Last year, I was delighted not to be in Edinburgh for the Fringe. I’d lost money the year before, having invested unwisely, and it was nice to just hop up for 3 days at the end and see stuff. I particularly enjoyed being able to eat and digest actual food.
But now, with the pain and blisters a distant memory, I’m having real pangs. I want to go again. I hear that’s what labour’s like – you sweat and you swear and you feel like you can’t possibly get through the pain without chemical assistance. At the end, despite having delivered something you’re quite proud of, you decide you will never, ever put yourself through that again. But then stupid time heals all wounds, the bits that were ripped out of you heal over and you think “actually, that was kind of great”. Stupid, unreliable memory. Unhelpful, healy time.
So it is that – even as I read updates of people’s joys and woes, highs and lows on various bits of the internet – I wish I were there. I have plans for at least 3 different shows for next year…all I need are to write them, book the venues and secure a staircase that lights up, one step at a time. But I’ve said too much.
Meanwhile, I’ll make do with getting up there for the final week. I will be doing spots in various locales, so digesting food is out of the question, but other than that, I can’t wait. Six more sleeps…
