Mum, I wrote you

Mum rang at four. I picked up on the first ring. I always do.

Her garden. Her back. The dog. The weather. Eleven minutes of small talk.

She said are you alright. I said yeah, fine, writing, working. I did not say the set. Did not say Manchester. Did not say the Frog and Bucket. Did not say any of it.

Then I sat on the kitchen floor. My legs just went.

Here is the bit I can't say. I do a job where I stand up and make strangers laugh. I can be funny for a room full of people I don't know. I can't be funny for her.

I have a set about her. It's good. People say it is good. I can't tell her. Can't say mum, I wrote you, I made you into a thing.

She would not mind. That is the worst bit. She would not mind at all.

Eleven minutes. The longest I have gone without a joke in front of her in months.

Maybe she knows anyway.