In all the madness of the last four months, I’d forgotten a lady who turned up to my reading at the Pineapple in Kentish Town in late January. She arrived very early, came straight up to me, and said, intensely, ‘I read about you in Metro. I am also struggling with this terrible illness.’ I thanked her for coming and she then went and sat in a corner.
Quite a few of the people who then turned up were known to me personally, including a couple I hadn’t seen for a while, so inevitably the pre-reading conversation became loud, and reminiscent of parties past, with various drug and drink-related joking going on. While I was wandering around the room, chatting casually, I noticed her in the corner at the back, looking uncomfortable.
I suddenly felt highly conscious of the fact that I was not being sufficiently reverential towards the concept of addiction. I can’t remember what we were all actually joking about, but I realised that two worlds were knocking against each other, with no hope of making a connection.
I delivered the first half of my reading too fast, my excuse being that I hadn’t done a gig for a while. It was full of ranting and jokes, and perhaps vulgarity. As soon as I stopped for a break, the lady got up, declared she was going for a cigarette, and scurried out of the door. No one saw her again.
For a moment I felt almost guilty, for laughing at my own past misfortunes and thereby for disappointing her. Perhaps she was expecting a spiritual tour of my abstinence, with a dash of twelve stepping thrown in. But whatever she was thinking or feeling, I hope she’s okay.
