Selling it before the punchline

Steph said it like she was being kind. That is the worst way to be wrong about someone. If she'd said it cruel I'd have a reason to sit with it all night on the bus staring at my own reflection in the dark window looking like a man whose dad bit just died, but she said it kind and now I cannot stop hearing it.

Selling it. I have heard this about my set before. A booker in Tooting, six months ago — said I was rushing, said the audience needed a second to land. I wrote it down. I cross it out every time I rewrite the closer and every time I put it back because the rhythm is right, the rhythm is fine, and someone in a room full of comics who laughed at nothing all night said it wrong and now I have to decide if she is right or if she just has good delivery when she criticises people.

Beth from Bow. I keep thinking about her hand on my sleeve too. Not in a — I am not being weird about it. It was an accident. She was reaching for the kettle and it touched my sleeve and I said 'all right' like a teenager who has never spoken to a woman. 'All right.' I said it twice in four seconds. I want to crawl into the notebook and close the cover.

The bus home I counted the other passengers sleeping or on their phones. None of them know I died tonight. None of them care. I was so angry at that for about thirty seconds and then I realised it is the only thing keeping me on the road. If they cared I'd have to be something. Right now I am nothing and nothing is safe.