I saw her in the Pleasance Baby Grand queue. A young woman, carrying a paper fan. What a genius! As soon as I got home from the show, I had a rummage in my drawers and found my own.
It was a freebie that came with a bottle of rosé, so it has the brand name, Whispering Angel, on the side, and is girlie pink. It’s never been used, and looks a bit naff, but it’ll do. This has become an essential bit of Edinburgh Festival Fringe kit.
I whip it out, and flutter it, like a Victorian courtesan or flamenco dancer, whenever I’m in an audience and feel the sweat starting to bead. After all, one of my worst/best Fringe moments of all time was seeing an excellent show at Monkey Barrel Comedy. It was hilarious, but that Blair Street basement dungeon venue, with its low ceiling and everyone kettled together, is like a pizza oven.
I felt as if we were all going to melt, and merge together into one fleshy giggling organism. During the hour-long endurance test, I dehydrated as quickly as a squashed pheasant on tarmac. My internal organs became raisins and other desiccated fruits.
I’m sure that, when I eventually got outside, and drank some water, I could hear my insides hissing with relief. That completely marred my experience. If anything makes me laugh now, I get a flashback that consists of a sudden hot flush.
Among many other roasting venues, there should also be a warning for the top stalls at Assembly Hall on The Mound. It’s the grill level. We’re frying tonight.
That’s .
