their alarm clock, too groggy and sleepy-eyed to have strength enough to lift themselves out of bed? Who can’t recall the winter mornings when stepping out from the shower felt as ludicrous an idea as jumping naked into an ice lake? Who didn’t feign illness on the first Monday back, when PE was on the cards and an English essay was due three days before?

I remember a time in my own school career when I wholeheartedly believed that the educational institute which I attended couldn’t possibly have been any worse. As most young people tend to do, I exaggerated my situation, made it seem far shoddier than it was. But the facts were these: I had friends (some good friends, even), I did well enough in the subjects I most enjoyed and I was not picked on.

Although I may not have been up before the cockerel, ready and rearing to go, I can’t deny that school was a good place for me to be.

For my brother I know that this wasn't the case. He battled with school throughout his time there, and though we attended the same institute our experiences were vastly different. Whether this was because of gender differences, his struggles with dyslexia and dyspraxia, or simply because he wasn't wired for school, I don't know. But I do know that everyday that he was forced to attend, made him hate the whole ruddy system that little bit more.

My eldest brother eventually found himself in PRU, the Pupil Referral Unit, which (while it was a better environment for him than school) was still a way away from what he needed. The places he was enduring – even PRU – were too objective in their approach, when what he really required was a system that catered to his individual needs.

It would be unfair to say that PRU did not help my brother, but I was shocked at the stigma that was attached to his attendance there. It was seen as somewhere for 'idiots' or 'pests' that had been thrown out of school for their lack of effort, or worse, worth. Even my own friends seemed to think it was a bum-hangout.

And since I am able to use this platform for good (even if nobody reads it), I'd like us all to take a moment to realise that this connotation is as twisted as tree roots.

Opening to a Technology Blog Article

theguardian

TECHNOLOGY BLOG

Twitter: why the whole nation's in a flap

After years of snowballing interest, Twitter has finally nested in our hearts, with more people joining than ever before

Josie Cubie

theguardian.com, Monday 14 October 2013 12.42 BST

With PR Daily estimating that there are currently over 100 million people using Twitter on a regular basis, it would be fair to say that this social networking site plays a very important role in today's society.

Celebrities such as Stephen Fry, Ricky Gervais and the cast of hit reality TV show Made in Chelsea frequently post their opinions and thoughts online for fans to see, leading to a growth in site visitors – most of whom are keen to stay in the loop. Never has it been easier to “follow” your favourite stars, as they are now available at the click of a button.

Twitter’s snowballing popularity could also be largely due to its accessibility, as it is possible for anybody with access to the internet to create their own account and begin “tweeting”. K Bevan, from The Guardian, described the website as being “a collection of microblogs where people post their minute-by-minute thoughts and actions.” Supposedly, it is this instant flow of information and gratification that makes Twitter such a popular expressive forum.

The website even has its own identifiable language, the use of which can often be heard outside of the internet. “Hashtags”, “Trends”, and “Retweets” are spoken casually about, as though they have been a part of our lives for longer than the four years Twitter has existed.

Jack Dorsey, one of the three men responsible for the arrival of the Twitter-era, has managed to smoothly integrate the site into every part of our daily lives: our phones, our facebook profiles, our favourite TV programmes – it is even used as a teaching aid in schools.

 

Travel Writing - Prague

This is meant to be like an extract...

 

 

Standing here looking over the low wall of the Charles Bridge, I feel a strange warmth wash over me – I am in a fairy tale. As the sky grows darker, dripping black ink onto the furthest edge of the horizon, the city of Prague is flooded with fire-warm lights, not dissimilar to those strung across the Christmas trees back home. It is in the incandescent glow of these night time lights that the city truly comes alive. Streets of market stalls that tower with braided buns and sweet loupák (a bread that I have come to love), clusters of brightly lit cafés, hordes of people spilling out from theatres and museums, their spirits heightened by the sight of the Vltava river, which flows silently through the capital. No one rushes home, though even now in the melting spring the wind is bitter enough that they might.

   We are on our way to the castle, walking slowly through cobbled streets, and already I can see its winding turrets reaching up from the earth like arms to the Heavens. Though I have been here once before, the city is different now: alive somehow with the electricity that pulses through the annual throng of over four million tourists – quadruple the population of this enchanted city.

   My last visit was during the winter, when icy lattices made diamonds of the stonework and fresh snow softened the gothic nature of the Czech Republic’s oldest buildings. Now there is no frost, and I see Prague for what it is: an ancient city that thrums with culture, its golden-grey buttresses a perfect likeness to the ones I imagined while reading all my favourite stories – Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast. While it is fair to say that there is something sinister about the shadows cast by crouching gargoyles, the hairs that stand up on my neck only deepen my love for this city.

My Own Monologue

The style model I used was the Keately monologue we looked at in class.

Allison Gilbert is a working mother whose husband is having an affair. She sits alone in the playground of the school where she works, waiting to be picked up by her daughter.

