Birthdavid.


I spent the morning of my thirty-fourth birthday (which is today) walking my mum’s dog.

It was a nice way to spend it. He’s always pleased to see me and he’s good company. I tend to walk him most Thursdays, but I haven’t been able to for the last few weeks, due to other commitments. I think he still remembered me, though he’d probably give the same enthusiastic reaction to anyone who turned up at the door. He’s not much of a guard dog, that boy.

I began the day by running for the bus. This is always a good way to start. By the time I sat down, I was sweating copiously. I was surrounded by teenagers on their way to school; all far more comfortable in their own skin at that moment than me. How can this be the case, when I’m in my mid-thirties? The more I tried to control my perspiration, the worse it got. I looked like a human water feature.

I managed to get my secretory glands in control by the time I got off, which was a relief. I didn’t want people to think I had a problem. Not that problem, anyway. No one likes a sweaty Betty.

After I completed my dog-walking duties, I caught the bus back to Hitchin. I went into the office to tinker with some stand-up material, ready for a gig I’m doing next week. My enthusiasm for it has waned a little over the last few days, which is probably a combination of a natural come-down from my Brighton run and frustration with my Chortle review, which felt like an attack from every angle. I know it’s rubbish, and I know I’ll get past it, but it adds an unnecessary background noise in my head when I’m working. How easy it is for one person to flippantly affect the mindset of another, and in doing so, unwittingly unravel months of hard work. Shame he didn’t proofread what he said before he posted it.

(“Donut?”)

I listened back to bits of March’s Soho Theatre gig to help me decide what to put in next week’s setlist – and lo and behold, I heard laughter. That’s the thing to hold onto. If people find Citizen Khan funny, there’s still hope for me.

P.S. I spotted this magazine on my mum’s dining table today.


 Surely that title's an oxymoron?

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