Or so it goes in my recent dreams.
I stand before an audience of varying sizes and moods, naked for some reason known only to myself and the event organisers who have so far failed to save my embarassment.
I have a three page story in my hand which I'm expected to read. It opens with "And I am just as suddenly here" but since this is such an incorrect opening I can't work out just how to say it. However I say it will be wrong but I can't settle on which wrong way. My lower jaw begins to work up and down, vague sounds emanating, but nothing that reflects what's on the page.
All the while half the audience sits distracted, chatting and munching crisps; the other half jeer and throw biros at me.
In a little over two hours I'll find out whether my dreams have been clichéd paranoia or keen prescience.
To explain...
I recently signed up to read a story at the June Tales of the Decongested event at Foyles.
I did so because it sounded like such a fantastic idea.
Right now it feels like self-flagellation.
But as with any masochistic tendency I think I must be feeling at least a sliver of pleasure. Unspoken until now but it's there all the same. So here's me, all but ready to go full frontal, so nervous I even ironed my jeans.