This is the best bit of what I sent off to Queen's University, Belfast. It was my first attempt at writing a comedy sketch, and since then I've been itching to write more. Incidentally, I noticed a typo in there (I'd accidentally spelled 'writhing' as 'writing'). I know that typos are usually all it takes for English department admissions tutors to toss a piece in the rejection pile, but I can still hope that a minor error will be forgiven. After all, I'm not like Robert. Last time I checked, I was pretty much a Pete. Er - just female and in possession of a few more pairs of trousers...


[Lights rise on two chairs and a coffee-table. One chair is upside-down, leaning against the back wall. PETE is tied to this chair, unconscious, wearing nothing but a t-shirt, ‘Sunday’ socks and his underwear. ROBERT, a humanoid robot, sits calmly in the upright one, a chess board on the coffee-table before him. He is playing against himself. PETE stirs; ROBERT doesn’t acknowledge him.]

PETE: (blearily) Ugh… I feel awful…
ROBERT: I might sympathise, if I knew what ‘awful’ felt like.
PETE: (opening his eyes, looking around, dazed) Eh? What? Why is
everything upside-down? (he realises what is going on and
struggles, suddenly alarmed) Why am I tied up?!
ROBERT: (calmly, not looking) It was necessary.
PETE: (panicking) What do you mean, ‘necessary’?! Are you mad?
(struggling again) I haven’t – done – anything – wrong!

[ROBERT carries on playing calmly. PETE stops struggling and stares at him in confusion.]

PETE: No, really… What have I done wrong?
ROBERT: You were going out to buy a microwave.
PETE: (pausing; he is baffled) You – tied me up – over a microwave?
ROBERT: You know very well that microwave radiation damages my
components.
PETE: (shouting) You dismantled the cooker for the very same reason!
How else am I supposed to eat, you utter clot?! Do you think I like
living off toast? You imbecile – just wait until I’m free! I’ll take a
screwdriver to your face and – where are my pants?
ROBERT: While you were unconscious, I alphabetised your trousers.

[PETE is too stunned for words. He stares at ROBERT, mouth open wide.]

PETE: (in disbelief) You – you alphabetised –
ROBERT: Your trousers? Yes, I did.
PETE: (agitated) This is just like the time when you alphabetised my
socks, isn’t it? You threw them all away, except for this dreadful
pair I’ve got on, now.
ROBERT: The rest contained no text, and were therefore impossible to
classify. Thus I disposed of them, as is my duty as an organiser.
PETE: (slowly) So how many pairs do I own, now?
ROBERT: (hesitating, tilting his head as he calculates) Precisely… none.

[A pause. ROBERT continues to play. PETE glowers at him, gritting his teeth.]

PETE: (slowly, threateningly) When I’m free, I’m going to ‘alphabetise’
your face. I will take a carving knife –
ROBERT: I alphabetised those, as well.
PETE: (increasingly annoyed) I will take a wooden spoon, then, and I
will bloody well dismantle you with it! Do you hear me, Robert?
Eh? (shouting) Do you hear me?!

[PETE continues to shout varied insults and threats, writhing and lurching from side to side in the chair. ROBERT continues his game as before. PETE falls over with a squeal and lies on his side, limp, still tied and gasping.]

ROBERT: (ceasing the game) Are you quite done?
PETE: (breathlessly) Yes. Quite.
ROBERT: (standing) Would you like some coffee?
PETE: (reluctantly) … Fine.
ROBERT: How do you have it?
PETE: No milk, piping hot and poured over your head, please.

[ROBERT pause, eyeing him quizzically. Then, he shrugs and exits to the left. Lights down.]