Susan Morrison: Our Festival tourists leave strange legacy
Have they gone? Have you checked? I can hear the sound of wheelie cases dragging over the New Town streets and battering along the Old Town pavements.
It’s lovely to have them here, but after a bit you do feel like you really want to get the hoover out and give the place a bit of deep clean, so really, once they go, it’s a bit of a relief.
It’s like having that couple you met on holiday taking up the sofa bed in the living room for a weekend, but they’re still lurking two weeks later, and you know the stoor is gathering like storm clouds under the coffee table.
Of course, I’ll miss them, even the gallant little flyerering teams. Bless ’em. It was nice having at least one person give you a smile in the morning, even if it was only when you took the flyer
Perhaps we should think about an official ‘Smile At You In The Morning’ task force to give us all a big beamer of a grin and a jolly ‘Good Morning’ as we fight our way through the rush hour traffic.
All over the city, backstage dressing rooms are being broken down, and the strange stuff that’s built up over three weeks, where anything up to 20 people have shared that space, is being binned.
Naturally there are the pizza boxes, empty wine bottles and decomposing sarnies in M&S wrappings, but there’s also the slightly more baffling things, such as a beautifully presented box of men’s cotton boxer shorts, two glove puppets – one of Greyfriars Bobby and the other of Margaret Thatcher – and an enormous courgette.
The courgette looked fine. I took it home. I left Margaret for recycling, if it’s possible.
It’s nice to be able to walk about, I suppose. I miss the fireworks at night, but not the honking sound of those weird Home Counties middle-class kids which the Fringe seems to attract, assuring mummy and daddy that they really are OK, but can they please have another couple of hundred to pay the parking fines – as overheard on the Number 22.
I kid you not.
Now, unlike the leader of the Opposition, we can all get a seat on the bus.
When it comes to giving support, Mother knows best, Jeremy
Speaking of Mr Corbyn, somehow I got roped into chairing an event with him. Don’t ask. Not even I know quite how I get involved in these things.
I did manage to get a seat, but I also managed to knacker the dodgy knee even further, because the bus braked and I didn’t. Basically, I hurtled along the bus like some sort of hippo-bird coming in for a really dodgy landing. Fortunately, a woman about to disembark cushioned my landing by shoving her buggy in my way.
For something just less than a nanosecond, I appeared on Reporting Scotland, who unaccountably failed to mention just what a brave little soldier I was being. It was a blink and you’ll miss it event. Just me and Mr Corbyn, side by side.
Within seconds a text appeared from my mother, who has got to grips with this smartphone messaging lark. It said, and I quote, “Saw you on telly. Was that your new trainers you were wearing?”
She doesn’t like them, she thinks they don’t give adequate support or something.
I guess Mr Corbyn knows exactly how that feels.