I started talking out loud around 3, I think. It’s a sweltering day, but that’s no excuse. It’s more to do with the height, I think. The wind rushing in my ears and I couldn’t hear a damn thing I was thinking.
What was I saying?
Oh.
I started saying things like this.
“I really want a tuna sandwich, I don’t know if I can do this without a tuna sandwich, I think I really need one. perhaps I should call the vets and make an appointment for Barney the goldfish.
I want a sandwich. The knife is digging into my leg. Look at me, I’m a star. I want a sandwich.”
And so on. Give them something to talk about. I know the police negotiator, strapped up with his bullet proof flak jacket can hear everything I’m saying and is scribbling it all down in his yellow notepad, ring-bound, but then that’s what it’s all about. So too is the hum from a small crowd in the street below, buzzing like the white noise of an orchestra warming up before a performance, like lots of hacking coughs, preparing for the end of me, each and every one ageing a little to watch me go.
It’s like reality TV. Safe. Distant. Gritty. Real.
I’m a star again.
Image from here.