The Party at the End of the World

We went to stay with Pascoe in Edinburgh.  The Fringe festival would be on but following two years of Covid, it was impossible to imagine packing together with strangers in tiny pub rooms.

We planned to walk in the Pentlands.  We took an extra big case to accommodate walking boots and walking poles and massive woolly socks.

But when we arrived, the lure of fresh live entertainment was strong.

‘And Covid levels are dropping’ said Pascoe.

The limpid summer light across Edinburgh reproached us, but still we allowed ourselves to be funnelled into backrooms, to have our flabby laughing muscles tickled back into life.

A fusillade of puns and one-liners was a great hors doeuvre for the more substantial imaginative humour of Foil, Arms and Hog, and Flo and Joan.  We marvelled at people of extraordinary skill, such as the Australian acrobats of Humans 2.0 and the almost-telepathic ventriloquist Nina Conti – to appreciate performers like these, live performance was so important. 

This year, there seemed to be more festival-goers than ever before.  There was little mention in any of the acts of Covid, Ukraine, Climate catastrophe.  People just wanted to forget for a few days.  With the streets full of fire-eaters and stilt-walkers, it was like the Party at the End of the World.

However, after two days, heads whirling and ribs aching from laughter, we needed a palate cleanser – going for a walk along the tranquil coast at Musselburgh and taking stock, before returning to the realities of our daily lives and the grim news reports.

So we did use those boots after all.