I decided today to flyer outside the Book Festival in Charlotte Square; bookish types are bound to love Burns I thought. You know the kind; glasses, grey hair, wear flat shoes and ride bikes-well as far as I could tell with all the bikes chained to the railings outside Charlotte Square Gardens. I know that description of a book festival attendee is just as sweeping a generalisation as saying, for example, that all Scots drink Irn Bru’…but it’ll do for now.

I got all dressed up in my period underwear..stays and chemise and a long black skirt, my hair tucked up into the cap I wear for Agnes Broun( it has lush lace framing the face..I thought the lush lace would draw the crowds if the cleavage didn’t). So I took my place at the gate of the Book Festival, and starting pitching my show to all who entered. At one point I stepped on to the cobbles just beyond the entrance and a nasal, cracked voice barked, ‘Yer no allowed in ‘er! And while yer at it, dinna walk in front o’ me, yiv done it ‘hree times already!’The dulcit tones of the ‘Big Issue’ seller blasted my ears.

Though there was no square meter mapped out on the pavement indicating his patch, I was obviously tresspassing and that ‘Wis just no on’. Despite pleasantly replying that I was unaware of a) not being allowed beyond the railings of the gates to the book festival while flyering and b) that this was his patch for selling his magazine, he unpleasantly refused to be understanding. I thought it best to desist and ignore him.

On I went plugging my show. I engaged people with first, a smile then a pleasant hello and then hit them with my unique selling point: THE ONLY SHOW ABOUT BURNS IN THE FESTIVAL. People are so intruiging. Some actively avoided any eye contact so that they could be spared the blurb and the piece of paper, but others, stopped and chatted. I met a lovely American woman. She wore a beret on her head and a shawl around her shoulders, she had metallic grey hair, lovely eyes: an attractive woman in her fifties. She said she loved Burns, and so did her husband. She took my flyer with grace. Another lady from Alloway, just up from where the Bard was born, took my flyer and said she’d been looking for something to fill an hour before the tatoo that night. Then there were the two Scottish Asian women, munching on their lunch, bedecked in their bright sari’s and gold jewellery. I said they were just the kind of women whom I’d love to see going to my show, though I did warn them about the sweary words, ‘Och,’ said the younger one, ‘You should hear the language o’ oor husbands!’

Anyway, tonight the American lady and the woman from Alloway were both in the audience along with another couple who had taken the flyer this afternoon. The wee Asian women didn’t show, but still I was pleased I’d done my bit to boost the bums on seats . We had a total of about 24; when I had checked earlier the total had been seven. Result I think!

Good show today. Afterwards, I caught a glimpse of Richard de Marco in the lobby of our venue. He is an impresario, one of the Fringe’s founders and a friend; a man more unique would be hard to find. He had sent a lovely man to see the show, Krzysztof Noworyta, Head of Programming for the National Centre For Culture, Warsaw, Poland. Quel joie! We all had a drink afterwards, with Richard being entertaining as always. Teri Newman, his PA, passed around the ‘book’. The book is Richard’s document of this years fringe. He has documented every Edinburgh Fringe festival since the sixties, so it’s good to be part of that history. So into this book we wrote our names and addresses, and Teri took some snaps. We were then joined by Giles Ramsay, a theatre director who is working with young Zimbawean artists, in Zimbabwe. They do shows there where at the end, they don’t know how much the electricity for the show has cost them because of the rampant inflation. Yet still they do it; communicating, subverting terror, entertaining, lifting people beyond their immediate situation. That is what theatre is about in my book. Peter Brook, the great theatre director, said once that the purpose of modern theatre used to be about shocking audiences, because that was what was needed. Now however, he says that theatre has to remind us about what we’ve lost as people of this world. That’s what I aspire to both as a performer and as a writer.

Denise and James Conroy, two amazing, talented and generous people, with their wonderful daughter Jessica were also in the audience tongiht. Denise was the inspiration , engine and power- house behind the second fundraiser in Helensburgh, where we managed to raise a further £800. ( that story is still to be told in the fundraiser blog)

It rained all day today in Edinburgh, dreich, grey, sodden miserable August weather. Welcome to summer in Scotland.

Show went well today. A new , young company are in before us, thoosands of them. What strikes me is there energy and verve and sheer determination to make their festival experience work for them. They are a lovely bunch who have worked very hard to get to Edinburgh… and very kindly have allowed us access into the dressing area in time for our half( thirty-five minutes before the show goes up). I hope they do really well.