ALLISON: We met at nursing school, he and I. (Pause.) We were both based in Southampton, within the same block of tiny, red brick flats. They were naff, those flats. The ceilings oozed black treacle and the carpets where lumpy and worn: the play areas of hidden rodents...I suppose we didn't really care at the time. We were students; free of our parents for the first time. (Pause. Subtle smile.) When I met him I thought he was gay, you know. He wore these tight leather trousers that left almost nothing to the imagination, and his hands - they moved in this ethereal, flowing way that reminded me of a ballet dancer. Imagine that! (Long pause. Smile Fades.) A year later we were engaged. He took me to Bath for the day and we walked through the city until we found a sweet little café that sold afternoon tea...Betty's Teapot, I think it was. (Thinking.) He went to fetch us some scones – a mountain of them – and came back balancing a little velvet box in the crook of his arm. (Pause. Looks down at feet.) I'm Mrs Gilbert now. (Quiet.) We were happy. He loved me. (Looks up. Weak smile.) I know that he still does – believe me, I know it...I don't think that you can bring three children into the world with someone and feel nothing for them. (Pause.) They're all grown up now. Our eldest, Dylan, is at university studying for his final year. He's training to become a paramedic, and we're all very proud of him. 'We're proud of you,' we say. And we are. (Pause.) It's quieter in the house now that the kids are starting to live their own separate lives. I remember when my husband and I would beg for silence...and now the absence of noise is what keeps me awake at night. (Thoughtful.) It's hard to converse with someone you've been talking to to for twenty five years, but we make it work. Find things to say. 'Nice weather, hey, Ally?' 'Beach weather I'd say, Nick.' 'Anything good for dinner?' 'Haven't got that far yet.' 'Oh right.' 'How was work?' 'The usual. Anything good on TV tonight?' (Long pause. Deep breath.) We've always been open with each other. Always. Truly, we have. It's just that nowadays it's much harder. And all the secrets...just seem so much easier. (Sighs.) He works shifts now, sometimes even nights. Goes out early, comes home late. But he comes home. That's the point, isn't it? He comes back to me, sleeps in my bed, kisses my damp cheek, tells me he loves me. He's there. (Pause. Honest smile.) Before the jobs, the kids, the mortgage – before the big white wedding that made our parents so happy – my husband would sing to me each morning. His voice was terrible. He couldn't hold a note to save his life, but nonetheless we would dance to his songs and he would hold me tight to him, caressing my back as though he'd never felt a silk so fine as my skin. (Silent.) I used to think that he would sing to me utnil the day that one of us died. (Struggling now.) But he doesn't sing any more; not to me. The silk of my skin has turned to coarse Hessian beneath his fingers. The silly nicknames that we came up with the day we moved in together...hang limply in the thin air between our smiles. (Long pause.) I loved him. I married him. I trusted him. I still do. Isn't that what I tell him everyday? I do, I do, I do...

Opinion Article

The Big Problem with Small Talk: Why I Hate Family ‘Parties’

Small talk has been a dark shadow at the heels of the Average Joe for millennia – and it’s time for us to take back the silence

Josie Cubie

The Guardian, Monday 7 October 2013

 

In the past I have spoken openly about my distaste for the sordid gatherings that are so hastily (and rather distastefully) labelled ‘family parties’ – but until now I have kept my reasons for detesting this particular loathsome activity to myself. Not anymore.

It seems that this great nation has become a victim of one of the dullest pastimes imaginable: talking about the weather. As if the days are not long enough, the clouds not dark enough, the pavements not damp enough, we feel the inherent need to make our conversations rain.

Alone at a bus stop? Let it pour. Visiting the buffet table at your brother’s anniversary? Expect a shower. Checking out items at the supermarket tills? May the heavens open above you.

All of this is not to say that I don’t enjoy a good natter – I do. It’s just that I faithfully stand behind the philosophy that talking non-stop about the size of the potholes on the local high-street will gain you minus three friends. Perhaps minus four.

Although most people capable of speech have at some point accidentally allowed themselves to slip into conversations that could be seen as boring or time wasting (myself included), my years of mindlessly wondering this planet have led me to believe that those with the highest level of accountability, the greatest expertise in the field of blathering, the LARGEST of umbrellas, are in fact OAPs.

Incidentally, it was my own Grandmother’s actions that prompted me to write an article on the subject. To her, apparently, my cheerful perusing of the snack table at the latest family revelry was an unwitting invitation for her to march up to me and ask the same ruddy question she does every time we are forced into the same musty old room: ‘My, haven’t you grown?’

Perhaps the correct response is quite different to the one I usually give – a stiff nod of the head, an awkward smile, a whispered ‘so have you, Gran,’ – but I don’t believe that any response would prevent my dear old Grandmother from steam training ahead with a list of questions that I will surely have to repeat at least fifty times during the course of the evening. Yes, Gran, college is great. Yes, Gran, I’m learning a lot. Yes, Gran, I’ve been eating my greens. I stand uncomfortably before the motley crew that is my dear family, arms crossed over my chest, hiding the silly dress that I bought believing that it would fit the occasion well. This is not my idea of a fun Saturday night.

While (of course) I love my family, I do not necessarily want to dress up and sit around a long table exchanging civilities with them until the cows come home. It’d be much more interesting if we all just freed ourselves of the chains and swore at each other across tables, ranted about all the things we truly despise, argued over chicken legs. After all, my immediate family are hardly the types to sit prettily upon their silken napkins, waiting for someone to politely pass around the potato salad. Heck no. There are no rainy conversations at my house, only storms and tsunamis and earth shaking accusations. It’s more interesting that way.

There will come a time, I’m sure, when I will enjoy nothing more than a cup of Earl Grey and blether about the newly installed traffic lights that are giving me jip, but right now, I’d rather a roaring argument than a friendly catch up.  

Sure, small talk may be polite, some may even believe it to be necessary, but it’s as boring as meat and two veg, as mind numbing as a speech from Katie Price, and as predictable as a Sandra Bullock movie.

And if you disagree, then I had better get my brolly out.