This is the new taste. Not of honey. Of now . Of saying fuck it and eating dessert first in the apocalypse. Of forgiving her. Of forgiving myself. Of admitting that even a broken world can have a sweet spot, if you’re not too proud to lick your own fingers.

For a contemporary audience, this reimagined monologue strips back the period mannerisms and leans into the raw, unsentimental rhythm of Jo’s voice. She’s not just a victim of her circumstances—she’s a sharp observer, brittle, funny, and achingly young. The language is modernized, but the sting remains.

Reviewing a performance of a monologue from 1958 play A Taste of Honey

A "good report" on a monologue from Shelagh Delaney’s A Taste of Honey

Last week, the power went out for forty-eight hours. I sat right here. Didn’t move. Didn’t cry. I thought about all the people I used to know. The girl at the library who smiled at me. The old man who fed the pigeons. The boy who said “forever” like it was a bus ticket he could refund.

to highlight her irritation with modern pretense and her desire for "the simple life" (alcohol and male attention) over maternal duty. : The Search for a "Room of One's Own" A Taste of Honey - Shelagh Delaney and Joan Littlewood 1 Apr 2014 —

She’s gone again. My mother. Helen. Off with that fancy man, Peter. He smells of Old Spice and lies, the expensive kind. She thinks she’s found a ticket out of the rain, but she’s just traded one damp room for another, hasn't she? She thinks she’s a sophisticated woman of the world, but really, she’s just a girl who’s frightened of the quiet. She can’t sit still. If the room stops spinning, she thinks she’s dying.