www.dramavirtual.org: The Impossible Marriage.

domingo, septiembre 06, 2026

The Impossible Marriage.

The Impossible Marriage

Or a Thoroughly Dehydrating Affair

Original by Benjamín Gavarre

EMAIL: GAVARREUNAM@GMAIL.COM

CHARACTERS:

OLIVER (30s): Clarinetist for the Croydon Symphony Orchestra. Sophisticated, terribly lazy on Sundays. Dresses impeccably in his delusions but suffers from a mysterious, severe dehydration in the real world. Clinically terrified of commitment and his mother.
BABS (50s): His mother. A social climber permanently stuck in a semi-detached house in Croydon. Meddlesome, calculating, with a deep-seated panic of remaining trapped in middle-class mediocrity. Walks as if she were permanently at a cocktail party in Mayfair.
CATHERINE (20s): The candidate. "Old money" from Chelsea. Practical, elegant, sharp, and possessing a subtle but entirely organic and terrifying aristocratic possessiveness.
GARETH (Age undefined): Catherine's chauffeur. A silent giant with an unflappable face. He functions as a physical and unavoidable barrier of destiny. *(Appears in the later loops)*.

Production Note & Scenographic Proposal (Minimalist Farce)

To maintain the agile, rhythmic, and surreal nature of the time loop, the set design should appeal to the farcical "less is more" convention, stimulating the audience's imagination through simple resources with high visual impact:

The Multifunctional Space (The Folding Screens): The Croydon flat does not require real walls. It is resolved with three double-sided folding screens on wheels or short, passable backdrops. One side shows depressing, seventies-style wallpaper (Sunday reality); the other side features abstract blue and silver textures that spin for the dreamlike transitions.
The Backdrop (Shadow Theater): At the back of the stage is a large white canvas screen lit from behind (backlighting). During Scenes III and V, this space functions as a shadow theater where technicians operate silhouettes of paper boats at different scales, creating a three-dimensional effect of marine depth and geometric delirium.
Prop Contrast (Two-Dimensional vs. Real): While the environment is abstract, certain key objects intrude with a crude, comedic realism. The rowboat consists of two black wooden benches lined up, but CATHERINE operates two real, heavy wooden oars whose sound when hitting the stage floor anchors the action.
The Swan of Destiny: The boat BEBA travels in is not a flat cardboard silhouette; it's a structure cut from MDF, painted with high-density gloss white enamel, simulating the exact, rigid, and uncomfortable texture of a fiberglass pedalo swan from Hyde Park. It is mounted on ball-bearing wheels so the mother crosses the stage "floating" majestically while operating her binoculars.

Prologue

The Impossible Marriage is not a conventional text, but a fast-paced farce that operates under the relentless and suffocating logic of a nightmare. The structure of this script deliberately abandons linear realism to plunge into a time loop. Through absurdity and dark comedy, the play explores themes such as urban neurosis, internalized classism, and the terrifying possibility of losing one's identity in exchange for financial comfort.

The reader should be prepared for abrupt and delirious scene transitions: the text jumps, without warning, from the mundane light of a Sunday morning in a Croydon flat to dreamlike stages where the subconscious takes control. The stage directions play a vital role; they demand a frantic, almost musical rhythm that seeks to generate in the spectator—and the reader—the same claustrophobic overwhelm suffered by the protagonist.

Scene I: Hunger and the Clarinet

A middle-class flat in Croydon, South London. The morning sunlight bursts in aggressively, revealing dust particles floating in the air. OLIVER drags his feet into the room, wearing a languid, satisfied smile. His eyes are slightly glassy, staring at nothing. He is wearing perfectly fitted skinny jeans, an unbuttoned designer shirt exposing his chest, thick tortoiseshell glasses, and a pair of Converse trainers that, when catching the light from the window, sparkle with fine rhinestone encrustations. He collapses onto the sofa like a rag doll. BABS watches him from the kitchen, wiping a glass with an old tea towel, eyes narrowed, judging every millimeter of her son.

Oliver(Sighing, with a slurred voice, happy but thick with thirst). So thirsty... so hungry. Mum, I ordered a double pizza with a stuffed crust. It's on its way.

Babs(Approaching with slow steps, without stopping wiping the glass). A double pizza? At this hour of the morning. And I suppose you paid for it with your salary from the Croydon Symphony Orchestra, did you? Because as far as I'm aware, the Arts Council budget doesn't stretch to Sunday morning takeaways.

