When the cat almost got my tongue
I was pleased when Panel Magazine chose my submission—‘Twenty Forty-Eight, March the Fifteenth’—for ’their Special Edition on language, published in June. It was a story I first wrote about two years ago. It started with the question: if Budapest was a mostly German-speaking city in 1848, which language would be the main one used there two hundred years later? In just over twenty years’ time.
Initial feedback on my story from members of the Budapest Creative Writing Meetup wasn’t too positive, and I put the story on the back burner. When Panel asked for submissions on the subject of language earlier this year, I looked at the ‘Twenty Forty-Eight…’ story again. I realised it needed a different focus and a better ending and made these changes. After submitting, I was pleased to be informed of its inclusion in the literature and arts magazine with a focus on Central and Eastern Europe.
The launch party for the Special Edition was scheduled for June 19th at the Massolit bookshop in Budapest. Along with other contributors, I was invited to attend and read part of my story. The nineteenth turned out to be scorching, and at 7 pm, the walls of the seventh district were releasing the heat built up during the day. Although the launch party was in the garden at the back of the shop, it felt warmer than indoors.
It had been a few years since I read anything in a public setting, and I suddenly felt nervous waiting for my turn. Some of the other participants waited near the front, maybe enjoying the limelight? I don’t know why, but I couldn’t do that and hung around at the back, near the door. Like the back row in a classroom. Russell Ridgeway from Indiana was on first, and he’s an excellent speaker. He does drama and stand-up comedy, so he knows how to engage with a crowd. Looking around, I guessed I was the only Brit in the garden. At least I wouldn’t have to endure the embarrassment of sounding dreadful in front of that particular audience.
As Russell read, I knew I couldn’t repeat his charm or style. I was suddenly transported back to secondary school when I was frequently overtaken with chronic shyness. I considered leaving a message to the organisers and making a bolt for the exit of the shop. Or clambering over the garden fence into the small park beyond. Somebody else would probably step in to read my piece for me. It was just too hot for such dramatic action, and I remained glued by the heat to my spot at the door, remembering when I was fourteen again.
Our rugby-playing geography teacher from the Welsh Valleys once asked me a direct question about oxbow lakes. He was probably checking if I was awake. On that occasion I was and even knew the answer but was gripped with shyness. I simply couldn’t speak, only grow pinker and pinker.
‘Cat got your tongue, Harrison?’
Eventually, he looked away towards the rest of the class.
‘I get better answers from Tibbles than from Harrison,’ he said. There were sniggers around the room. The girls looked at me pityingly. The boys with undisguised scorn. Somebody else probably answered the question.
And now many years later in Budapest I was captured again by a fear of speaking in public. Along with a bout of imposter syndrome. Russell finished to resounding applause, and my name was called out to read next. I chose to follow his example and sat on the edge of a table, rather than stand there fully exposed. My feet dangled nervously below me. Why couldn’t I be taller? My fourteen-year-old self complained.
I explained the premise of my story as a way of introduction, and someone in the front row challenged my choice of year. He thought 1845 would have been a better choice than 1848 in terms of German being spoken in Budapest. Oh no, the history police are in attendance! I was thrown by his observation before I had even started reading and made some vague comment. I could imagine Mr B watching from the wings, adding something negative to my annual geography report, even though it wasn’t his subject I was making mistakes in!
I started to read, and my left foot began to twitch. I forced myself to focus on it, to keep it still, while somehow managing to force the words out. It was stilted at first, but I had practised a little and gradually got into the flow, trying to add emphasis in the right places and not go too quick or slow. I just made one mistake, reading from the wrong line. When my seven minutes were up, I finished on what I thought was a clever sentence. There was a silence as the audience either digested my magnificent words or was puzzled at why I stopped at that particular point. Then polite applause.
I was happy to work my way through the audience, past imaginary Herritys and Curtins, Talbots and Ayres, Ryans and McDermotts. Always avoiding the critical glare of that rugby-playing Welshman from the Valleys. Not that I’ve got anything against Welshmen, rugby, or valleys, you understand—nor even oxbow lakes, before anyone clambers onto their high horse.
The Canadian poet and writer George Ferenczi greeted me with a high five on my return to the back row. It was so crowded; someone accidentally smashed some glasses, and Mr B put him in detention. Interestingly enough, I met my former geography teacher and form tutor many years after school days in a work setting. ‘How’s it going?’ I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Call it education, what we’re doing now, Boyo? We’re just puffing out fresh air, man!’
He didn’t say “Boyo” or call me “man,” and I’m not convinced he even remembered me, nor that I understood what he meant, but we did meet. That much is true.
Meanwhile, the readings continued with style and grace. How can other people sound so effortless? The session ended on a positive, friendly note. The Panel staff had done a good job. Just inside the doorway I met a former Panel editor, the one who had worked on my previously successful piece in their Ruritania prize. He looked up from a copy of the language edition.
‘Hey Paul, I like this story. This one’s good.’
I understood the inference.
‘Better than the last one?’
‘Definitely, man. You’re a better writer now.’
His comments made the evening’s stress worthwhile. I felt the imposter syndrome gradually lift from my shoulders. Then I recognised some friends from the past and met two friendly Brits, who were actually present the whole time. So much for escaping that audience.
Well, rather than my usual blog, I hope you’ve enjoyed this self-promotion. Mr B’s given it four out of ten and written ‘should do better,’ but if you still want to read the story, then it’s freely available online. You have to go through checkout at the Panel Magazine shop page and download it from there, but there’s no charge, and the magazine’s well worth a look. Peter Halderman’s piece on learning Hungarian is one I can particularly relate to, but there’s loads of good stuff besides. The paper version of the magazine is for sale around Budapest. Good reading!
https://panel-magazine.com/shop/
For more pictures of the launch party see here:
https://panel-magazine.com/issue-12-the-release-party-massolit-bookscafe-june-19-2025/
Waiting for customers-photo Daria Ra.
A Lutonian Abroad plans his escape route with poet and writer George Ferenczi . Photo- Daria Ra
A Lutonian Abroad nervously entertains the audience. Photo-Daria Ra
A Lutonian Abroad relaxing after his reading. Photo-Daria Ra
Massolit Bookshop-Photo Daria Ra
Panel Team-Photo Daria Ra