Sybarite

Now that health concerns are keeping me away from my job, I've got time (too much time) to think.

This is not a good thing. When this mind gets rolling, I start listening to maudlin songs, reading maudlin stories, thinking maudlin thoughts.

From the rubble of the attacks I seem to have emerged in full 'Ich Liebe Dich' mode, preparing, planning, looking forward to a week in Dublin with nothing else on my mind but: 'get to the venue, see the show, meet up with likeminded people, score a couple of pints... and then do the same thing all over again'.

It is, as I have probably mentioned before, 100% pure escapism with a touch of hedonism. A willing sybarite, I will be basking in the spotlight that's not even pointed at my own head.

I'm jonesing for the eerie hollow silence of a venue just after the sequencers quiet, just before the punters arrive. Anticipation high, a final cigarette stumped out beneath a trembling foot, the last few glimpses of the nervous artist before he turns and hides backstage. My own tummy painfully contracting in a mixture of fear and excitement.

And afterwards the joy and sheer exuberance, the speechlessness, the 15 minutes wait the artist needs to come down.

And I keep thinking: why on earth am I working in the internet business, when I so obviously prefer to be close to the stage?