You'd Better Risk Your Life for Something
4 February 1990, Sunday, Glasgow/Ampthill
In the red notebook, probably on the coach down to Toddington from the Buchanan Bus Station, young-Toby writes —
How many times in a day people risk their lives for trivial things, crossing the road carelessly in order to catch the bus that gets them home half an hour earlier, overtaking recklessly. But think, for once, on those who do not merely risk their lives in an instant, as war heroes do, but who risk their life. The dancer’s, stand-up comedians, athletes, painters, composers, writers. The stand-up comedian, who has my deepest respect, for the poet can always claim that his talent was unappreciated and he therefore went unpublished whereas the comedian can never claim that he was funny it was just that the audience didn’t laugh, and the athlete, who must win their glory in an instant or fail, and the dancer living with the constant risk of the career-ending injury, all these have my respect and make me look like a coward.
As dull as a jazz musician who went through his whole career without earning a single nickname.
Toby is heading home to fetch more of his stuff. He is moving more certainly out, now that he has a flat. He needs his Akai stereo and his Amstrad word processor with him. He wants his big diary. On the way, he stops off at a ‘Little Chef’. (See tomorrow.)
[To interrupt slightly. Yesterday, I had for the first time what turned out to be an ocular migraine. Prismatic zigzag visuals that were there whether my eyes were open or closed and, of course, the worry I was having a stroke, or worse. Online advice was, consult a medical professional. So, I phoned 111 and was advised to go immediately to the nearest hospital, King’s College. Which I did — and was brilliantly triaged, eye-tested, assessed and reassured. My thanks to everyone involved, most of all the consultant opthamologist.
I wasn’t risking my life when the migraine started. In fact, I was doing some fairly basic but fiddly DIY on the kitchen floor. What is wrong with this screw? However, the whole sparkly and unnerving episode made me realise — very clearly — that I could zap off at any moment. Or I could be changed into a person for whom the simple act of touch typing was a great bodily struggle, not a pleasure.
I am glad that didn’t happen.
Looking back at young-Toby, I realise what very very fine differences had long-term consequences in his and my life.
And I feel that ongoingly, moment by moment.]