frisson has been and gone. 

The online version ran two weeks ago. The real life version ran last week, impeded by a bout of sickness amongst the cast which led to a spike in my heart rate and the cancellation of the first real life night to avoid potential infection of either cast or audience in its wake.

I feared we'd surrendered our right to any reviewers with the cancellation so was touched and extremely gratified that those booked in for Tuesday were able to reschedule. It's been a busy few weeks in Edinburgh theatre land so this was not something to take for granted.

The real life audiences were compact in number but enthusiastic in their reception which was obviously lovely.

But the moment I must keep in my heart for all time came to pass like this. 

An email from the wonderful Hannah who's been managing the show's PR. "Stop press. Joyce McMillan wants a ticket for Thursday night's show."

Someone called Joyce M had watched the online show but we had no sense of whether it was The Joyce or some other Joyce.

Thursday's show and there she was and I was darting around on the door taking tickets etc. It was hard not to fawn. 

I felt that she chortled her way through the show but this could have been wishful thinking. 

Post-show, I thrust a list of the people involved into her hand. She said (I think. My memory is hazy as this was all just much too much): "so what is your role in this?"

I said I was the writer.

She said, "ah, so you're cmfwood."

"Claire", I said swiftly,  confronted starkly by my pretension. "I always wanted to be AJPTaylor, hence the cmf. Silly really."

And she said:

"More like e e cummings, no? With all the lower case."

Like an idiot, like she was comparing me to the wild beauty of his words, I dipped my head. "I'll take that", graciously.

"I enjoyed it very much," she said. "Thank you."

THANKING ME!

And then she was away and the ground could have swallowed me up then and there and I would've been happy.

Last post. 5 Dec. Happy new year, readers! If there are any of you left. 

This time, I've been busy doing this. 

And I saw an extremely clever but for me, emotionally unengaging show tonight as part of Manipulate. Hark at me damning someone else's Saturday nights toiling away on ticketing systems and updating websites. 

Last post. August 28. That's a very poor show. 

In my defence, I've written two plays and applied for more things that I didn't win/get in the meantime. And seen a few bits and pieces. So I've not been idle but that's hardly the point. 

I'll try harder.

I think I have seen 56 things over the past three weeks, between a few things in the Book Festival, the EIF, a rogue event in the Film Festival and of course, the Fringe.

I feel culturally gorged. But not sated. What a delicious feast.

A Little Life last night. 

I've continued to get not enough sleep over the past week, in part because I've been racing to finish the book. 

I'll post my official review in due course but the guy sat next to me thought that it was "self-obsessed nonsense" at the end of the first act. 

He'd relented by the end of the second act and said that half was "a little better". 

Each to their own.

A week in and it's glorious.

I saw six things yesterday like a wild woman. Got five hours sleep. Two shows in today.

Beloved Edinburgh. Beloved Fringe.

First up (almost), Silkworm.

I'm scheduling Fringe shows. Like multiple in one day Fringe shows. 

This time last year, the Fringe was a pauce spectacle. I hadn't had covid. And the whole prospect of sitting in a theatre seemed a little bit alarming. I rose above it in the end and sometimes, was so bold as to attempt two shows in a day.

What freedom comes with this year and my recent exposure to the virus. 

And it all begins tomorrow.

O happy day.