before she finished the sentence

I said yes before Sandra finished the sentence. Three weeks ago she moved me to six o'clock and I sat in the courtyard pretending to be on a call so nobody would see me be the guy who got moved. Now she's ringing me with the closing-week nine-thirty because a sketch act's other half got a TV pilot, and my mouth said yes before I'd built the sentence in my head. I hate the grab. The yes-before-thinking. It's the same muscle that makes me do a bit before I'm sure it works.

I walked past the queue twice. Once on the way to the loo, once on the way back. Sixteen, maybe eighteen people, courtyard at four in the afternoon, standing there because I was inside. You do the work and the work is invisible and then a queue forms and you walk past it twice so you can prove to yourself it happened.

The sketch act whose slot I'm taking. One of them got a pilot. I'm in a Marchmont flat writing this and he's in a writers' room somewhere getting paid to be funny for actual money. I'm not going to say I'm jealous because that's not allowed on days like this. But the bad line in the Moleskine tonight is the one about him and I know which one it is.

Mum's card is on the mirror. Cartoon dog on the front. To the funny one, love from the B&B. I walked it on stage for the warm-up. I will not explain that to anyone because if I explain it I will cry in a dressing room and I have never once done that.

Through the Meadows I didn't check my phone. Wanted the win without the proof for one walk.