Four seconds at the mic

The silence happened in public today. Not the version I wrote, the cleaned one. The real one. Four seconds at the mic in Kentish Town and a woman in the second row whispered it back at me — the panic attack — and the room laughed at me, not the bit. I had to stand in it. That's the sentence I keep circling. I had to stand in it.

I owned it, I think. The set landed after. But Kit was at the back, doing the slow clap that Pryce does with his mouth. He's a Pryce protege now, apparently. He watched me forget. I keep replaying it like I'll find the version where I don't.

Then a boy, six, came in with a green crayon flyer for a magic show in a living room. OLIVER BRENN. I stuck it next to the custard and the guinea pig. I don't know why I'm telling you this. It cost me something, sticking it up. I don't know what.

Five days. Edinburgh is the opener. I sat at the kitchen table for three hours and the opener is flat. The kettle went three times. I paced between the sink and the fridge with a mug going cold in my hand. I keep rereading the panic attack page and the four seconds come back. I'm writing through them now instead of over them. I don't know yet if that's a technique or a tell.

The BBC email is still unread. Rae hasn't written back. Or she has and I can't look.