Oliver(Pulls an elegant black card from between his fingers with the speed of a magician and spins it). There are... compensations, Mum. Artistic productivity bonuses. Grants for musical youth. (Adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses with one finger). My eyes hurt, there's entirely too much light in this house.

Babs(Fixing her gaze, almost hypnotized, on Oliver's trainers). Yes, of course. Bonuses. Like those Converse you've got on. Yesterday I could swear I saw one of those "little crystals" scratch the laminate flooring. I don't like interfering in your affairs, Oliver, but you and I both know the clarinet doesn't pay for diamonds. Nothing shocks us in this house, but if you're being "sponsored," you should think about seriously securing your future. Youth with its little rewards doesn't last long, I should know.

Oliver(Slowly looks up, gives her a cold stare, and lets out a dry chuckle). Right. I'm sure you know, that's what you thought when... better I don't say anything you don't already know, but... Securing your future, you mean. Mine is very well funded, Mummy. And if you're going to start with your afternoon soap opera speeches, I'll get up and leave you here alone with your desperate housewife aspirations. I'm too exhausted today for your suburban dramas.

IMPOSSIBLE MONOLOGUE OF BABS: Time freezes in the flat. Oliver remains static mid-yawn. Babs takes a step forward, breaks the fourth wall, and a violet spotlight illuminates her. Her face loses the mask of the self-sacrificing mother and takes on the seriousness of an existentialist philosopher.

BabsSuburban dramas? How easy it is to judge the scenery when you're not the one paying the council tax. My son believes elegance is a state of mind, but elegance in this city costs eight thousand pounds a month plus VAT. I wasn't born meddlesome; I became meddlesome out of survival instinct. I saw the pound crash, I saw how linen turned into polyester, and how my youth friends moved to Kensington while I stayed here, trapped in the postcode of "almost there," smelling the exhaust fumes of the A23. Oliver thinks I want to sell him to the highest bidder. And he's right. But what he doesn't know is that I'm selling him to save him. Art in Britain is a plant watered with tears and delayed subsidies. If I don't tie him to a chequebook of old money, this boy is going to end his days pawning his clarinet to pay for a private root canal. I'd rather he hated me on a terrace in Ibiza than wept for me in an NHS waiting room. Motherhood in the middle class isn't love... it's risk management.

(Breaks the fourth wall) Well, what do you expect, that's what my character thinks, don't hate me.

The violet light goes out. Time starts running again. Babs instantly returns to her submissive posture and swallows hard before saying her original line.

Babs(Swallowing hard, instantly changing her tone to a sugary and conciliatory one). Oh, don't be like that, my boy! I'm just saying Catherine is coming today and it's a golden opportunity. Official, in a church, with papers. Imagine! Getting out of this flat... Suck your stomach in, fix that shirt!

The doorbell rings. It's a loud, strident ring that makes Oliver put his hands to his temples. Babs frantically fixes her hair with the dirty hands of the tea towel and runs to open the door as if her life depended on it.

Scene II: The Visit and Politics

Babs swings the door open with a rehearsed smile. Enter CATHERINE. Imposing, oozing a silent elegance that screams old money from every seam. Before taking a single step, she turns abruptly towards the open hallway and shouts with an unbearably despotic but falsely polite tone of voice.

Catherine(Shouting into the hallway). GARETH! GO KEEP AN EYE ON THE RANGE ROVER AND MAKE IT QUICK! IN THIS DEPRIVED NEIGHBOURHOOD CARS TEND TO WALK AWAY ON THEIR OWN, I DON'T WANT TO FIND IT ON BRICKS. LET ME KNOW IF ANYTHING HAPPENS!

Catherine slams the door shut. She turns to Babs and Oliver. Her face changes instantly: she gives a charming, angelic, and perfectly rehearsed smile while pointing a bejewelled finger towards the hallway.

CatherineMy chauffeur... it's just, well... Oh, but what a lovely little flat you have! So... quaint, isn't it? Like a... Tiny, makes you want to pop it in your handbag.

Catherine walks with absolute ease and sits on the sofa, completely ignoring that Babs has been left open-mouthed by the classist remark. Catherine fixes her gaze on Oliver, who is still sprawled on the furniture.

CatherineYou must be Oliver. You're skinny. Interesting. Enigmatic. And I see we share an optometrist in Mayfair. Those tortoiseshell frames aren't sold in just any high street optician.