More techy trouble before the show today which delayed our start again; gremlins like these are inevitable at the Fringe. It was a good show tonight, I really thought it was going very well, and then in the last scene my throat started to tickle. Not just a wee tickle, but a not-to-be-ignored tickle. Trish was in full flow, I couldn’t possible cough. I started to heave with the effort of suppressing it; my face went red, the tears flowed down my face, I thought I was going to explode. My turn at last. I coughed! But it wasn’t enough. My throat was so constricted I could hardly speak. I channelled this and the tears into my acting and made out that Jean was very upset. I had to cough again, but still the irritation was not appeased. Trish’s turn again. I started saying ‘Hail Mary’s’ to calm me and my irritable anatomy down. No luck. My turn again, cough cough, tears streaming ( like an allergic reaction). Now I had to sing. Couldn’t. Voice was all over the shop. Again tried to make it look that Jean was so upset she couldn’t sing. Trish came in early in the song to help me out. Thank God! End of show. We took our bow’s and were off. I was so upset I couldn’t even strike the set with the others. These things happen, but it’s terrible when it happens ON STAGE. You feel so exposed…as if you are standing at the mouth of hell just perched to drop into the void! Anyway, I just have to notch it up as yet another weird and wonderful experience in my life of treading the boards. Day off tomorrow, a day of sleeping, cleaning, and laundry; bliss.

We started early today so that we could flyer on the High Street (aka the Royal Mile). Anne, our trusty dresser and ready -for -anything ASM( always has a kirby at hand), had rallied her fabby daughter Mairi and her pals Marie and Hannah to give us a hand. Trish and me were in our period underwear, and we’d raided the costume basket for caps for the girls.There is a pic but I haven’t quite got to grips with the technology yet. It will be here anon. Anyway, we all had interesting experiences engaging with Joe Public. One guy; big, Hell’s Angel type, built like a tank, black heavy-metal Tshirt, shades and longish shaggy grey hair in a pony tail, strolling down the Mile with his woman, seemed a likely target.

‘I think you’re going to love this show,’ was my opening, charming gambit.

‘No I won’t,’ said he after a swift glance at the flyer in my hand.

‘I know you you will,’ said I, determined to stay cheery and positive.

‘No, I fuckin’ won’t.’ came the reply.

I nearly ended myself laughing!

Most folk, on the whole were very approachable and getting into the spirit of the buzz on the Mile… performers of all sorts out punting their shows; contortionists, singers, acrobats, actors .

We jumped a taxi back to the venue to get ready for the show. Get-in time is 17.20hrs. we were all ready at 17.25, but one of the lights on the rig blew, so the techy’s from the venue had to go get another light which delayed our start time a wee bit. So there we were, Trish and I giving it laldy. It was really cooking tonight. Trish was on stage, playing Lizzie Paton, Burns’ first lover, a foul mouthed lassie who helped around the Burns household. Anyway, in the middle of singing one of Burns’ bawdy songs, ‘Wha’ll mow me now’, just as she sang the word c***t, the fire alarm went off! Trish said after she’d thought it was the politically correct police after her. Anne had to step in and stop the show, clear the screens and usher the audience quickly out through the emergency exits. There is no confirmation of the rumour that the men hot-footed it first when they realised the room was called ‘The COCKBURN’!

That was it for the night. The wait for the all clear from the Fire Brigade( out on Charlotte Square) meant that we couldn’t continue without scuppering the schedule for all the other companies that were coming after us;( they run a tight ship at our venue). All our audience members( all six of them) were offered comps for a future performance. Let’s hope they come back. Their feedback was unanimously positive.

We all felt a bit flat on the train home, faintly unfulfilled . But we cheered ourselves up by singing theme tunes from old children’s TV programmes, like: Belle and Sebastian, Follyfoot, The Flashing Blade and On White Horses. Yes, I know, we’re giving ourselves away here; we worked out that our combined age between the four of us is 186!

‘Oh, ‘ said he, ‘ I was wondering what kind of show it was.’ At which point he glanced up at my head, which was now enwrapped, turban like, in a scarf to hide the hair( though no curlers today because muggins here forgot them- and all my make-up) so that I wouldn’t make quite such a fool of myself traipsing up Shandwick place. Instead I just make a poultice of myself on the train!

Again the audience were very appreciative. The press were in today, from the British Theatre Guide. I felt a bit disgruntled at the end, I felt less than one hundred percent happy with my performance. However , some days can be like that. It might have had something to do with the red-snapper and the vino last night. Mmm…early to bed tonight methinks!

Old friends in the audience too tonight, wonderful. We went out after for food. The red-snapper I had was rather tasty.