Green Shoot

27 December 1999

Yesterday's piece needs some revision, but I'm too scared to look at it. The series of stories this month has not been accomplished without personal risk, and it would have been much easier just to shut up the shop till the end of SAD (which can be fairly accurately predicted to somewhere between 10 and 15 January). That's what we did that last year, for six months. But no, such is the dedication to our art, that even depression had to be plundered for all it could offer. (Note use of past tense.)

The civilised written form (this - in case you didn't realise) is not the best vehicle for such powerfully destructive feelings, however. Shouting, screaming or advanced drug-taking might all be more appropriate. Killing, oneself or others, also has its place. But within the constraints of the typed medium, we have attempted to convey what little our fogged and dismal cells contained. (Past tense continuing. This is looking more hopeful than I'd realised.)

The best bits of "Two Down" (link at the top of this page) are the use of "agony" (play it up), "evil incarnate" (silly cliche, and not even true - replace by "vicious lie"), and the ironic use of "happiest day of the year." Put that in prime position, before "shortest day". But, as I say, this will have to wait. I just can't read that piece today - a day when I think I might, just might, be able to speak to someone. It's been a week since that.

Well, not exactly, but work doesn't count. "What's the chances of me borrowing your waistcoat for the evening?" I said to my manager, John, on Christmas Eve. (For calling the bingo, you see.) I was already wearing a Manhattan white shirt, patterned silk tie, black trousers, and smart black leather shoes. But a bingo caller - a real bingo caller - needs a wild west waistcoat. It's essential.

"About nil," he replied. Dismay. "But there's a waistcoat upstairs that Keith used to wear," he added. (Keith, my tutor and mentor, is currently on suspension for reasons we may not even hint at.) It would be appalling if they gave me his job. Appalling. Read this if you haven't already, then hop back here.

The waistcoat was duly produced, and handsome John held it for me to put on. It was tempting, even in my dark despair, to have a hand accidentally brush somewhere it just had no darn business touching, but we resisted that inappropriate sexual contact.

So the bingo got called. Brilliantly we entertained and delighted over a thousand people in the two days leading up to Christmas. Full power. Million megawatts. Mike in rock-steady hand and laser- like precision in full-on cerebellum. Hundreds of thousands of pounds at stake. Can't fuck about.

"In acting, sincerity is everything," someone once said. "If you can fake that, you've got it made." Marvellous. Who thinks these things up?

I'm going to stop there, for the simple reason that I've enjoyed every word of this one, and that makes such a change after recent offerings. Maybe relief will be sooner this year. Or maybe, just maybe, some of the ghosts have been exorcised here in cyber. God moves in a mysterious way. Thank you for reading thus far, but there might still be rocky ones to come. The tide advances in backward and forward motions.