Day five of the festival. My friend Ani is stretched out, comatose, on a yellow beanbag outside the Pleasance Dome. This is her first fringe and we’re packing as much in to her 24-hour visit as we can. That’s not enough time of course, “but at least that last comic exposed her breast”, I reassure her later on. “It’s not a true fringe until there’s nudity involved.”
Day two of the festival. A fellow journalist and I are crouched on the stairwell in Summerhall’s loading bay, comparing notes. “How many times can you call the festival ‘weird and wonderful’ before the words cease to have all meaning?” she asks.
