Taking a ride

Let me say something about the weather. I wasn't going to, but I've held out for long enough, and it wouldn't be very British to leave out such a fundamental part of the story. First off, Unusually, the weather has been great while I've actually been training. The run around Arthur's Seat had sunny intervals and a perfect freshness in the air, the sort of day where, if running was your thing, you'd say, What a perfect day for a run. Or if it weren't, you might chose a beer garden, for example. Without exception, pretty much the rest of the time, it has been sheeting with rain. Rivers pour down overloaded gutters, torrents run down umbrellas, people dash into cafes and bars just for some respite. You know, Edinburgh in August. Anyway, it was a nice surprise to find that, as on Saturday morning, it was sunny with a little cloud cover. We hadn't been living it up extraordinarily, in our girlie-flat, but a good bit of late-night chatting had been going on, so the girls were a mixture of put-out and grudgingly impressed by my zealousness at training. By now they were bored with remarking on it, and let me out of the flat for my cycle ride. I arranged to meet them at the venue for our first show at 1pm, and set off on the bike.

I cycled along Princes Street, and dropped down to Frederick Street, and then headed downwards in the general direction of the Botanic Gardens. I passed them, and hung a right down towards Leith and the docks. I was rather impressed. I think I recall going down that direction, but I'd never actually been to the docks, so I stopped to take some photoage. I also saw the Moscow State Circus setting up - I'd love to see that! Still can't understand why it was at the Docks, rather than being a teeny tiny bit closer to say, where everything else was (The Meadows, surely space enough there?) but the people I asked all just said that's where it always is.

I headed back around Arthur's Seat, a journey I now felt familiar with, and as I hadn't covered anything like the mileage I was hoping for, I had no recourse but to take a trip down memory lane and cycle up to the Kings Buildings. As I turned right in front of the old zoology building where I had so many lectures, I saw a kid waiting to cross at the lights who I swear was there 17 years ago... how is it that science student all look the same?

I headed back towards Marchmont and the Meadows, and called in to see Emma, Jasper, Michael and Dorrie. Michael and Fraser were just on their way out to record something for the Telegraph, which annoyed Jasper, who regards the Magnets as "his friends" (who he wanted to play with). Fortuitously, Emma gave me breakfast, and I'd thought ahead, and had packed the wherewithal to have a shower and change my clothes. It was nice to spend some time with them, although as with most parents, conversation among adults becomes broken or nigh-on impossible, and even moments when respite happens through small people rushing off to play elsewhere, these are usually short-lived as you remember the possible play things they may have found. We eventually headed out towards the park, and I had to depart for my show.

And what a show! We went to see Stephen Berkoff's adaptation of Oedipus. Excitingly, it had Stephen Berkoff in it, as well as being directed by him. (I knew it was possible...). It was an amazing production. The chorus were men all seated around a long table, with Oedipus in the middle, not unlike the last supper. Periodically a drum would strike, and they all froze in a white light, taking on a different pose each time. I won't pretend that I followed or understood all of it, but as the story picked out the parts I remembered, it all came together. Anyway, at the end he picked up his dead wife/mother's broach and thrust it in his eyes. Huh. Weirdo. Anyway, we had to race out of that show and up the road for another, and once again, my training paid off, as I left Ashlea and Summer with heaving lungs as I trotted up the hill. We made it, for "4.3 miles from nowhere". It was a much more amateur production (well, you've gotta hand something to Stephen), telling of 4 kids who've broken down and are spending the night in a wood together. It seemed rather cliched at the beginning, but we warmed to each other as the show went on, and the Puck-like scallywag who taunted them, told them stories and sang to them somehow bound us in his magic too.

After that we met up with Tom, inbetween his militant timetable of relentless shows - he told us about a rather scary sounding hostage-type show he'd seen, where he was kidnapped at the beginning, and the audience were literally set against one another, deciding what to do. It sounded very dramatic. I'd have probably got put with a lot of indecisive middle-class ladies who'd look at each other uncomfortably until I sacrificed myself just to get out. Tom would be a great person to have as an audience member in that sort of show. We grabbed a quick snack, and Summer, Ashlea and I went to catch some free-fringe, which we hoped was a friend of Simon's called Jonathan (I think). We sat through a few acts, which weren't bad, but he didn't appear, so we headed off at the end of the show to get ready for Milton Jones. He was FUNNY. Really funny. Also, he was at the Assembley Rooms on the Mound, and I love that venue.

After his show, I had to dash (on my bike) down to Niddry Street because I decided to perform in a Poetry Slam. For the uninitiated (like me), a Poetry Slam is where you have several poets, and they participate in several rounds of poetry. I believe that generally one (or more) poet(s) is/(are) knocked out at each round, but in this instance, there were only 3 poets participating, so although we had two rounds, we just got scores for each round. Anyway, long story, but yours truly kind-of came third. Possibly second if you take into consideration that one of the contestants left before the end, but mathematically, third. I think the judges were swayed by the beautiful, Australian, blond, political poet doing meaningful poems about freedom of speech, and didn't care about my amazing Fringe poem, or creepy relationship poem. What can I say, I am a truly misunderstood poet, which makes me better than them. A winner.