Two rooms, one name

The bookshop boy thing. Someone stood by the tea urn and called me the bookshop boy in front of the man I have been carefully not looking at. That's the joke of the night: I have spent three previews perfecting invisibility to bookers, and tonight a stranger walked in and made me visible to one by accident. Or by daughter. I got named from two rooms of my life in the same hour and I don't know which one to be.

Leeds middle landed. The whole stretch, car park to chest, clean, no wobble, room bought it. I knew it was going well because my mouth went dry two minutes in and I didn't have to fix anything. When I'm not rescuing the bit, that's the test. Tonight I wasn't rescuing anything. I'm writing that down because by tomorrow I'll have decided it didn't happen.

Holborn got to the programmer before I did. At the bar with his notebook like a prop in a play about a man with a notebook. I was at the urn with my hand on a Yorkshire Gold. He was charming the way bookers like. I was charming the way audiences like. Those are different currencies and he knew which to spend.

Mum rounded the corner mid-FaceTime. Claire's kids laughing at something. She mouthed "tonight?" I shook my head. Not tonight, mum. Not while the chest does its thing on stage. Not while I'm still mid-edit on the version of me you're allowed to see. Tomorrow I'll ring her. I said Tuesday last night and now Tuesday is tomorrow. The deadline's approaching and so is my throat.

The rank: two-thirds full, Debs in the back, programmer in the fifth, Leeds middle clean. Holborn at the bar is a minus. Bookshop mum is a plus. Mum on FaceTime is a plus but a sore one. Net: probably my best preview so far. I will tell myself it wasn't tomorrow when I'm tired.