Perfect arse

Life offers joys to appreciate. For instance, only the other day, a gentleman wearing a Star Wars St

Dear readers, allow me to announce that I have actually finished a short story. After weeks of nonsense, distractions, train trips and psychotic breaks I really, truly did manage to cobble together enough minutes to put one word after another for 22 of your earth pages and there it is – probably ugly and deeply flawed, but a story nonetheless.

In many ways, in fact, quite a dandy fortnight has just passed. I now have so much work to do that I can no longer consider considering any of it and have passed into a state of Zen-like calm - unless I’m running on caffeine, in which case, all my twitches and ticks kick in and I may also weep without noticing which adversely affects my hydration. (And it may be significant that the words “psychotic break” immediately suggest a delightful type of holiday, rather than something mentally catastrophic.)

Be that as it may, life offers joys to appreciate. For instance, only the other day, a gentleman wearing a Star Wars Storm trooper mask showed me his bottom. He had mentioned it was exceptional and, in response to what may have been my mildly quizzical expression, took it upon himself to prove that indeed it was – pert, witty, unblemished, debonair and hairless – all one could ask of an arse. So a pleasant 68 seconds there and a chance to reflect on the fact that meeting the public is always enriching.

More comedy last week – had a grand time testing out new material for the Edinburgh Fringe show in August – and enjoyed again the relatively new Wicked Wenches tradition of taking tea backstage at The Stand in Edinburgh. Once a month, comics and staff gather together around a table furnished with an embroidered cloth, china, varieties of tea, home-made and hypoallergenic cakes, dainties and wildflowers. Every now and then someone leaves to go onstage and talk about genitals, dysfunction, relationships, hellmouths and so forth – before returning to nibble a fairy cake or straighten a doily. A great idea there from Julia Cloughley-Sousa and I cannot emphasise enough how delightful it is to experience a few hours of civilisation in one’s workplace. I would heartily recommend that you try your own variation on the theme – perhaps with a tasteful display of quality buttocks added on public holidays. Or whatever works for you.

My final meetings with this year’s students at Warwick University have also now passed. And what do you say to young people who are trotting (or just ambling, in some cases) off in hopes of becoming professional writers ? Obviously, a part of you does want to simply scream, “DEAR GOD NO ! TURN BACK NOW ! BECOME A POLE DANCER ! SELL YOUR ORGANS ! ANYTHING ! IT’S HIDEOUS ! NO ONE WILL RESPECT YOU FOR IT – STRANGERS WON’T EVEN BELIEVE YOU WHEN YOU TELL THEM WHAT YOU DO ! AND WORKING FOR THE THEATRE, OR TV, OR FILM…? THAT’S LIKE RIPPING YOUR OWN HEART OUT, PARING IT INTO FLAKES WITH A HOT CHISEL AND THEN THROWING THE RESULTANT MESS DOWN A WELL. YOU’LL END UP BOSS-EYED, TWISTED, TICKING, SURROUNDED BY PALS YOU MADE UP EARLIER, SHATTERED RELATIONSHIPS AND CRUDE DRAWINGS OF THINGS YOU’D LIKE TO DO WHEN THE NURSES REMOVE YOUR RESTRAINTS.

But instead you smile, perhaps mention eating more fruit, self-maintenance, plans, hope – because the only thing worse than doing the thing you really love would be not doing it. And when it’s good it really is about as good as it gets – making dreams and wonders – not the worst job in the world.