Nothing Comperes

I felt sick. My heart pounded. An invisible band pulled tight around my head. My palms threatened to drip sweat as my fists continually clenched and unclenched. My vision began to swim and for one moment I thought I might be about to have a heart attack. Or a baby. Or both.

I swallowed nothing as the lump in my throat threatened to block my windpipe. My tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth whilst my stomach turned somersaults and did the moonwalk.

There were 80 of them. I'd greeted each one individually, some by name. They hadn't looked this ugly, or menacing then. They hadn't stared at me then.

My world had shrunk to a bubble no wider than a metre in diameter. The sound had been sucked out of it.

I panicked. My mind emptied instantly to be filled with a backwash of more nothingness.

I made my debut, and quite probably my finale, as a compere at the comedy club.

It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I want to wind it back and try it again.