Oliver(Seductive, smiling sideways with Sunday laziness). I have a good eye for details.

Babs(Meddling, physically inserting herself between the two with desperation). It's just that my Oliver is an aesthete, Catherine! He has the most refined taste, and with your chequebook... I mean, with your business vision, you'd make such a...

Catherine(Raises a bejewelled hand, sharp, without even looking at Babs). Babs, please. Your brazenness is giving me slight heartburn, and I just had matcha in Chelsea. Let me speak to him. (She adjusts her coat and continues narrating naturally while Babs listens, stupefied). Look, Oliver, I am a practical woman. Just yesterday I sent a Duke's nephew packing because he chewed with his mouth open. And last week an Arab sheikh was begging me in Istanbul, imagine, he offered me three camels... if I married him... Me and his seventy-five wives, yes, in the Aladdin multiverse, ha. I told him: "Darling, not even for a fleet of Jaguars." Not even if you make me the favourite... No, Abdullah, Ha. Also some MP from... what are they called now? The Conservative Renewal movement. A Mr. Brown... who was far from brown... Ha... Invited me to his campaign for Parliament in Kensington. Ghastly, I'm allergic to politics. I need someone who understands his place and knows how to live well.

IMPOSSIBLE MONOLOGUE OF CATHERINE: The universe stops abruptly. Babs freezes with her mouth open in a gesture of adulation. Oliver is frozen picking his nail. An emerald green spotlight falls on Catherine. Her unbearable tone transforms into a mature, cold, almost mathematical voice.

CatherineThe people in these suburbs think money is for buying things. How sweet. Money serves a much more important purpose: to buy the silence of others and the obedience of your surroundings. I am sick of the men in my class. The Dukes' nephews, the Mayfair trust-fund babies, the politicians... they're all full of opinions, projects, inflated egos that compete with mine. They are noisy. I don't want a partner, I don't want a debate of ideas over the dinner table. I want a beautiful, silent accessory. Oliver is perfect. He is like a Ming dynasty vase that plays the clarinet: he has no opinion on the stock market, he doesn't care about tax reform, and his Sunday neurosis is highly aesthetic. I'm going to change his name to Ollie because I need to strip him of his personal mythology; I need him to understand that his only function in my life is to look impeccable by the pool and make me laugh when the existential void of Chelsea becomes unbearable. I will lock him in a gilded cage in Monaco, and if he ever tries to sing... that's what the tulle is for. I'm not looking for a lifelong love; I'm looking for private property that won't devalue my personal brand.

(Looks at the audience as if she's about to say something very personal) Ha. I agree with her, eternal love only exists in Adele songs.

The green light goes out. Time resumes. Catherine returns to her rehearsed smile and looks at Oliver to hear his original line.

Oliver(Chewing a piece of fingernail, intrigued but unmoving). Live well? And what does living well look like to you?

Catherine(Smiles in a feline manner). I think this quaint little sofa is a bit too small for that conversation. What if we go somewhere a bit more... ours?

Scene III: Paper Boats and the Name

Scenic transition. The yellow light of the living room snaps off. A deep, dense, almost melancholic blue light turns on. The stage adopts a dreamlike tone, similar to a Chagall painting, with everyday elements seeming to float in the darkness. Beautiful paper boats appear, gliding across the back of the stage. CATHERINE and OLIVER are now in a small, white, aesthetic rowing boat. Catherine rows with athletic, rhythmic grace. Oliver is curled up in the bow, hugging his knees over his rhinestone Converse, but maintaining a relaxed smile.

Catherine(While rowing smoothly)...and then, we'd buy that townhouse in South Kensington. For the weekends, the villa in Ibiza, where no one will bother us. A flat in New York for when it's Fashion Week, and a ski chalet in Gstaad, just in case you feel like buying... more diamond trainers. All in your name too, of course. So we're both comfortable.

Oliver(Letting out a dreamy sigh, looking at the blue ceiling). Gstaad... Ibiza. Sounds like music to my clarinet. But... what about my ties here? My connections... with my mummy.

Catherine(Keeps rowing smoothly, without losing the rhythm). Oh, don't worry about Babs. We'll sign a prenuptial agreement that guarantees her a very, very generous monthly allowance. It'll leave her comfortable forever, with just one clause: she cannot intervene in our lives. Zero surprise visits.

OliverAnd... my friends? The ones... I have. The ones from the Croydon Symphony. And the ones not from the Symphony.

