Hello, hello.
I’m writing this to you from Edinburgh, where I’m taking a sort of working holiday. I’m here for the festivals – Fringe, Book, International, Film – something I haven’t done in a while.
I first came to the Fringe in *checks notes* 2007, as a student, helping out backstage with a friend’s play. Back then, I really had no concept of the magical three weeks in August when Edinburgh fills with comedians, actors, circus performers, writers, pop-up venues, podcast recordings…
And as much as I had a brilliant time, it did also feel, quite often, like attending a party you know is amazing, in theory, only you keep missing the best bits; coming in on jokes half way through because you were stuck in the kitchen or in the queue for the loo.
Today, walking across the George VI bridge, I was hit by a powerful memory – a real madeleine moment – of being 21 and feeling tired, hungry (literally and figuratively), a bit lost, and wanting nothing more than to be able to check myself into a posh hotel, with a big, clean, white bed.