Letra de Woman

He breathes out. Grabs up a cloth and starts wiping glasses.

Landlord: (Turns to the Audience) First night in here? Well, you'll get used to us. We're a lively pub. It's calmed down a bit now, but it comes in waves. Not going to ask you what you're doing here, never do, that's one of our few rules. We get a lot of rendezvouses here you see, but we're also strong on couples, don't get me wrong. They either come in pairs or end up that way. That woman over there is my wife, bitch. I run this place virtually on my own. We've been here bloody years. In fact we meet outside this pub when we were kids, me and cow. Too young to get in, snotty conked, on tiptoes peeking through the frosted windows. We had are first drink here, we courted in here, we had our twenty-firsts, we had our wedding reception here, and now we own the bloody place. I only did it for her, it's what she'd always wanted. Done some knocking through recently, got the walls down, made it all in one. You can get around better, and more eyes can meet across a crowded room. Better that, better for business and pleasure and for keeping an eye on that roving tart. Where is she with them glasses? Wouldn't mind a bloody drink myself, I'll have one later. It's a constant battle keeping your throat away from the stock. It really is the landlord's last temptation. Because this is it for us proprietors. This is our life, these bar sides, to them wall sides and that's it. People and pits and measures and rolling out of the bloody barrel. Working and social life all mixtures, a cocktail you can't get away from. Until night when we fall knackered into bed. But I'm not complaining, no, no. As long as many mouths are clacking at many glasses and the tills keep on singing. What more could a publican want?

Old woman enters.

Landlord: Oh here she is, I can set the clock by this auld dear. (Puts glass under pump ready.) Evening love, usual?
Old woman: Yes please Landlord.
Landlord: How's everything, love?
Old woman: Passing same. Passing sames.
Landlord: Oh aye. There you go.
Old woman: Thank you, landlord.
Landlord: Pleasure, lovely (He goes.) Where is she with them bloody glasses?

He exits. She sips her drink. Then turns to the audience.

Old woman: Here I am at the end of the day. Taking my rewards from the glass. He's at home, he can't come out, too crippled, dear. But he allows me out for my drink at the end of it all, the day. I've retired, but not really, cause now I have to work twice as hard with him, lifting his shitty bum off the blankets. He's having the last bit of my life, but I don't begrudge him for that. Poor lumped man he is, there he is at home, with his pint of dandelion and burdock, watching the television in the dark. All's I do is look after him and shop a lot, shop a lot with nowt. Though I do like to go shopping, I like to, I like the butcher best, blood everywhere, laughing his bloody head off. He's fat too, fat. Fat like jelly pork. Pink. I love him, though he doesn't know of course. It's his laughing that does it, ans his big butcher life, chopping and pulling those breasts apart. Admirable. Me, myself, don't have much strength left now, carrying my husband down the stairs, I have to stop three times, my arms keep giving. 'Let's have a breather,' I say, and we both stop, panting like a knackered cattle. I watch his chest going like clappers, and I watch mine going going the same. And all are wheezes echoing of the stairway and my swollen ankles, and his watery eyes, and I wonder in God's starry heavens why we keep going. We have each other, we have the allowance, there's a lot of memories somewhere, there's a bit of comfort in sleep and Guinness, but what the hell has it all been about? I ask you. I carry him down. I carry him up, piss all over my hands. His day, the tele-box. My day, shopping bag. Butcher's for a bit o'scrag, see him flipping open the animals with his very sharp knife. Oh my day, my life, my drink here. Him at home with the tele, in the burdock dark a dead dandelion in his mouth. I can hear his old chest creaking from here, and on my neck his chicken arms, chicken arms and around my neck his poorly chicken arms. Get me a Guinness. Stand me a drink. Fetch the butcher with his slaughtering kit, may I ask you to raise your cleavers now please and finish the job, raise them for the bewildered and pig weary couples that are stuck, stunk it out. Thank you.

She bows her head as though to have it cut off.