CatherineI have friends too, Oliver. There's no conflict. When we're here, in London, you see them, go out, have fun, then invite them to the indoor pool at the house. Zero questions from me.

Oliver(Stares at her. The blue light highlights Catherine's face in a strange way). Mh. I like it. Actually... I'm even starting to find you attractive. Really.

Catherine(Stops rowing for a second, adjusts her hair with aristocratic vanity). I am beautiful, aren't I? And generous, too. There's just one tiny little detail. Nothing to worry about. I'm just letting you know we're going to change your name.

Oliver(Frowns, straightening up a bit, confused). My name? Oliver?

CatherineYes, it sounds like an orphaned chimney sweep. From the wedding onwards, you'll be Ollie. Or little Ollie. My baby Ollie, Ha.

Oliver(Panic subtly appears in his eyes, he tries to maintain his composure). Little Ollie? No, no, wait...

Catherine(Gets a bit closer to him, with a sweet but possessive, almost suffocating tone). Yes, and in the intimacy of our million-pound homes, I'm going to call you "Ollie Baby". My tiny little baby... (She pinches his cheek hard). Oh look, just like your mummy calls you, but with unlimited credit cards. My beautiful little baby. Give me a kiss.

Absolute terror seizes OLIVER. His breathing accelerates. Catherine's image overlaps in his mind with his mother's. The claustrophobia of the space is unbearable.

Oliver(With a strangled voice while Catherine tries to kiss him). Just... just like my mummy... no... I won't allow it. I'm not willing to go that far.

Oliver throws himself at her in a comical and desperate manner, covering her mouth with both hands. The boat rocks violently from side to side. Catherine lets out a muffled scream.

OliverBaby never. I prefer poverty, I prefer living on the street!

Oliver jumps up and dives headfirst out of the boat. He starts making exaggerated swimming motions on the stage floor, kicking desperately. He reaches an illuminated yellow buoy with a pole descending from the ceiling and climbs onto it, trembling. In the distance, crossing majestically across the back of the stage, goes a boat shaped like a giant fiberglass swan. In it is BABS, with opera glasses, watching everything.

Babs(In the distance, her voice sounds distorted, like a megaphone echo). Stand up straight, Ollie-boy! Don't get your trainers wet!

Oliver(Screaming out of control, clinging to the buoy). Noooo! Get me out of here! What on earth is this! Help, I don't want to be here anymore!

Scene III-B: The Pact of the Harpies

While OLIVER remains frozen in a corner of the stage on his blue buoy under a spotlight, the rest of the space is dyed in a dense, cold, expressionist green light, reminiscent of an underground casino or a political party office. An elegant coffee table appears out of nowhere. CATHERINE and BABS are sitting face to face. Catherine smokes an electronic cigarette that blows thick pink smoke. On the table is a mountain of notary contracts and a solid gold card reader. The rehearsed smiles are gone; their faces are those of two mobsters negotiating territory.

Catherine(Signing papers with an ostrich fountain pen, without looking at Babs). Let's see, Babs. Let's talk business, woman to desperate woman. Your son is an aesthete, yes, but he has the soul of a council clerk. The Croydon clarinet isn't going to pay for his collagen at forty, and you and I both know those Converse weren't paid for with applause from the Royal Albert Hall. I'm buying the full package, but the contract includes your absolute and clean disappearance from the map.

Babs(Offended, but craning her neck to look at the gold terminal). Catherine, for the love of God! A Croydon mother doesn't disappear; a mother strategically relocates. How much are we talking about in the "maternal non-interference" clause?

CatherineFive thousand pounds net a month, free of dust and straw, deposited punctually into your Selfridges account. Plus your own flat in Clapham. Mind you: central Clapham, not the bit that borders the railway tracks or smells like late-night kebabs.

Babs(Negotiating like a real estate shark). It's too noisy in Clapham, my queen, you can hear everything. Do me the miracle of Richmond or Wimbledon, where there are more trees, fewer specialty coffee shops, and people still go to church. And I demand by contract two mandatory annual visits: Christmas and Mother's Day. Without the right to stay over, of course, I know my limits.

Catherine(Sharp, slamming the pen down). Christmas is in Aspen and Mother's Day I spend with my aunts in Madrid shopping. I'll give you a Mothering Sunday breakfast at Fortnum & Mason, two hours maximum, and you tip the waiters. Take it or leave it, Babs. If you don't sign, I'll take my chauffeur Gareth to Scotland, buy him a Lordship, and marry him. He has better calves than your son and doesn't complain about the matcha.

