Bravest, right.

Marcus Pryce put it up at ten in the morning and I read it four times before I put the phone face-down on the duvet. Bravest thing I've seen this year. Tagged the Radio 4 producer, which is the bit my brain snagged on — brave is a word I'm not allowed to have opinions about yet because if I think about it too long I will either cry or pith it into a punchline and neither helps.

I keep wanting to explain to Marcus that brave means you did it on purpose. I didn't do it on purpose. I stood in a kitchen and my chest stopped and my hands stopped and a stranger held a phone at me and I let him because I had no say in the matter. The body did it to me. Calling that brave is like calling a dog brave because it got hit by a car and survived. I don't say this. I screenshotted the tweet and put it in a folder I will not name.

Then tonight. Bethnal Green. Woman third row, top button undone, leans to her mate at exactly the volume meant to land: that's the panic attack one, isn't it. I had decided on the Central line that this set would be clean craft or nothing. Furniture-built jokes. No mention. And she had already brought it through the door with her like a packed lunch.

I went on anyway. Some bits landed — the Manchester one always lands because Manchester always forgives me. The room were kind. I hate kind rooms. Cruel rooms you can rank. Kind rooms you can't, because you never know if they laughed at the joke or at the brave thing and that is a different sound and I was listening for it all night and I still don't know.