A Question for the King

Monologue

My Inner Child

I went to this amazing workshop the other day where I discovered my inner child.

Well, I hardly need to tell you, I was thrilled. I thanked the facilitator profusely and took my inner child home on the bus.

‘This is marvellous’, I said when we got home. ‘Now I’ve found you, there’s no stopping us. Goodbye to staring at a blank sheet of paper or restlessly re-editing tired old work, now you can inspire me with your radiant curiosity from noon to night.

We’ll have a ball. Creatively speaking, this is the best thing that has ever happened to me, cheap at half the price. My inner child said nothing. She sat on a kitchen chair, chewing her bottom lip, her chubby little legs swinging, as she stared hard at the floor.

‘And just think’, I said excitedly, pouring myself a large gin, ‘what a difference you are going to make to my intimate relationships. I won’t have to be the strong, dependable, caring adult all the time. I might even get some of my more basic needs met for once. The people I’m closest to, will be charmed I’m sure, when they meet you.’

But she didn’t answer, she just kept staring at the floor.

‘Well, go on’, I said, topping up my drink and lighting a cigarette, ‘Say something. We’re alone at last. Let’s talk, have fun, bounce around the flat. You know, the stuff you’re supposed to do with your inner child.

‘You drink too much’, she said. ‘No, I don’t, and anyway what do you know about that, you’re a child.’

‘And smoking’s bad for you’.

‘Oh shut up’, I snapped, ‘I lead a very stressful life. I need my props and there’s no need to be so prim. This isn’t what I discovered you for. Look, we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Let’s go and play. You can strut your magic stuff. Be my inspiration, and teach me to be the creative genius I always knew I was.’

‘I want my mummy’, she whined, ‘I don’t like it here.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous’, I hissed at her, ‘this is where you live now. You’re my inner child. You belong to me.’

She began to sniffle and then to whimper. It was not a pretty sound.

‘Oh shit’, I said, ‘don’t cry, for godsake, here have a sip of gin.’ ‘I don’t want to’, she bawled. Then the whimper became a howl. Christ, anyone would think I was a child abuser, hearing that high-pitched wail.

‘For godsake, what do you want then?’ ‘I want sweets’, she yelled. ‘Well, sweets are bad for you too’, I snapped, ‘they rot your teeth.’

‘Oh, fuck off!’ she bellowed.

Well, frankly I was shocked. ‘Where did you learn such bad language? You’re an inner child. You should no better.’

‘From you’, she growled. ‘You swear all the time. You use really bad words, especially when you think that