Babs(Looking at the ceiling dramatically, puts a hand to her chest). Oh, Oliver... forgive me, my boy, but property values are property values and old age is very dignified in Wimbledon! (Pulls a cheap pen from her handbag and signs frantically). Done! But you let me call him "Little Ollie" on birthdays.

Catherine(Gathering the papers with a cold smile). Only via WhatsApp, with designer emojis, and it is strictly forbidden to send morning blessing memes with Minions. Are we agreed, partner?

Babs(Smiling just as coldly, clinking her coffee cup against Catherine's vape). Completely agreed, Cathy. After all, the boy is docile. You just need to know which buttons to press.

Scene IV: The Reset

Just as the harpies clink their cups, the green and blue lights flicker violently as if there were a short circuit in the flat's fuse box. A sonic sucking sound is heard. Suddenly, the harsh, Sunday-morning yellow lights of Croydon turn back on. OLIVER wakes up with a start, standing on the sofa, holding the clarinet like a baseball bat and breathing chaotically. He is drenched in sweat.

Oliver(Screaming at the top of his lungs, out of control). GSTAAD, MONACO, THREE CAMELS, WIMBLEDON, SELFRIDGES CARD, WHY ARE YOU SELLING ME MUM, WHY ARE YOU SPYING ON ME FROM A SWAN!!! YOU JUST DON'T DO THAT!!! "But good God! People don't do such things!"

The exact same loud and strident doorbell from Scene I is heard. Oliver jumps in fright. BABS enters from the kitchen, drying the exact same glass with the exact same dirty cloth, repeating her dialogue with terrifying robotic precision.

Babs(With a sugary tone). Oh, don't be like that, my boy! I'm just saying Catherine is coming today and it's a golden opportunity. Official, in a church, with papers. Imagine! Getting out of this flat...

Oliver(In absolute panic, jumping off the sofa and holding his head). No, no, no! I've already lived this! I'M IN A LOOP, IT'S A LUCID DREAM... NOOOO...! Mum, don't open that bloody door! If you open it, my clarinet workshop tutors are going to come because I've missed classes and I owe them money! Gareth is going to take us by force to Kensington and tie me to a fiberglass swan with a prenuptial contract! Don't open it!

Babs ignores him completely with a frozen smile and throws the door open. CATHERINE enters exactly the same as before: imposing, arrogant, withering.

Catherine(Shouting into the hallway with more haste and despotism). GARETH! GO KEEP AN EYE ON THE RANGE ROVER... BUT MOVE IT! IN THIS DEPRIVED NEIGHBOURHOOD CARS TEND TO WALK AWAY ON THEIR OWN, I DON'T WANT TO FIND IT ON BRICKS. LET ME KNOW IF ANYTHING HAPPENS!

Catherine slams the door. She turns to them with her rehearsed angelic smile number two. Her gaze over the flat is slightly more dismissive this time.

CatherineMy chauffeur... it's just, well... Oh, but what a lovely little flat you have! So... quaint, isn't it? Council housing, right? Scarcity minimalist. So you didn't even study a formal music degree... A workshop? So you're not certified, darling, you really do need my help...

Oliver(Desperate, interrupting her with shouts, flailing his arms). I don't care, I... I like it... You're not going to trap me, you cow... Bitch... Bloody dog... I know about the Duke's nephew who chews with his mouth open! And I know about the blond or brunette MP from the Conservative Renewal in Kensington who wants you as an adjunct! And I'm not signing anything with the Selfridges card! I'm not going to be Little Ollie, or Ollie Baby, or anyone's baby! I'll keep my misery! I'll play in the streets, I'll play in the Tube, I'll play Pachelbel's Canon from the Croydon workshop on the Northern Line for a tenner a song!

Catherine and Babs stare at him intently. An infinite sepulchral silence falls for three seconds. The two women blink at exactly the same time, like two defective androids that almost never close their eyes. Catherine's smile turns dangerously cold and corporate.

CatherineWell... aside from having good taste in tortoiseshell glasses, you turned out to be psychic and hysterical. I am fascinated by telepathy in submissive men; it saves so much time in couples therapy. You are definitely going to be called "Ollie Baby". (Her voice begins to distort, repeating rhythmically). Baby Baby, Ollie Baby... Baby Baby, Baby Ollie, darling... Babs, help me. The boy is getting dehydrated on us. Bring the tulle rope. We're going to tie him to the trust fund.

