When I started writing this blog, I promised myself to keep updating it regularly when I had something to say and to keep away from it when I knew I'd just be padding things out - but I have bitten my metaphorical tongue this week so I could get a good distance between me and that which I wanted to talk about.

So, here we go. On Tuesday 5th December, Somna died.

I find this hard to write about on two levels; firstly, I don't have the deft touch for describing sensitive subjects with the tact to stop it becoming either too cold and clinical, or alternatively, too maudlin. And secondly, it's hard to write about because it hurts; though nowhere near as much as it would have done, had this been Wednesday, or even Thursday. In a nutshell; since my last blog I got three consecutive phonecalls from the vet, spaced out by 12 hours, describing her continuingly deteriorating condition. On the Monday, my wife went over to see her, but I had a gig at the Tattershall castle in central London. The lack of incoming texts seem to indicate that no news was bad news. I'd buried myself in the gig though, and it proved the distraction I needed to not dwell on it. When I got home Anneliese was fast asleep (she had a 6am start) and I wasn't about to wake her to talk about something so upsetting.

Tuesday morning started with the phonecall I was dreading and expecting; that she wouldn't really make it to the next day. Our cat wasn't breathing well and there was a big build up of fluid in her lungs that was leaving her in terrible distress. I phoned my wife at work in Newbury to tell her the terrible news. What is it about bad news that makes the act of saying it the hardest part? I'll tell you an overused adjective; gutted. You understand the etymology of it when you are truly upset, and it's a perfect description of how we both felt.

The vet had told us that we needed to make the decision no pet owner ever wants to make, but it was an inevitability. However, the really tough decision was if I was going to go and see her to say goodbye. Anneliese had got off work early and was driving home to do exactly that, but I had to go to Jongleurs Bow on Tuesday for the first of 5 consecutive Christmas shows. In some ways, I felt going to the gig was an easy cop-out. The day before, the blanket distraction of a high profile gig (the Monday club had featured a stellar line-up of Harry Hill, Dave Fulton, and We Are Klang) had meant I was able to switch off worrying about my cat for nearly the whole evening - and that escape clause was looking good for tonight. I also didn't want to see my cat, so ravaged by the sheer evil that is FIP (a terrible disease), stumbling, struggling, unable to breathe and in agony; knowing that would be my final mental image of her. And picking up a phone to tell Jongleurs head office at 2pm on the day of a show that you can't go because 'your cat is very poorly' sounded pretty pathetic when I thought about it. So scuttling off to do the gig seemed the best bet.

But then, the thought of my wife, on her own, having to say goodbye, while I did the coward's route, stuck in my throat. I didn't need the 'closure' of goodbye (I was sorting that out in my head already), but I did need to give what small comfort I could to Somna in her final hours - she deserved that, no matter how tough it was going to be for me (i.e. very).

So I tentatively rang Jongleurs and told them what was happening, and asked that if anyone rang out of the blue today saying they were free and they felt were up to the job of compering Bow in my absence - could I have the evening off. I could hear myself, and I felt stupid. I only ever pull shows for two reasons; 1. it's clashing with another show (common), or 2. I'm too ill (uncommon). I have to say it, the guys and gals at Jongleurs are just great. All of them - Rosie, Julia, Donna, Ian, everyone - were totally supportive and helpful. They rang around off their own backs and one hour later they had cover, and I had the evening off to do something that I really didn't want to do, but for the reasons I described, felt I had to.

I won't go into too much details but it was heart-wrenching stuff, stroking the near-lifeless shell of my panicking, wheezing cat, who still had years in her (she was only 7), while I whispered goodbye and cried silently for what must have been an hour. I didn't last long in the consultation room, and had to go for a walk. The receptionist offered me a tissue - "Rubbish, isn't it", I said, very aware of how crap I must have looked. "No - it's real", she said. It felt it.

And so Wednesday, it was off to Jongleurs Bow for compering the first of 4 consecutive Christmas shows. I was dreading them, but I shouldn't have. In a strange sort of way, it was exactly what I needed. The gigs were difficult, but doable, meaning I had to bury myself in focussing completely on getting it done. And I was strangely on good form; even on stage, I still felt the hollow feeling of the Tuesday night, but it wasn't making the job any harder. In some ways, it was making the job more welcome, and easier to commit to.

In fact, by Saturday night, I was thinking to myself that if I blogged 'how tough it was concentrating on a rowdy Jongleurs Christmas show when suffering personal loss', it would have been a lie. With 4 days gigging under my belt, my attention had been steered firmly onto my work, and I felt a lot better - in retrospect, they were pretty good gigs. Often hard and heckling in places, but I wasn't caught out once. Good.

Therefore, I wasn't expecting last night's Sunday at Komedia (a normal, non-Christmassy, peach of a gig) to be anything less than a breeze. However, that was not the case. At Komedia, I relax a lot (I'm unlikely to be sacked, as I book it), and usually this allows me to play around more and get a great rapport going. But the effects of that comfortable environment - relaxing on stage, not having to dictate proceedings, voicing my comedy thoughts out loud - meant that the feelings of the previous Tuesday actually surfaced out of nowhere. Without the more direct and confrontational scenario of Bow during the previous week which completely focussed me, my mood and approach slumped. It was by no means a bad show, but my usual joie de vivre was utterly bereft and I can't help feeling it showed.

In a very small way, I'm pleased. Yes, I'm glad I have the professionalism to carry off a good performance when all is not well 'back home', but equally I'm also pleased to see that emotionally, I'm not a fucking robot.


RIP Somna. We both miss you terribly.

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