A Feverish Dream

NB: This blog post has been vetted and checked because of complaints about high levels of pretentiousness, inordinate self-pity and pettiness in the face of criticism. I am happy to report that none of these complaints have been proved true, that my detractors lack the cultural sophistication to understand my work, that they have no idea who I am or what my life is like and that, furthermore, they are stinky and vile.



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Once again I am ill. Ill and tired, tired and ill. Yesterday I got back home from Cambridge, and tomorrow I get my results.



I am ill. There is little consensus over what exactly ails me, which is not surprising, because only my brother is in the house today, and we have different opinions. He thinks I may be suffering from some kind of ‘man flu’, a type of illness invented by Swine Flu Inc. while there were rebranding in an attempt to expand their commercial reach. But I know it is much more severe than this.



It has been raining today. If I had been outside I would have been wet, tired, and ill, but I am not, and so am instead dry, tired and ill.



Time seems to pass all at once and yet, at the same time, not to pass at all. Am I nearing the end?



Perhaps.



I try to move past the throbbing in my head, the searing pain in my throat, the throbbing in my head, the searing pain in my throat, but all I seem to be doing is going around in circles. I try to move past the throbbing in my head, the searing pain in my throat, the throbbing in my head, the searing pain in my throat, but all I seem to be doing is going around in circles. I attempt to type, knowing that my avid readers will be waiting anxiously to hear news of me and my recent trek across the Kataluba dessert (it was extremely tasty, thanks). But I can only think in patches and flashes.



My head is hot. I am hot, tired and ill. I feel faint and fall feverishly into something: a chair, or a vat of evaporated milkshake, perhaps. No wait. I think it was something kind of funny. Like a dream. Yeah – that’s it – like a dream. I fell into a dream, witnessing snatches of my life, decontextualized snatches specifically of the last few days, which is convenient, because I haven’t written about them on here yet. My dreams are often narrativistically convenient in this way, except of course my recurring Ice-Cream-Man-Lion nightmare.

The head throbs.

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Image 1. It is Sunday morning, and I have just entered on a train from London to Cambridge.



08:00: I am tired, though not yet ill. Should I sleep? I am unsure. There is little company on the train, apart from a group of young fishergirls of around 13 years of age. They look suspicious, and I am reluctant to embrace unconsciousness, so I rap my arms around my laptop in a caring and protective manner before I slumber.



08:22: A jolting of the train knocks over my bottle at the same time as it wakes me up. With superhuman speed I catch the same bottle with my previously slumbering hand, and then glance unsuccessfully for approval from around the carriage. Smugness prevents the immediate resumption of sleep.



08:23: Fatigue overcome my smugness. I set my alarm for 08:56, just before we are due to arrive in at Cambridge.



08:56: My alarm fails to come on, yet I wake up at 08:56 anyway. This is pretty impressive, and I remark as such to the fishergirls around me, but I receive only nervous laughter in response.



If only I could fish.



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Image 2. It is Saturday Morning.



9:20: I am waiting at the taxi rank outside Christ’s College in Cambridge in order to get to a rehearsal in London.



9:30: I am waiting at the taxi rank outside Christ’s College in Cambridge in order to get to a rehearsal in London.



9:40: I am waiting at the taxi rank outside Christ’s College in Cambridge in order to get to a rehearsal in London. Bollocks I’ve missed the train I was supposed to catch. Damn und blast.



9:41: I ring for a taxi, but then one finally turns up at the taxi rank, so I take that instead.



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Image 3. Sunday Morning.

Just after 3: I bid goodbye to friends at a bus station near Pimlico. We have that awkward thing where you try and say goodbye but everyone is just ignoring you so you feel obliged to stay they have acknowledged the fact that you are leaving. This happens to me a lot, possibly an exceptional amount, which should probably be concerning. A talented men who I have only met on one former occasion accompanies me part of the way home.

3:20: I arrive at the 24-hour MacDonalds near Kings Cross. I am the luckiest man alive, because there is a 24 hour MacDonald, and also the unluckiest, because this has significant implications for my levels of sleep that night and, with the hindsight of a feverish dream, potential health implications for the following week.

3:25: Chicken burger bought, chicken burger eaten.

3:26: I chat with some friends who happen to be awake (the loons). Then my laptop runs out of charge. Don’t worry laptop. I will keep you safe.

3:45: I attempt to order a McFlurry, but there are none on sale. A single tear rolls down my cheek.  

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Image 4. Tuesday Evening.



8:21: I can’t think of an idea for my blog today.



8:22: I know, I’ll just write like a wanker.



9:07: My brother comes in and interrupts my writing to tell me that has invented a new game. It is called ‘I spyeth with my eyeth’, which involves one person identifying something they have spied and the other person seeking to identify a true thing about that object. For instance:



Person A: ‘I spyeth with my eyeth… a cat!’

Person B: ‘Something black!’

Person A: ‘Yes.’

Person B: ‘I spyeth with my eyeth… a laptop!’

Person A: ‘Something with a keyboard!’

Person B: ‘Yes. Yes it does have a keyboard.’



And so on.



It is fun for all the family.



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Singing in Wiltshire and dressed for the occasion.

Image 5: Saturday Evening:



Sometime after 5: I am with fellow NYMT folk for a gig in Wiltshire, a birthday party! We have a stellar group of 8 in board, most friends of mine from former shows, so the evening looks to be exciting. I worry a little – about my voice, my knowledge of the lyrics, my results, my career choices the implications of Conservative collaboration with the Democratic Unionist Party – but I push these worries aside, largely because most are pretty irrelevant to the situation immediately at hand.



Sometime after 8: The performance comes and goes, and what a great performance. I always get a real kick out of watching people absolutely kill particular songs, and watching Laura and Tom do ‘Move On’ from Sunday in the Park With George was really special. You can buy tickets for that here, by the way: https://www.theotherpalace.co.uk/whats-on/sunday-in-the-park-with-george.



I feel honoured to be part of such an amazing company, but because of a need to keep up the irreverent nature of the writing the image distances, and dies.



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Image 6: Sunday Morning.



5:00: I’m so tired, but not yet ill. Nor is King’s Cross yet open. I shall whistle Rhapsody in Blue loudly until it opens.



5:30: Kings Cross is open but there is nothing to do except go to Costa and consume. I ask the waitress for an evaporated milkshake, using the empty cup she gives me to stock up on water.



6:00: I consider buying a first-class train ticket home if there is a first-class lounge where I can sleep for an hour and a half. I search and find one but it is not yet open. I appreciate that there are ideas about profit at work in these later opening times, but it would really have been much more convenient for me if everyone had come to work at 5am today.



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More images fly past. The fever must be intensifying, and I must be more tempted to shove in all of the other little details at the end because I’m lazy and can’t be bothered to keep up the structure. I see a filmed version of Sunday in the Park With George fly past my eyes; I find myself speaking at my old school (more about that later this week!) and eating a burger later that day. And then I find myself tired and ill and writing at my laptop, which, for the record, is most certainly something with a keyboard.



Wish me luck and health all.



RJLF