OliverNEVERRRRR!!!

Scene V: The Hysterical Chase

Pachelbel's Canon begins to play on the theatre speakers, but not beautifully; it has an accelerated, strident tempo, played by strings that sound out of tune and a mechanical bass that sounds like a ticking time bomb: Dun... dun... dun... dun...! OLIVER enters total panic mode and starts running in circles around the sofa. BABS and CATHERINE move in a coordinated, choreographic, and robotic manner, as if chasing a cornered animal on a high-society safari.

Babs(Chasing him with the tea towel in hand, trying to catch his shirt). Stand up straight, Oliver! Shoulders down, I mean... Suck your stomach in, for the love of God, you're wrinkling the designer linen! It's five thousand a month at Selfridges, son... my Damask curtains!

Oliver(Dodging a swat, jumping over a cushion). I'm not financing your damask curtains with my eternal castration, Mummy, my permanent emasculation! I prefer unemployment! I prefer backlogged Arts Council grants!

Catherine(Chasing him with terrifying elegance, using her designer handbag like a mace, throwing punches at the air). Come here, Ollie! Don't run from your protected destiny... protected by your mummy, by me, by us! I have a smart flat in Monaco waiting for you with open walls! Don't make me run, I'm burping my matcha GOAT latte!

🏃🏽‍♀️ ☕️ ☠️

Oliver tries to run towards the front door, but from the hallway, a deep, booming voice with an otherworldly echo is heard. It is GARETH, who, although unseen, has a voice that resonates as if he were Cerberus himself guarding the gates of hell.

Voice of Gareth(From the hallway, with a voice of thunder). THE RANGE ROVER'S BEEN TOWED... IT WASN'T THE BOYS, IT WAS THE LAMBETH COUNCIL... NOT PERMITTED... But I'll take little Ollie, I'll carry him...

Oliver(Braking hard in front of the door, horrified). Even the chauffeur is privatised! It's a POSH conspiracy!

IMPOSSIBLE MONOLOGUE OF OLIVER: The nightmare Pachelbel Canon slows down until it becomes one long, low note. Catherine and Babs freeze mid-sprint, stretching the bridal tulle like two wax statues. An electric blue spotlight illuminates Oliver in the center. His voice is no longer slurred by the hangover; it is the voice of a man aware of his own "tragedy".

OliverDon't look at me, don't judge me... I know perfectly well what is happening. I know my subconscious is sending me the bill for the four mezcals and the super private steam room last night. But this nightmare is too real. All my life I have floated on the surface. I studied Social Anthropology at Goldsmiths, but I liked my clarinet workshop better... I prefer being an unemployed musician and sociologist over clocking in at an office, I dress well to hide that my bank account is in the red, and I let myself be pampered by "sponsors" because... Well, because it feels good, but I know, I know it's not forever... Catherine is offering me the deal of the century: Gstaad, Monaco, unlimited credit cards. The price? Ceasing to be Oliver. Becoming "Ollie baby." The epitome of bourgeois domestication. And she doesn't know I'm a sociologist... or does she know... the Witch?... And the worst part is that a part of me, a very low, lazy, and dehydrated part... wants to sign that contract. Wants to stop worrying about the rent in Croydon. But if I sign, my clarinet will never sound like music again; it will sound like a shopping centre advert. A tomato soup jingle. My mother birthed me to be her ticket out, Catherine wants to buy me to be her window display pet. I am trapped between hunger and velvet. If I stay here, I evaporate in mediocrity; if I go with her, I drown in matcha. That's why I swim... even if it's on the floor. That's why I prefer jumping into the void of the balcony. Because in the fall, at least for three seconds, I remain the master of my own dehydration. (Breaks the fourth wall) Yes, I know I'm wallowing in self-pity, but I'm not the character... or am I?

The blue spotlight goes out. The strident music returns to its maximum speed. Catherine and Babs come to life instantly, advancing with the tulle, and Catherine shouts her line: "Sign the prenup, Ollie Baby...!"

Catherine and Babs use Oliver's braking to corner him against the balcony. Catherine pulls out a massive bridal tulle veil that seems to have no end, stretching it along with Babs like a fishing net to catch a shark. The music of the Canon reaches its most deranged climax.

Catherine(Advancing with the tulle net, eyes bulging). Sign the prenup, Ollie Baby! I don't want camels, I want you!

