Dear Stephen,
here I am in a rainy London morning and I need to tell you a few things.
First of all, I knew with the same certainty that I had that London would rain on me before long, that would come back and apologize to brumplum. And I feel a coward for not having told him, six hours ago when it counted, that I knew you would do so.
I knew this in part because, as much as one can know a public person that is so open and articulate about his openness, I knew you, your decency, honesty and kindness.
But in part because I've been in the same place, I've known the sudden darkening of the world, the moment when it all becomes too much, and you just want to slam the door on everybody and curl up in on yourself.
And I was pretty sure, because I've been there, that you'd feel guilty about it, because that's what people who care too much and end up hurting themselves for it do: we feel guilty.
So you need somebody to tell you this: you're not guilty. It's not your fault that your wit, intelligence and ability, as well as your humanity, have made you a celebrity, and given you the power to cause storms. It's not your fault the imbalance in power between you and a bloke on twitter is what it is.
You were not, even in your moment of vulnerability and spite, ungraceful. You were not abusive. You did what was sane and wise in these situations, and got away from it all. And it's not your fault if the ensuing storm happened while you were on a plane.
It's also not your fault if somebody else took it out on the poor bloke. If anything, it's our fault - my fault - for not telling him that he didn't deserve the abuse. It was hard to do because on Twitter everything is in public, and it could have cause more harm than good.
This morning I was listening to the radio and being irritated by a breezy observation on some paper that some of your tweets were indeed - I don't know how the described them, but "Hurrah for curry" was quoted.
Well, what do they think Twitter is? The TLS only cut down to 140 characters? It' mundane. It's the stuff of our ordinary lives, that's the whole bleeding POINT.
I like mundane tweets. I enjoy listening to you gripe about printers, or Ben Goldacre venting his spleen against his bike lock. That's what twitter is for: weaving the small boredoms of our ordinary lives into little graces. Here I am, my cat is washing herself in front of the keyboard, the height of boredom. But there is also unfussy love and companionship, and tenderness, in my watching her. I am dunking ginger thins in hot milk. Hmmmmm. Boring? Certainly. Also delicious.
Yes, our lives are made of small unimportant things. We curse our printers, enjoy our currys, pet our cats, drink our milk, and then we die. And you and me both believe that our lives are none the less precious for it, and the preciousness if made up of infinite atoms of everyday mundanity.
You have been - and I think you have made a conscious choice to be - ready to show yourself in public, with your weaknesses, vulnerabilities, foibles, and moments of despair. As well as your decency, passion, good sense, willingness to speak up. It's not an easy place to be and I for one would not blame you if one day you wanted to bow out of being so much, so unrelentingly, exposed.
So I'm not telling you this to pressure you, but your willingness to be vulnerable, and embarrassed, and sorry in public today has meant a lot to me. I spend my life being scared that depression has marked me forever: that I am and always will be cursed with a secret flaw that can make me fall apart at every moment.
But the truth is that people who have survived this thing long enough learn to surf the waves of darkness. The moods come and we know they do and we ride them out and then carry on. We bend, then snap back. You reminded me of this today, and for this I cannot thank you enough.
