Hands in the cold air

Holborn's done it. He's told the room what I told the mirror and the curtain and three years of pretending I don't shake before doors. Watch his hands. Three words, and Cara heard them, and now Debs is ringing me twenty minutes before a sold-out preview like I'm a dog with a warning label on my lead.

I went on anyway. That's the bit I won't tell anyone — that I almost didn't. The hands were already cold when the phone rang. They got colder. I pinned mum's card to the mirror and did the set and the Leeds middle landed harder than it has any right to land. I don't know if that's because the work is good or because some poison was in the air and the room could smell it. I will not think about which one.

Yara at the bar, pint going flat. He's doing your bit about you — that's the whole bit, love. She meant it kindly. It still went in like a fork. I keep thinking about him at the Beehive, telling bar staff, getting small laughs, building a whole five-minute set out of the panic attack I had once and never said out loud. He's not funnier than me. He's just louder about my worst afternoon.

I texted Debs. No-fly list. I don't know what that means operationally — she probably knows — but I wanted something to do with my hands that wasn't shaking. Wanted a door to close on him that I got to choose. Small power. I'll take it.

Walking up the Royal Mile alone past midnight. The fringe is mostly asleep and I'm awake and I did the show. I keep saying that to myself like a kid who wants the replay. I did the show. Card stayed on the mirror. Kate texted go on, lad and I did, lad. I did.