The fag-end of the Edinburgh festival is weary and rained upon. Acts worn out and close to breaking, bright-eyed with exhaustion. The elation’s gone. The first mad rush of it (like the madness of new love) is forgotten and left in its place the end of a party, deflated balloons wrinkly and pathetic and the happy chaos of the full swing now just a mess to be tidied up.
(I first came to the city just after the last of the festival crowds had been exhaled, and it was slipping into a dark cold winter. Everywhere, the shredded remains of pasted flyers, soggy, dismantled venues. The year-in, year-out burghers drifted about like, having no one to mug and abuse, they’d come a bit unstuck.)
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