OLIVER BREMN has a fan

A seven-year-old in a yellow coat walked into the shop and handed me a flyer for her cat's birthday party. Crayon stars. A cat in a party hat. My name misspelled in block capitals: OLIVER BREMN. She asked, very politely, if I would come. I said yes before I'd even started thinking about it, the way you accept a compliment when you don't know it's one.

That's the thing about it. She doesn't know I'm a comic. She doesn't know I'm working a Saturday shift because the gigs don't pay yet. She doesn't know I pulled the chute two nights ago. She has decided I'm someone worth drawing a party hat for, and that is the cleanest thing that's happened to me in months.

I laughed until my shoulders shook and Miriam gave me the head-tilt from the counter, the one that means she knows something is happening and she's not going to say what. I stood behind the till with the flyer for a long time after. By the next customer the day had moved from my throat down into my chest somewhere, and I could work.

Tonight I did the mum bit. No panic attack material. After Old Street I made sure there was nothing in the set that could go quiet on me. I don't know if that's craft or cowardice. It went fine. It went fine is the worst review I will ever write about myself.

Walking home I looked up. Pryce's thumb is still somewhere on the back of my neck. Custard's party is on and I will be there, trying not to ruin a seven-year-old's clean opinion of me.