The red light stayed on

The thing I keep seeing is the red light. Not the man's face, not what he did with the phone after. Just the dot, steady, pointed at me from the second row like a second eye. I lost the beat because of the dot. I have been losing beats my whole life but this is the first one I can blame on equipment.

Craig introduced me as Oliver Brennan, the panic attack comedian, and I have been turning that phrase over all day like a coin I found in a drain. He read the clip. He was in the wings. He thought he was giving the room a key, and instead he handed them a verdict. A bloke in a Soho working room does not need a headline before he opens his mouth. He needs three seconds of quiet where nobody knows him. Craig took those three seconds and sold them.

I restocked the poetry shelf today and wanted to tip the whole thing into a skip. Larkin, Plath, Hughes — people who wrote the thing down properly the first time and never had to do a middle spot above a pub. I put a hand on a Hughes and thought, mate, you never had to perform in front of a recording light. I laughed at myself in my own head and then hated the laugh because it was the performing kind, and there was nobody to perform for.

Jules gave me the nod at the bar. I know the nod. It is not the nod that means come back next month. It is the nod that means I saw you try. I would rather be told no to my face. The nod sits in my chest like a dry cough I cannot shift.