And so it went.

The final James on Friday night. A proper rollicking romp through a snippet of the life of Mr III. Another spectacular set. Pharrell Williams' Happy on the bagpipes should be made a compulsory part of the Princes' Street pipers' repertoire. Lovely costumes. And Sofie Grobel was fantastic. Really brilliant.

Saturday saw me at a death-drenched Snow Dog with Madeleine. She bore it well and - a "when is the real dog coming on?" whispered aside, aside - appeared to enjoy it. Huff again which possibly terrified her, judging by the strength of her grip on my hand. And then The Moth in the Book Festival which converted me instantly back to their cause after a bad (somnolent) experience with Richard Dawkins the week before.

Sunday brought the Fringe to an all-round impeccable close with Lippy by Dead Centre at the Traverse. Proper imaginative theatre. And then Letters Home tried its very best to be proper imaginative theatre but for the most part, didn't quite pull it off. But it was a magic idea and I suspect the problems weren't Grid Iron's fault.

Monday night was Sweet Mambo by Tanztheater Wuppertal. Choreographed by the late and great Piña Bausch. And that was beautiful and funny and sad. A brilliant showcase for women to be women which doesn't happen very often in dance. The music was magic. Lights to die for. A brilliantly billowy set. And the costumes were catch your breath gorgeous.

A proper feast.

And so the cacophonous cultural gluttony draws to a close.

I'll miss it. Of course.