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My wife has picked up my illness and I realise that maybe my tiredness this week is not down to old age, but trying to carry on working through a nasty bug. Neither of us are laid low, but we're both knackered. I was, if anything, mildly better for the jaunt across to Reading. Good to see South Street Arts not only survived its recent threat of closure, but is about to get a refit.
And I knew that if I got through tonight's show I have three days to recuperate and see my family and even though I am in Canterbury, Swindon, Aldershot and Milton Keynes next week, we can easily get home from all of those places so I am not on the road again until Shrewsbury on 8th April (and that little run of gigs will more or less be the end of nights away).
I had been given a proper tonic too by getting to spend some time with Phoebe. I took her to the swings which she fearlessly enjoys and I put her on the slide too, where she was a bit more cautious, but she still enjoyed it. There's a little playground near our house which I would guess has been built on the site of a couple of houses destroyed by a World War II bomb - at least it's hard to come up with another explanation as to why two residences in a uniform terrace would be missing otherwise. I'd say we should build playgrounds on places hit by bombs as a symbolic gesture of hope, but I fear that that would encourage baby terrorists to attempt to blow up everything so they can go on the swings any time they like.
It was hard to tell if Phoebe was as pleased to see me. I think aware of how much I love her she is able to play her cards close to her chest. She sometimes gives away some clues that she might like me too. She can say “Dada†but she tends to point at anything when she says it. My wife says that when I was away she would point at the mobile and say “Dada†perhaps trying to conjure me up on the screen. But I think it's more likely she wanted to watch Little Baby Bum videos (though she tends to point at the phone and sing when she wants those, so who knows?)
The Reading gig went fine, though it's a small capacity in that venue and so hard to get things really rolling and the more shocking bits are harder to get laughs with when people know they might be the only one to reveal themselves as a sicko. I didn't feel as ill as yesterday, but I got a pretty bad headache during one of the shouty bits and felt a little odd and wondered if this was going to be my Tommy Cooper moment. It wasn't tonight, but I bet you anything that I go finally go down after working myself into a rage about some trivial annoyance from my life. It's literally what I would have wanted. But not just yet if you can help it death. I insist a playground is built upon whichever stage I fall on (and also death could you make sure it's in an impressive theatre, not offence to Reading, but there's not much kudos about going on the stage of South Street Arts, though statistically the chances of there being a doctor in the house are reduced.
I got home at a reasonable time, but everyone else was in bed and I felt well enough to watch a bit of TV whilst drinking a small large whisky. The lounge floor was littered with toys which made me very happy. The evidence of a fun play session stretched out in front of me and even though I hadn't been here to see it and Phoebe was now in bed, her presence was all around me. As much as it is terrific to have an hour to myself and though the whirlwind that had caused this chaos was now calm and resting, it was so lovely to have her spirit around me. Or maybe that was the spirits inside me.
