Playella | After the Party by Nigel Pocknell

Part  of  a  house  with  front  door  facing  audience.  Onto  the  stage  holding  onto  each  other  enter  a  completely  sloshed  MUM  and  DAD. They  have  been  partying.  They  come  to  the  doorstep. Mum,  alarmingly  swaying,  focuses  on  the  bell  push, misses  it  twice  with  her  finger  and  finally  makes  contact,  leaning  on  it  heavily.

Thunder  of  footsteps  offstage  and  the  door  opens.  Their  furious  fifteen  year  old  daughter  in  nightdress  and  dressing  gown  stands  on  the  doorstep with folded arms.

DAUGHTER:  And  what  time  do  you  call  this?

MUM: (In drunken tones, holding onto the swaying porch) Go  and  make  us  a  cuppa  tea,  duck.

DAUGHTER:  No,  Mum.  It’s  three  o’ clock  in  the  morning.  You  promised  you’d  be  back  at  eleven.  That  was  FOUR  hours  ago.  (Thrusting four fingers at them)  FOUR!!!

DAD: (Swaying backwards and forwards trying to focus half closed eyes) Sorry  about  that,  pet.  (Belches loudly)  Oh,  it was  a  grand  party.

DAUGHTER:  Huh!  Smells  like  it,  Dad.  (Glares at them)  Just  look  at  the  state  of  you  both. You’re  an  absolute  disgrace.

MUM: (Protesting)  We  only  had  a  teeny  weeny  drinkie.

DAUGHTER:  And  the  rest.  I  was  worried  to  death.  I  didn’t  know  where  you  were.  I  didn’t  know  what  had  happened  to  you.  You’d  switched  off your  phone  You  never  answered  my  text.  I  was  just  about  to  call  the  police.

DAD: But  we’ve  got  another  party  Friday.

DAUGHTER: Well,  you’re  not  going  and  that’s  that.  (Stands aside, arms akimbo)

MUM: (Horrified)  You’re  –  you’re  not  grounding  us?


MUM: (Trying to soft soap)  Aw,  go  and  put  the  kettle  on,  duck.

DAUGHTER:  No.  (Extending arm upwards towards stairs inside house)  Go  to  your  room.

With heads hung low, Mum and Dad slink past their daughter into the house.  Daughter follows.  Front door slams shut.


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