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13th July becomes the first day that I have experienced all the way through (out of utero) 50 times. It doesn't get any better via repetition.
The key to getting me to work is, I think, to give me way too much work to do. Certainly the summer that I wrote I Killed Rasputin and Lord of the Dance Settee, whilst also knocking out an episode of Man Down and going to personal training sessions, I had an impossible workload, but because there was so much to do I had to make every second count.
Today I had a tiny window between looking after Phoebe first thing and then taking her out swimming at lunchtime to catch up on next week's Metro column, RHLSTP admin and blogs and I managed to get it all done. Then once I was home I had a little bit of time to check over my Rasputin facts before heading to a nearby studio to record a history podcast with Dan Snow. And then just time to get home and have my dinner before driving over to Walthamstow for a “The Best†warm up. The days when I have one thing to do, it often ends up not done, but when I have a packed schedule I manage to exceed my expectations. The problem now is that I am much more tired than I ever used to be and there will be days I need to crash. But when you're 49 you just need to feel like you're useful still, even if the tasks you are given are just there to occupy your brain and make you forget how little time there is left.
Once again at swimming I was in the weird position where Phoebe was having a bad time, which was sad, but holding on to me tighter than she ever had before, which was just lovely. My daughter has some time for me, but massively prefers her mum, which I can understand, but unprompted Dan Snow later asked if I had experienced the same as him, in that his daughter had much preferred his wife for the first couple of years (he added that they laugh about it now and she really loves him, but he struggled to cope with the frostiness). It's reassuring to know that this isn't just me. And in the future things may change. But for now I will have to content myself with terrifying my child so much that she clings to me like a limpet. It's the best worst thing I have ever experienced.
Leaving the interesting chat with Dan, I turned a corner and a dad was walking along with his two kids (both probably in the region of ten years old). “I love you dad,†said the boy. “I love you too,†said the dad. It was the only bit of the conversation that I heard and I don't know what prompted it, but it was a lovely private moment to accidentally intrude upon and even if that only happens to me once with my daughter then all the work will have been worthwhile. The dad having clocked me then said that he loved me and I wondered if ecstasy had been piped into the streets in gas form, but it turned out that he was a fan of my work. So it was odd to chance across a human moment and then become involved in it. I think the dad professing love to a strange, shabby man in the street probably cheapened the moment with his child.
I seem to be being recognised a lot more than usual at the moment, though not sure why and later as I walked from my car to the gig, a man walking in the other direction saw me and reached into his pocket and said, “Mr Herring, may I give you a pound?†I allowed him to do so, assuming it was in return for podcast enjoyment, rather than because he saw this once mildly successful but jaded figure in the street and assumed I was now homeless. The man walking behind me did not know who I was and I guess had only seen the monetary exchange. He seemed bamboozled, but commented that I had been in the right place at the right time and if only he'd been a few steps further ahead he might have been the recipient of the free money.
The gig was really enjoyable and I even took a punt on a couple of old routines that I hadn't relearned yet (and they pretty much came out OK). It's interesting doing the stuff from Hitler Moustache at the moment, because suddenly flirting around with the comedy that comes from racism seems a bit close to the bone. In Balham last week my liberal racist routine confused the audience, but tonight I performed it a lot better and incorporated the awful situation we now find ourselves in and it went down very well. The Red Imp Comedy Club is one of the really good ones, having built up a comedy savvy audience and run by the very funny Susan Murray. It's worth a visit if you're in E17 (either the district or the band).
Oh and here's a rarity, a Metro column that didn't start life as a blog.
And RHLSTP with Marcus Brigstocke (recorded just days before the Brexit vote) is now up on video here
