When I read something and I know the voice of the person who wrote it (like this for instance) then that's the voice I hear in my head as I'm reading. If you're the same and you're imagining my dulcet tones right now then for the sake of accuracy I ought to tell you that you'll need to imagine it a little croakier than normal and with the odd - ack - wince of pain too.
I wrote recently about my annoyance at discovering that the American producers had sold two shows a day to several of the venues on the US tour. It was particularly annoying because when they were promoting the show in New York they were very aware of the problems associated with doing that but several months later, perhaps with their thoughts elsewhere, they seemed to forget all about it. Well, on the final day of the tour it finally proved to be a real problem.
On Saturday there was a 5 o'clock show and a 9 o'clock show. Part way through the first show I felt something crack at the back of my throat and was then in pain for the final 40 or 50 minutes. When I came off stage I wanted to see a doctor because I was naturally concerned about doing any permanent damage. It was hastily arranged and a mad dash across town took me to a surgery in Ballard for an examination.
It turned out that the overuse of my throat has given me a nodule. I was a bit panicked when I heard this. "Nodule" wasn't a word I wanted to hear because I was pretty sure that years ago Elton John's career had been threatened by the presence of nodules on his throat. The doctor explained that it's basically equivalent to a callus and that it had cracked during the last show which accounted for the pain. He reassured me that while it would hurt to perform the show again it wouldn't do any permanent damage and he gave me something to help ease the pain a little. The show went ahead. The crowd were one of the best of the run which is lucky because the show was, understandably, not one of the best I'd done - hey, I had an open wound on my throat - but they had enough energy to make up for my slight wobbles.
All in all it made for a strange and dramatic end to the rollercoaster ride that was my Googlewhack Adventure. I spent Sunday morning in Fremont (see pic) which was fantastic. They have a Sunday Market there that reminded me of Spitalfields - a regular Sunday morning haunt for me in London - and I felt like I was already home. I could happily live in Fremont.
I had an uneventful flight home. Do you remember when BA were cancelling flights because their caterers were on strike? That feels like a long time ago. That was what was happening when I flew out to the States. When they served a meal on the flight home I suddenly realised how long I'd been away. I'm home now. I'm resting my voice. I'm resting everything.