I wrote about a good deed I did for someone else last week, so it's only fair if I write about a good deed that was done for me. Plus it stops me from sounding big headed, and I wrote about what happened to me last week because it happened and indeed got in the way of me being able to write about records or books or other things that make me say 'oh a bit of wee has come out.'
So the year is 2011, and I was at the Edinburgh Festival with my show, Stuff and Nonsense, a celebration of my love of charity shop discoveries. I had been there just over a week and it had been treating me immensely well as the diary I kept at the time told me. What follows next is inspired from that diary, with little flurries of context as I only hope you wouldn't have read the previous entries. It is still true.
It is around 1am on a Saturday night, relatively still early early for the Festival goers with shows still going strong and the exuberance of a weekend showing no signs of fading fast. I had just left the marvellous company of Shazia Mirza (We had just seen a show) and as she walked in the direction of her flat, I reached into my pocket only to find I had lost my keys. I did the obligatory tap every pocket known to man, before the sad realisation kicked in that they really were misplaced.
So, I was technically homeless. The friend who's flat I was staying in wouldn't want a phone call at this time of day (especially as she was in Bristol) and so any chance of a spare key would have to wait for a postbox. Only knowing comedians, I frantically searched my phone and desperately texted hopeful kind souls. I pondered popping in to the nearby venues with the chance of seeing anyone I know, and then resorted to frantic phone calls of comedians who I knew would still be up.
It was at that moment that Joe Wilkinson appeared and became my knight in shining armour. The answer to that simple question 'are you alright?' was rather lengthy than usual, and thanks to this splendidly kind soul (and equally his girlfriend) I managed to have somewhere to sleep that night.
The three of us went to the flat they were staying in via the chip shop (It was around half one after all) and Joe kept asking me if I wanted anything. I wasn't hungry, yet Joe was incredibly insistent he got me something to eat. I did try to explain that while I didn't have a flat, I did have money on me. I compromised by saying he could make me cup of coffee when we got in, which he was obviously true to his word.
The next morning I had got up as early as possible and headed into town. Joe had secured my homeless status further by buying me a can of shandy bass. I reluctantly wandered towards my venue and told them the news. As the key hadn't been handed in where I thought it could be, I had to try and accept that there would be no show.
To kill time, I met up with some friends who were visiting Edinburgh, ambled through some charity shops, but it just wouldn't lift my spirit. We went for something to eat and while on the surface I appeared OK, I was deeply saddened by my state of limbo. I left them to go to my second roof over my head, in the form of fine friends, Margot and David. I had stayed with them on my previous visits, plus I had an address for the spare key to be delivered.
The next morning I got up at 8, of which there was no need as the postman didn't come till 12. In rapid time, I made it to my flat, had a quick change, and raced back into town (in a taxi that played Bowie's Five Years) to carry on regardless. It turned out to be a splendid show, despite the natural panic I had tried to suppress through the whole experience.
Looking back, it was a weird experience to feel homeless, as it was without the poverty and lack of choices it has associated with it. I had just been locked out of the flat I was staying in, yet it did suddenly affect my whole world. It was then a delight to be taken in by a kind soul, have the marvel of being looked after, and a great pleasure that I was in the right place at the right time to indeed be rescued.
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