I’ve never been very good at accommodating “constructive criticism”, but particularly from sources so plainly unqualified to offer it so abruptly. You’ll therefore excuse me if I take this opportunity to make a cup of tea and carry on with my day.

Woke up this morning (at bang on 11:11 believe it or not) from a dream about being in my actor friend’s current play. It was a variation of one of those “everyone knows the lines except you” anxiety dreams, except everyone knew I didn’t know the lines at all - I was standing in at the last minute and ad-libbing as I went. All I had to do was respond to what was said to me as best I could and everyone would improvise around me to keep the script on track. No pressure, huh?

Anyone who knows me will know I have huge stage-fright issues (seriously - when I went to the Fringe in 2002 I recorded all my off-stage dialogue onto a CD and pressed play at the relevant bits. Evidently I even have off-stage-fright). But this wasn’t where this became a garden-variety anxiety dream for me.

That came when the play spontaneously became a musical halfway through.

The stuff of nightmares

I seemed to be the only person there who had a problem with singing ad-lib. I seemed to be the only person there who had a problem singing. I am incapable of singing, especially recently. Recently I’ve been smoking more than a middle-aged Parisian widow café owner who’s just returned from holiday with a duty free supply of Gauloises to find she’s lost her café. I am incapable of being sung at. It’s curious, I know, but something about it makes me want to leave the room or burst into schoolgirlish laughter. Or smack them.

I was desperate not to be sitting there having someone sing their character’s undying love for mine and have to keep a straight face. So, rather like Rimmer in Better Than Life, I must have signed a silent deal with my subconscious to get me out of the situation by completely ruining it. Suddenly, seconds before it was My Perfect Martine McCutcheon moment, hordes of Cybermen stormed the room, shooting everyone in the cast and audience alike with their own chorus of “Delete! Delete!”. Satisfied that my work here was done, I was then able to escape to reality with little to show for my selfishness and murderous intent than a sore forearm that I’d apparently slept on.

Only I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming. My email inbox this morning looks more beautiful than it has done in a long time. In fact, for a writer looking for a job who rarely hears from some of his best friends anymore, it was pretty much a panacea. Nothing certain, but not the usual wet-haddock-in-the-face sort of instant ‘NO’ either.

Think nice thoughts for me. And if you happen to see this at the Edinburgh Fringe next month, bring something gold. Just in case.

Doomsday. He’s not on the beach - but who cares anymore. The engines roar and I find myself alone, not even myself, the maple-leafed sign beside me revealing this is Dårlig Ulv Stranden. I got it all wrong. London and the hollow chimes of an unirradiated Big Ben already feel light years away, gongs for a future already written and long since lived. There’s no sunshine anywhere. Chasing Cars. If I just lay here. Close eyes, arms out - back to the Reichenbach mattress as I push with my heel - down, down, down into cold and roaring hell, silent and unnoticed like a stone. I push my neck out so my head hits first. Nothing, just silence. I open my eyes and see only magnolia ceiling - put my hand to my head to find a still intact skull, but my fingers come away bloody all the same. I’m the only one who can see it. I’m the only one. I’m alone.

I don’t want to catch a falling star because nuclear fusion burns my skin.
I don’t want to share my life with you. Get your own life.
I don’t want my wildest dreams to come true because the other night I dreamt about clowns.
I don’t want to find myself because I’d just lose myself again.
I don’t want to choose life because I can’t even choose from a menu.
I don’t want a dream job. I want a dream pile of cash.
I don’t want to have films made about me. Jim Carrey would inevitably get into the cast.
I don’t want to be different. I just want to not be the same.

But mostly I just want a TARDIS, a kitten and manageable hair.

But it was not until the 22nd century and the refinement of quantum theory to the point of application that such aspects of pathology were truly understood. Once physicists first observed the behaviour of particles that existed in a multidimensional and pantemporal state, physicians came to understand organisms that functioned in a distinctly similar manner; in particular, viruses. This led to a broad reclassification and recognition of a number of existing medical conditions, the most famous of which, we now know, is the quantum virus known as Gauisus Poena, or as it was previously termed, ‘Love’.

An analysis of any individual’s previous ‘romantic’ relationships will inevitably demonstrate itself to be the progressive pattern of such a viral infection. However, despite significant pharmaceutical advances in treating the debilitating effects of this virus, it remains a curiosity why so many remain both belligerently uninoculated against infection, and willfully receptive to its symptoms.