Hamster Monologue from Getting Away by Sarah Henley
Claire is at a speed dating event:
Trying to keep her tone light and breezy:
Oh no, no, I live on my own. Through choice! Yep, much better that way! I
mean, It’s not that can’t live with someone. It’s just that will never move in with
a man again.
Babbling a bit – trying to dig herself out:
Oh, I mean, that’s not to say that if I was married or something I’d need a
separate house or anything. Not that I want to get married at all. But it is
supposed to put an end to the leaving isn’t it, though not so much in this
society, I’d be more inclined if I was religious or something I suppose. But
really, I’d never share a pet again. Or a house. Or bedding. Or anything really.
(laughs) Though you never say never do you?
I mean, It’s not that I can’t share, but I was left you see. With no bedding, and
no saucepan. It was the day after my birthday, and I woke up crying and
freezing because I didn’t have any bedding. I dragged myself up and went out
to feed Layla. And she wasn’t there, in her usual spot, nope! She was
sprawled out, right in the middle of her tank. I stroked her. Nothing. Oh God.
So I rang him (with venom) – she was his as well after all ‘Hello? It’s Layla, I
think she’s, she’s dead!’ - ‘look, babe, I’m sorry, that’s bad, I’m playing football
at the moment with the guys from the show, sorry babe look I’ve got to go, I’ll
call you later?’. And that was it. ‘that’s bad?!’
So I went back out to see her and she’d, she’d moved. Oh God. She wasn’t
dead. She was half dead. I picked her up and put her against my ear. She
screamed ‘aaaa’ like that. She was hurting, oh God. So I phoned my mum.
She would know what to do. No reply, tried again. Must have phoned twenty
times. Must be with a client. How could some alcoholic be more important
than me, in my hour of need?
Vet. Vet. I needed a vet. Thank God for the internet. So I found one down the
road and called and they said to bring her straight down, so I put her in a shoe
box with some loo roll and went. In my pyjamas. In the rain. I ran for a mile
with my beautiful hamster in a shoe box to the vet.
I arrived. Dripping. Crying. Panting. A man with a rabbit, which looked healthy
to me, was staring aggressively as if he was scared I might jump the queue.
The receptionist was also staring, blankly, as if we hadn’t just had a
conversation. ‘It’s Layla I said, Layla? My hamster? Quick, please it’s an
emergency’. ‘Oh right’ she said, slowly, ‘let’s have a look’. So I handed over
the box, and in the most sympathetic tone she could muster she said ‘I’m
afraid she’s gone.’
‘No, no she’s not. That’s what I thought. But she moved. And screamed. She’s
alive.’
‘She may have been alive but she certainly isn’t now.’ She said in a
patronising tone.
‘LAYLA IS NOT DEAD. I need to see the vet. Please.’ At that point I broke
down again and the vet came out to see what all the noise was about.
‘What’s going on out here?’
‘Are you the vet? It’s my hamster. She’s not dead. I’m sure she’s not’ So I
grabbed the box off the evil receptionist and handed it to him. He eyed me
suspiciously as put his stethoscope to her heart. ‘You’re right. It’s still with us.’
‘SHE’s a SHE. She’s Layla.’
‘OK, well let’s bring her through’.
So we went through to the theatre and he laid her out on the table. It was at
this point that I noticed the scowling goth work experience child in the corner
staring at me as if I was a maniac. No compassion these kids. I suppose
that’s what happens when you grow up in London. So after a minute or so he
told me it’d be best for Layla if he put her down.
‘OK’.
‘Would you like to bury her, or shall we have her cremated’ he said.
Well the only thing I had to bury her in was a plant pot containing a dead
cactus which I kept because it symbolised the end of my relationship. So I
opted for the cremation. He nodded. Silence. Glaring.
‘Would you like to step outside now miss.’
I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
The evil receptionist glared at me. ‘That will be seventeen pounds please’.
‘What, I’ve just been left in a studio flat with two people’s rent to pay and no
bedding and you’re trying to charge me seventeen pounds to kill my hamster
who you thought was already dead?’
‘I’m afraid that’s just what it costs madam.’
So I handed over my card and paid. The vet came out and handed me my
shoebox. Empty. And I walked home in the rain, in my pyjamas with an empty
shoebox.
So yes I live alone. With myself. No pets. No plants. OK? So if that’s what
you’re looking for mister, someone you can move in with and then leave in a
house with no bedding and a dead cactus and a half dead pet, then you’re
very much mistaken.
The bell rings for her to move on to the next man.