A Taste Of Honey Monologue New!

I left school because school didn’t suit me. They think education’s a one-size-fits-all apricot jam: spread it thick, expect everyone to swallow. But I learned more in the street in a day than in a week of books. People think “street” is dirty, but it’s honest. You learn what people will do for a penny, what kindness looks like when it’s the last thing you expect, and how quickly someone’s face can change when they realise you’re not what they thought. I learned not to be afraid. I learned to pretend. Pretending’s a useful skill. It keeps you safe sometimes.

End.

Jimmie… you stupid git. You forgot your scarf. a taste of honey monologue

And then there was that time I found out I was pregnant. I can tell you the weather — it was raining. Not a dramatic storm, just that steady, grey rain that makes you feel like the world’s been rinsed and left to dry. I remember feeling separated from everything, like I was watching through glass and everybody else had gone on living while the glass kept me safe and cruel and alone. When it happened — when the test said it — I expected fireworks, or at least a proper tantrum. But all I felt was this tide that pulled every small thing into a bigger thing. There was fear, yes — fear that I’d be laughed at, that my life would become a list of things I couldn’t do. But there was something else, something like a stubborn little warmth. It was mine, that feeling. It was the idea of making room for someone. I left school because school didn’t suit me