Day 263: Living on the Fringe

Townshend comes to Buccleuch St

I'm normally in Edinburgh for all of August.  This year I am not.  I am at home planting grass seed, and fighting cats, pigeons and slugs.  Which is the equivalent of Townshend planting his eponymous turnips.  I'm putting some metaphorical nitrogen back into my soil, man. 

But since loads of people I know are up in Edinburgh, it's still very much on my radar.  Facebook status updates chart the progress of the terrible, beautiful rollercoaster.  It's only week one, but you can feel it gathering speed.  Some people are strapped in securely, and others are already clinging on for dear life.  But that can change in a day.  There's nowhere like the Edinburgh Fringe for reversal of fortunes. 

That's one of the things I love so much about it.  The extraordinary expansion of possibility.  Which makes for intense living.  Everything is concentrated and magnified in the bubble of the Fringe, so an inevitable byproduct is a warped perspective. 

One of my favourite moments last year was appearing at Lynn Ruth Miller's late night gig.   She's eccentric and full of grounded positivity.  With the wisdom of her seventy-seven years, she is fully aware of what's really important about being at Edinburgh - the absolute privilege of being part of the world's largest arts festival. Lynn Ruth is, like me, taking a year off.   But she's not rotating her turnips.  She has a more robust reason - a broken ankle. Get well soon, Lynn Ruth. The Fringe needs you.