THE WORLD’S biggest annual fireworks concert will be exploding over their heads tomorrow night and what will my kids be doing?
Wearing ear cans and sniggering over yet another puerile American comedy, or chillin’ to their beats. Oblivious. Why can’t we be one of those families lying on a tartan rug in our matching Barbour jackets, oohing and aahing to each rainbow-infused explosion, little heads bobbing along in recognition of familiar classics blasted out by the Scottish Chamber Orchestra?
“Fireworks?” says Youngest Child when I suggest it. “Saw them last year on the telly. And at Hogmanay. And Bonfire Night. And every week at the docks. I’m over fireworks.”
Spoilt rotten. It’s the same with the Festival. Last Sunday when the city was hoaching with culture, she was having none of it.
“I’ll take you to a show,” I trilled. “Dance, comedy, music, theatre, you choose my sweet.”
“Nah. Can’t be bothered.”
“The haka show?”
“The book festival.” I grabbed the book she’s reading. “Look, this author’s there! You could go and ask a question. See them in the flesh.”
“Nah. Reading the book’s enough, thanks.”
“You are living in the city with the biggest arts festival in the world,” I said. “Don’t you want to go and see something? Anything.”
“I’d really like to go for a walk along the beach.”
So, Portobello, chips and waves over the wellies it was. See culture? I wish I could.