Forward planning is not my strong suit. This is why I have managed to be working in two different venues during the Fringe. One is on George Street, and the other is on York Place. Olympic standard faffing is a particular strength of mine, so it’s inevitable that at some stage during the day, I will be later than I should be for setting out.
This means that I have to shift at something a little above the average cruising speed for a short fat wumman.
Moving along George Street avoiding the slow-strolling tourists and the flyer-flashing millienials calls for the sort of evasive bodyswerves you see when mummy cheetah is out getting dinner for the kids.
Of course, there are no lampposts on the veld, but there are on George Street, so I bet even yer average high-speed predator would occasionally come a cropper. That explains the bruise on my bicep.
If I squint in the mirror, it looks like I have a tattoo of Margaret Thatcher on my upper arm. That was a worrying moment.
We’re in the New Town Theatre, which is the Freemasons Hall in disguise, and very nice it is, too. At some point in their history, the Masons treated themselves to a massive organ, which we all have to run around several times a day. “Just off for a run around the organ” is not the sort of phrase I thought I would be uttering at my time of life.
The team of wonderful and talented young technicians worked like Trojans to create a working theatre out of this beautiful space, complete with a maze-like backstage area.
They are all very young. None of them remember smoking upstairs on the bus. They are all skinny and fit, presumably from running around that organ all day. These sylph-like creatures dash and dart through the narrow lanes like elvish hunters chasing the Queen of The Faeries, avoiding those bits of wood left sticking out, or the sharp turn at the edge of the mighty organ.
Unfortunately, some of us sylphs are on the chunkier side and our dash-and-dart days are done. That explains the bruise on my hip, which is exactly the same shape as a map of South America, which could come in handy if I am ever driving from Buenos Aires to Santiago.
There’s a bruise on my knee from the stairs and cracker on my bahookie from a sudden sit down on a chair that wasn’t there.
I tell you, by the time the Fringe ends, I’ll look like Rocky Balboa took on the Masons.
It’s a dangerous age for Treeza
The Cabaret of Dangerous Ideas keeps me busy during the afternoons, and now we have an evening event, too. We’ve had fascinating talks by outstanding academics, including one young chap who suggested that not only should we bring back child labour, but there should be no minimum age for voting. Cue sharp intake of breath.
Never going to happen on the current PMs watch. There’s no way on earth that Treeza could campaign for the votes of the seven-eight-year olds. She looks like the Childcatcher, for heaven’s sake. Cue screaming kids and a stampede for the exits.
Oh, wait, forgot, Treeza doesn’t campaign anywhere.
Keep an eye on that lamppost
I’m always honoured that out of all the places in the world, tourists choose to come here, in the teeth of the world’s most temperamental weather system. But there are some things about tourists that baffle me.
What’s there not to understand about the phrase “exact change only”? Why can you not see where the castle is? Hint: look up.
Why do they keep asking the flyerers: “Is it funny?” And no, you’ve probably never heard of them. That’s why people came to the Fringe – to see new things.
Should you need a guide to what to see, take yourself along to Devlin’s Daily at Le Monde at 15.00. Luxury surroundings and a deliciously waspish host, Mr Bruce Devlin, to take you through a highlight or two of the Fringe. Watch it though. There’s a lamppost outside that I swear moves.
Best stick with Porty for now
International news. Just spotted the horrific story about a young Aussie lad who went for a paddle in the sea and got attacked by flesh-eating sea lice. They made a right mess of the poor lad’s lower legs and feet, but he’s going to be alright.
Turns out that the full Moon may have had something to do with it. Great, with all things I have to worry about in the world, vampire werewolf sea-lice just hit the top ten at number five.
Two things. Portobello looks a lot more inviting now, doesn’t it? And secondly, whoa, sea-lice! You went near the feet of a teenage boy? Kudos. The scent of a teen lad is usually enough to keep most wildlife and mothers at bay.