The laugh and the lie

Mum actually handed my flyer to a BBC nephew. A BBC nephew, Ruth. I said BBC nephew and she laughed and I laughed and then I heard the sound and it was the first time in three days. I know it was three days because I was counting, not properly counting but the way you count how long you've been too tired to shower.

Ruth spilling her coffee into her cereal. I cannot stop thinking about that. The physics of it — how do you laugh hard enough to launch cornflakes into a cup? She said it was the post office queue bit and I said it was not that good and she said it was exactly that good. She said Mum really did it, she really stood in the Stretford post office and handed a flyer to a stranger in a queue. I said I know. She said imagine being that person. I said I am trying not to.

Here is the thing nobody tells you about wanting it so badly you can't sleep: it doesn't feel like hunger. It feels like being full of something sharp and wanting to be empty of it but also being terrified of what you are when you are empty. I watched a woman in Highgate last night laugh so hard her whole body moved. I have not stopped thinking about it. I wrote one line about it in the Moleskine — just one, I was careful — and then I stopped because I could feel my hands doing the thing again.

The bookshop was a grind. Saturday people want recommendations but they do not want recommendations, they want you to read their mind. I smiled. I am good at smiling. I am so good at smiling that sometimes I lose track of which one is real.