Babs(Blocking the path on the other side). Do it for your mother's memory, my darling! Sign!

Oliver(Looking back, at the void of the balcony, where an intense blue light shines). Memory? You couldn't be more present. Bollocks to that. I'd rather die than be little Ollie! I'm jumping into the social abyss of South London!

Oliver takes a comical run-up, sprints towards the balcony, and dives headfirst into the darkness at the back, letting out a high-pitched scream that cuts off sharply. The giant sound of a splash echoes throughout the theatre. Instant total blackout.

The strident music cuts off instantly. A cold, white spotlight illuminates only the downstage area—right at the front. The rest of the stage remains in darkness to allow for the set and costume change behind. CATHERINE strolls into the light with an infuriating, aristocratic slowness. She takes a drag from her electronic cigarette, exhales a cloud of pink smoke, and looks directly at the audience with a mixture of pity and amusement.

CatherineLook at him. Taking a dive into the social abyss. How incredibly dramatic. You people in these suburbs always confuse panic with dignity. You genuinely believe that throwing yourselves back into the misery of overdrafts, high street shopping, and the Northern Line is an act of rebellion. How sweet. Did he actually think he could escape me? (Takes another drag, slowly pacing to the other side of the stage). The problem with people like Oliver—and no offense...—is that you romanticise your own struggles. You cling to your little traumas, your credit card bills, your clandestine saunas, as if they make you authentic. But the property market and generational wealth don't have feelings; they have patience. I can wait. I can let him wallow in his Sunday mediocrity, waking up tasting cheap gin, genuinely believing he's a free man. But Monday always comes. And I... I own all the Mondays. So, let the boy sleep. For now...

But, let's see how he reacts when he wakes up...

Transitional music begins to play, Catherine smiles coldly, takes one last drag of her vape, and glides off into the wings. The downstage spotlight fades to black.

Epilogue: True Dehydration

The sound of the splash returns and slowly fades into a dull echo. The music of the Canon is heard as an ironic variation. A harsh, cold, and depressing white spotlight turns on—the light of a Sunday afternoon. We discover the real plane of existence: OLIVER is lying face down on the living room floor, completely barefoot, wearing only old, frayed, wrinkled pyjamas with strange stains. Beside him is his clarinet case, closed and covered in dust. His eyes are swollen, and he has a face of monumental hangover. His body shows the accumulated fatigue of hours in saunas, steam rooms, and the strange artisanal drinks of dubious origin he tried the night before in Shoreditch. BABS enters in a faded housecoat, with pink rollers in her hair and a mug of instant coffee in her hand. She pokes him roughly with the tip of her toe.

Babs(Poking him with her foot again). Oliver! Wake up, lazy! It's Sunday... Six, six! in the afternoon. You've been asleep on the floor since the morning. Did you go back to your musicians... clarinetists... flutists?... Just look at you, you're an absolute wreck... You spent your time snoring and you smell like cheap booze from the East End. Get up now.

Oliver(Waking up with a millennial heaviness, rubbing his eyes, looking at his bare feet with infinite relief. He desperately hugs his mother's ankles). Catherine?... And my black card?... No diamond Converse? And my Converse with pebbles? And my Mayfair tortoiseshell glasses? (Looking around). Mum! What an absolute blessing! We're still trapped in poor, mediocre, blessed Croydon. And I don't have a single penny in my pocket! Thank heavens!

Babs(Taking a long sip of her coffee, looking at him as if he were mad). What on earth are you talking about, Oliver? By the way, move from there, your delivery boy is at the door. Why does he know your name, eh... Very handsome boy by the way, carries himself like he's from Chelsea. Anyway... He brought your double pizza with stuffed crust, says he's giving it to you on the house, courtesy, but you know... What's he talking about, eh? What did you sell him? Oh, baby, but it's too much pizza for you alone, how about you share the cheesy edges with me... Ollie. But it smells so good... Smells like a delivery boy... A delivery boy with money... Why don't you invite him in, Ollieeee? Baby... move and open the door for him.

Oliver freezes completely on the floor upon hearing the name. His face contorts. He opens his eyes in absolute, paralyzing terror. Slowly he turns his head to stare blankly at the audience with bulging eyes, realizing the nightmare has not ended. It's not over. The doorbell rings again with deafening and rhythmic force: Dun... dun... dun... dun...! to the beat of Pachelbel's bass.

BLACKOUT