Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

Grand finale

Beanie's playgroup reconvenes later this month in our local church, now that the Polish theatre group performing there has packed up its lorry of props, grease paint and other kit and headed south like swallows.

Come snack time this autumn, when the toddlers are feasting on slices of banana, bread sticks and raisins, it'll be nice to think the church was home for a while in this year's Fringe to a troupe of actors who saw the snack area as their performance space. The buggy park was their box office; playtime their showtime.

Judging by their press board, the group had a good season; they won lots of awards in the local and national press, and played to packed houses. Their being here in the neighbourhood lent a touch of glamour to these all-too familiar streets and made me proud to have them here.

So proud, in fact, I didn't even mind (well, not that  much) when they stood outside on the streets smoking roll-up cigarettes and looking blank when I asked (politely!)  if they could let me get the buggy past. They looked so young, in their uniform black jeans and jumpers. Ah me!

All the other actors, comedians, authors, musicians and film-makers who have made Edinburgh such a fun place to be in August have also packed up for another year. Last night marked the finale to the Edinburgh International Festival, with the Bank of Scotland Fireworks Concert (pictured) that Va-vay and I were lucky enough to be able to watch from our sitting-room window.

There are lots of good things about the end of the Festival. Easier to get a table in cafes. Freedom to walk through town without reluctantly accepting a dozen cards for shows I have no intention of seeing. No feeling bad that performers put their heart into this event, and yet so many Fringe shows attract an audience not much out of single figures. Fewer posters of needy, identikit comedians.

But when I saw workmen dismantling the marquees for the Edinburgh International Book Festival in Charlotte Square I couldn't help but suffer a small pang of loss.

The Book Festival was fantastic; I travelled back to fourteenth century England when Simon Armitage spoke about his translation of Gawain, wished I had half the talent of Kitty Aldridge and Esther Freud, who spoke together about their new novels, felt I learn more in an hour at a wonderful creative writing class by Kate Mosse and Greg Mosse than I've done in a term at other classes and was scared stiff by Ian McEwan in conversation with Ian Rankin (so much so that afterwards I sprinted across the rain-logged lawn to locate Beanie and be sure she was still safe).

I delved into the hidden world of obstetrics at a talk from Janice Galloway and Alan Warner, imagined myself travelling the silk road with Colin Thubron and braved Arctic ice with Benedict Allen. Closer to home, I was entertained by Antonia Swinson's uplifting stories of life on her Edinburgh allotment. It's been inspiring and magical by equal turn. So while it's good to have playgroup back, I'll see it with different eyes after this summer.

Posted 03 September 2007 12:47

Books Edinburgh Festival Out and about Playgroup

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