Leonard Morley One-Act Comedies

A middle-aged woman, rather world-weary, tells her story.

I suppose I've known quite a few men in my time, but do you know, their faces are just a blur. All I can

really remember... are their ceilings. Oh, not that I've made a special study of them -- but they sort

of -- stick out -- in my memory.

My first husband... I forget his name at present... had a rather ordinary ceiling, really. Even on our

honeymoon, and I'd never seen a man's ceiling before, I knew that it was ordinary. Well you do, don't you?

It wasn't a ceiling to make the earth move, if you.... know what I mean. "Nothing remarkable there." I used

to think, and one day the thought crossed my mind that other men's ceilings would be.... different...

in some way. I was very young.

Eventually, inquisitiveness got the better of me. I met this rather gorgeous man, who was constantly

boasting about his ceiling. At first, I resisted his advances. I had a ceiling at home, I pointed out. But

he was persistant, and I was full of curiosity -- and gin and tonic too -- so I yielded, and he took me to

his flat.

I examined his ceiling that night for -- oh! an hour or more. It was certainly different. Not so much the

size of it, you understand -- after all, size isn't important -- more the shape of it, really.

Of course, it spelled the end of my marriage. I spent every spare minute ceiling-watching with my new

friend, neglecting my home and my husband, who lost no time in finding someone who was more than

willing to share his ceiling.

My second husband... Derek? Yes, Derek. Now he had this completely unbelievable ceiling. Certainly the

largest one I'd ever come across, with quite the most curious texture. I sometimes think I could have spent

my life just scrutinising it, with all its little bumps and unevennesses, and the fine network of cracks

that made patterns and pictures if you looked long enough. Until the day I discovered I was sharing that

ceiling with my best friend.

I went downhill fast after that. Ceilings came and went in a dizzying sucession. There were French ceilings,

Arab ceilings, ceilings with exotic ornamentations, car ceilings -- quite a few of those -- and even one

which never seemed to be quite finished. I believe that must have been a Jewish ceiling.

You will not be surprised to hear that I began to accept a small payment for my interest in ceilings. It

began quite innocently, as these things do, with a small present left behind after. But it wasn't long

before I set myself up in a little flat near Paddington, and put the usual cards in phone boxes. "Sheila,

Ceilings inspected, 3rd floor. Ring twice and come up."

Business boomed, for a while. But nothing lasts...

There came a day when I had studied too many ceilings. My little sideline dwindled away to nothing. And

now, I spend the evenings on my own, a sader and wiser woman, gazing up at my own ceiling.

All those men... and there isn't a single face that stands out. Just ceilings.

Sad, really...

The lights fade