I walk into the kitchen from my shed, holding a cardboard box that once contained a new wireless router. The oldest one does not look up from his computer as I enter.
“The broadband at the far end of the garden is now faster than it is in the house,” I say.
“Is it,” he says.
“My shed is a hotspot,” I say. “If you want the password, see me.”
“Why are you upgrading?” he says.
“I’m in demand,” I say.
My wife walks in. “What’s for supper?” she says. “I’m not cooking.”
“Tonight I am speaking at the York Festival Of Ideas,” I say.
“I’m never cooking again,” she says. She made this promise two months ago, and has kept her word.
“I’ll be done by eight,” I say. “But someone might have to put the chicken in at 7.30pm, because I will be speaking to an international audience at that time.”
Back in my office, I set my laptop on two dictionaries so I can keep my head in the frame without showing too much ceiling. I check the books on the shelf behind me – acceptable, but I haven’t read any of them. They’re just part of my general household literature allocation, based on size: paperback classics no more than six inches high. On the screen their titles are in mirror writing. I don’t know how to fix that, and I’m not sure I want to. I twist the laptop until no books are visible, and I’m silhouetted by the window behind. The light will be different later, I think.
At six, I put on a different shirt and fill a glass with water at the kitchen tap. The oldest one is still sitting at the table.
“Not long now,” I say.
“Till what?” he says.
“Until my talk,” I say.
“Oh right,” he says. “Do you get nervous before?” I look at him through a fog of preoccupation.
“Shit, yeah,” I say finally.
At 6.30pm, I am sitting at my desk before a grid of faces stacked on my laptop screen – four on three. This is the York Festival Of Ideas, or more specifically, the technical rehearsal beforehand. At some point, they tell me, a title card will appear, music will play and the virtual crowd will shuffle in.
“Is that your actual shed?” says Joan, the organiser.
“Yes,” I say, craning my neck around, thinking: don’t ask me about the books.
“Is that your mosaic table outside?” says Matt, the chair.
“Oh my God, can you see that?” I say.
“Is that one of your new shirts?” says another head, referring, I assume, to the shirts my wife paid me with some weeks ago. I look down.
“No, this is just a shirt I use,” I say. “It has non-iron properties.”
“I hope your shed is secure,” says Matt.
“I mean, it locks,” I say, looking either side of my head to see what valuables Matt could possibly have his eye on.
“About 10 minutes away now,” says another head.
“I’m just going to get more water,” I say, crouching as I slide out of frame so that no one can see I’m wearing shorts.
At 7pm, I mute my audio and video as instructed. Minutes later, Joan appears to introduce Matt. Matt appears to introduce me. I appear while Matt is still doing his introduction, like a messenger who has wandered into the wrong office. Then everyone else disappears, and I am left to deliver a 20-minute talk to my own face. He looks terrified, I think.
Normally after a bout of public speaking, there is a period of decompression: at the very least a long off-peak train journey, affording the opportunity to reflect on one’s mistakes. This time, I just cross the garden and fill a wine glass, heart still pounding.
“How did it go?” my wife says.
“No idea,” I say. “I guess that’s the magic of it.” I open the fridge to see a whole chicken sitting inside.
“I ordered a takeaway,” my wife says. “We were too hungry.”
