The producer of my Radio 4 show was round at just after 11 and we had a discussion about the series and the script that I have written and all seems to be ticking along nicely. I am going to worry about scripts 2-4 when I am home and think I am close enough with script 1 to leave it until the end of next week. So who knows, I might get to have some fun this weekend and even have a day off on Wednesday. But I imagine whatever is holding my body and spirit together now will collapse entirely, like a burning zeppelin, if I even take a tiny breather.
I went back to the bank to pay in my coins, but the machine was still broken, so I did it old school and got some bags and paid in most of the higher denomination coins, which lightened my load somewhat.
By the time I was home, and you may see a pattern developing in recent blogs, I was too tired to think and so decided to go back to bed. Sleeping into the afternoon is a regular occurrence in a usual third week (and sometimes in the second too) but this was first full on collapse and brought about by working rather than partying.
And the sleep was deep enough to make me feel even more tired and disconnected. My brain felt like it has been wrapped up in polystyrene, which you may know is the worst substance in the world to me. The squeak it makes as it rubs against itself tears at my very soul.
Would I have the energy to give my show all that I needed to?
I wouldn't have said so as I stood behind the curtain, slapping myself in the face, but one of the most enthusiastic and supportive audiences I have ever encountered (perhaps sensing that I needed a lift) greeted me with generous cheers and somehow (in places at least) tonight was my best performance. And maybe the sleep had done its job, once the cobwebs were blown out of my brain. They were also the first crowd to break the £300 barrier on the collection (in fact giving an average of almost exactly a pound each, which hasn't happened all Fringe, though is the usual tally every other time I've done this). I counted it all into bags as soon as the show was over, anticipating that the coin machine would still be broken tomorrow (my last chance to pay money in in Edinburgh due to the bank holiday and not wanting to waste time on Tuesday morning).
But I wasn't going to stay in drinking tea for once as I had a late night gig at the marvelous Stand comedy club, thankfully only a short walk from my flat. I sat in the dressing room with various other punch drunk and exhausted comedians, moaning about their Edinburghs and reviewers and awards and audience numbers. We are all the same. It's an inevitability of this festival that, unless you are one of the lucky few to have a massive hit (and even then) you will be laid low by this stage. There are so many shows now that it is very hard to get noticed, even if you're doing something great. I have been very lucky to have built up an audience who will come and see me regardless of all that - though it's taken some effort (as you may have spotted if you've been following me over the last 7 and a half years) to get to that stage. It was reassuring though to be amongst my peers and I think we made each other feel better, and also recognised that the way we're feeling and behaving is normal. Once we are home the introspection, paranoia, despondency and arrogance will dissipate. I can't remember the final trudge to the end being quite this hard before. But maybe I have just got through it by being drunk.
I was on stage at 1.55 and did 25 minutes of golden oldies, which went down well with this discerning-for-a-late Friday night crowd. It is a joy to do this for a living, even when things are tough. I got an enormous boost from both the audiences I performed to tonight and hope that will catapult me faster towards Tuesday morning.
I wish I had something else to write about. But I don't remember any of my dreams.
