mum knows now, somehow

Fi told her. That's the sentence that's been sitting behind my ribs since about eleven this morning. I phoned my sister and said you weren't supposed to, and she said love, I'm not lying to mum for you, and the thing is she's right and that's what makes it worse. Mum is going to ring me tonight or tomorrow and she's going to do that proud-but-worried voice and I'm going to have to hold the phone and not be sick.

I almost rang Fi back at the flat. Didn't. If I ring her I'll either cry or say something I'll have to apologise for in a week.

A retired teacher called Geoff came to the counter with a Donegal scarf and an Olivia Laing and said quietly you're the lad off the podcast, aren't you, and I said yeah, that's me, and he said good for you, son. I think I've been waiting for someone to say good for you, son for about twenty-six years and didn't know it until he did. My hand was shaking a bit on his change. He didn't mention it.

A nine-year-old drew me a guinea pig retirement party flyer with my name as OLIVER BRENAN. I stuck it next to the till beside the Custard one. That's my whole career in two pieces of A4.

Sandra said tonight the panic attack joke is getting sharper. I think she meant closer to the real thing. I lay in bed rebuilding the bit and thought: this is the work now. Doing the thing in front of people who knew you before the thing existed. ~~Maybe especially mum~~