Oliver's day

THEREFORE from Day 26's photo, on Sunday Ollie took the Edinburgh bit — his mum at the wheel of the Vauxhall Corsa, the M60, the cassette of Simply Red — to the Crouch End open mic above a pub on Crouch End Broadway, mid-slot. Pryce was headlining and crossed the room with his hand out, gripping the back of Ollie's neck in the same too-firm way as before — Frog and Bucket boy, you're gonna do the panic attack one on Monday, aren't you — and squeezed hard enough that Ollie's vision went briefly white at the edges and his hand flew up to dislodge the grip. The room went quiet; Pryce laughed, mate, easy, and walked off, and Ollie's neck was hot where the fingers had been. He went on and did the Edinburgh bit cold and a woman in the front row laughed at the cassette line and his hands shook for thirty seconds, and a boy of about eight in the third row passed him a folded note that said GOOD LUCK at the top and had a Vauxhall Corsa drawn underneath in blue biro, the cute sitting beside the bruise. Dee caught him on the stairs and said that set's got a Soho October slot if you want it, love, and Ollie walked home and decided, on the bus, that Pryce had put his hand on him for the second time this month and that Monday he would walk into Broadcasting House without Pryce's shape on his neck.