“Woo-hoo! Work it, Normie, that’s the way! Just like that! Good lad!”

I glanced over at Leonard, who raised a startled eyebrow, but Lou was already approaching with another pint, so presumably Big Al wasn’t deemed a danger to the public. I looked back to Norman, radiant on his milk crate, and I could have watched him for the rest of my life.

“Wait, wait! One more thing.” Big Al brought his voice down to a reasonable level and walked over and placed his hands on Norman’s shoulders again. “Before you launch, take a deep breath in, lad. The deepest breath you’ve ever taken. That’s it. Now hold it...hold it...right, now let it out. All the way. Then a bit more. Okay. Now you’re ready for anything. Breath is life, Norman. Never forget it.”

I exhaled and felt a slight retreat behind my scar. Breath is life. I realized Norman wasn’t the only one following Big Al’s instructions. Go, Norman, go.

Norman went.

“Um, ah...um...so...er, well...like I was saying, your luck’s never been better because, um...you’ve got me! Norman Foreman, the...ah, um... Little... Little Big Man of comedy. Here for your...comedy pleasure for...er, one night only. And, um, all you lot have to do is sit back, relax and enjoy the...um...ride!”

“Yeeeehaaaa, nailed it, Normie! The crowd goes wild!”

I was a little worried that Big Al’s fourth pint in twenty minutes might have pushed him over the edge, but Lou gave me a wink and a slight shake of her head, as if to say “Don’t worry, he’s harmless.” At least, I hoped that’s what the wink said. It could well have been “Quick, you call the police while I padlock the Guinness tap and hide the ax.” I had no way of knowing.

So there it was, and even though the crowd at Norman’s first solo public debut was record-smashingly small, the show did indeed go on. He delivered the jokes, his parts and Jax’s, too. Shoveling through the words like he was open-cut mining. Too fast, too slow and sometimes skipping ahead before his brain could catch up with his mouth. But pressing on, hoping nobody would notice.

All the way through it, Leonard held on to a handful of fanned-out Post-it notes, shuffling through them, mouthing along. Occasionally looking confused when Norman jumped ahead, doing some more shuffling, and then looking relieved when he found the one to match. But as Norman spilled his heart out on an upturned milk crate, I was thinking about something else altogether.

Because about two minutes into his routine, right after the joke about a London black-cab driver on a Boris Bike, I’d felt my bag vibrating. I snuck a look at my phone to see a name illuminated in green and I covered up the muffled noise with a sudden round of applause, much to the surprise of the others. The phone let out a final shiver as the voice mail message sign lit up, and the cease-fire in my stomach was over. Dan McLachlan. Back in the game.