Is it like this for every genius? Did Chaucer, Shakespeare, Goethe and that chap who thought up "In the Night Garden" lose sleep, weight and confidence in agonies of self-doubt and despair?
The Panto is due to commence on Boxing Day at the scout hut in St Agnes and we have no established star name leading the cast and, more to the point, nothing even resembling a coherent script.
What am I to do? Ask Mrs Krilencu from the Post Office to inflict her medley from "Niet, Niet, Nadia" on a barely enthusiastic (or indeed sentient) audience? I think not.
If inspiration hasn't come my way by dawn, the only workable and honourable solution will be for me to press the big red button on the harmonium and be projected into the firmament like a dodgy kebab.
It isn't exactly the Nelson-like deathbed scene I had envisaged as my heroic life drew to its close, but better to go like a firework than suffer the indignity of failure.
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