I slept in until 2.30pm today, which was much needed, though didn't really make me feel any less tired. I tried to go swimming, but only managed two lengths before heading for 20 minutes in the jacuzzi - which is STILL exercise.
I am walking everywhere at least, which should help stop me becoming a massive blob of fat, but the beer and chocolate I am consuming is doing its best to overcome this minimal exercise.
Another solid show and the dream of selling every single ticket this year is still on. Sunday and Monday are sold out, as are next Friday and Saturday and the four star reviews keep rolling in. So far no dissenting voice. All this is very unusual for me!
After the gig I sat out in the Underbelly beer garden. My friend Ben Moor, who is possibly the best human being who has ever lived, had been in the audience and I hoped he'd come and find me out there, but there was no sign. So I sat and drank a beer alone, on a wooden foldable chair and looked at Twitter. I was glad just to get a chance to sit down and relax and a few minutes on my own is no bad thing after the show. A couple of punters came over to say hello, one of them concerned that I was drinking alone and wondering if I did this all the time after I came off stage. I no longer fear solitude though and am happy with my own company and he didn't need to worry himself. But I could sense I was getting a few sly or judgmental looks from others.
But as if to make the scene truly tragic as I started getting up to leave, on my way to a bar where I knew I would have some company (because I have lots of friends - my girlfriend had commented earlier that being in Edinburgh was a lot like being at University, due to the late night socialising, sleeping in and general vibe, and I quickly observed, "Yes it is, except I am popular"), the chair I had sat in collapsed under me, leaving me sprawling on the floor. I picked myself up and examined the damage holding up the broken bits in my hand. It had fallen apart like a prop in a slapstick film and I had not only executed the perfect fat-man comedy fall, then held up the chair with an exasperated look on my face, but I also had the moustache of a silent movie clown on my face.
The proof that I had been under observation came with just how many people were sniggering at my Hitlerian downfall. I was on my way out anyway, but I made a hasty exit, commenting to one sniggering fool that the spirit of Chaplin was clearly haunting me. And perhaps the ghost of the chips, beer and sweets is what caused that poor chair to give way.
I went and drank more beer elsewhere, in the company of good friends. Then rolled down the hill to bed, wondering when I would see my black cat friend again and thinking that maybe he only appears when he is needed. And now the show is up and running and certainly a success he has vanished like the ghost of hope that he most surely is.
Or maybe his owner has just remembered to let him into the house for once.
