Susan Morrison: It's great to have the city back to ourselves for a bit

Published on Thursday 2 September 2010 14:30

Ah me, so they're away then?

It's now possible to get on a bus without 40 Italian students scrambling to put their change together, 12 Swedish tourists walking up the aisle concussing passengers with their backpacks the size of Belgium, six Americans louder than Harrier jump jet engines and a pair of mating drama students from Hampstead. The party's over for another year.

You can walk from one end of Princes Street to the other without giving directions to anything. Why the council doesn't get a huge sign on the side of the Castle saying "Yes This Is It, No, You'll Have To Walk" is a mystery to me.

I mean, they are nice, our wee friends, but it's good to get the place to ourselves for a bit. Time for us to get the slippers on and argue about what to watch on the telly.

There's an art to closing a party and easing the guests away. At Hogmanay my mum used to signal the end of the festivities by producing the hot sausage rolls followed by the hoover. Well, you need a quick run round when flaky pastry hits the tufted. This was the signal for the last songs, last drams and Mr McMichael to be woken up from the seat he fell asleep in every Hogmanay to be sent on his way. To underline the finale, dad would do things with the fire, such as vigorously rattle the poker about and put lumps of coal on.

The Fringe runs over the end of summer, and into the first days of autumn. This year the weather swung from baking heat to sharp coolness in hours.

It felt like the city turned the heating off, which is always a hint to go.

Royal seal of approval to Leith's hyst-orical comic

capitalDid I witness the best joke of the Fringe? Elizabeth the First of England, Gloriana herself, was standing at a bus stop on Leith Walk. No, that's not the joke. That's who was standing at the bus stop. On any other day that would cause comment, but not during the Fringe, when you've just been flyered by a rhino with a Dutch accent. Elizabeth was magnificently attired. Big Frock, big hair and a ruff that was going to make reading the Evening News a bit difficult for the occupant of the seat next to her. And in front. And behind, come to that.

Minutes later she was joined by Raleigh, all goatee, tights, decorative chib and fancy cloak ready for puddle-covering duty, presumably. Behind them stood a swaying bleary eyed al-fresco drinker, with his lunch in a brown paper bag. I could just make out a picture of an apple on the front of the bottle. I'm guessing that's as close to his five-a-day as he got. He wasn't phased by Her Maj and the Pirate King of England. He gave the impression that he saw things like that every day.

They waited patiently for the bus. Then Gloriana got fed up and turned to Raleigh. Turned out, Liz wiz a boy.

Her Majesty said, in an accent so posh he nearly needed subtitles, and with an air of regal decision, "Head off, then, shall we?"

Without breaking the rhythm of his sway, Leith's finest said to Gloriana "Zat wit ye said to Mary Queenascots?"

Slam dunk to the nameless drunk, I think.

Getting our wires crossed

Much excitement. My boy has his first mobile phone. Major milestones such as first steps and first words have been joined by first call and first text.

I waited patiently for my phone to ring. It duly did.

"Hello," I said, tears of pride in my eyes.

"It's me," said my son. My wee boy, on his first mobile phone.

"I know" I said.

"How do you know?" he said.

"Because you're standing next to me," I said.

Look, it's a start.

Here's a blonde bombshell for you . . Edinburgh's the culture

One final word on the Festival. Generally speaking, I am not a violent woman. I don't have the height.

However, mild-mannered munchkin I may be, but even I may be reduced to acts of unspeakable fury if I pass one more blonde bimbo standing doing a piece to camera, if I hear one more accent drenched in Eau d' HomeCounties, or if I read one more newspaper piece utilising the following phrase or a variation thereof: "August, when culture comes to Edinburgh."

This is going to be a shock to the Southern Glitterati Literati, but we're cultured the other 11 months, too.

We're not huddled together on Arthur's Seat, with lookouts gazing south, desperately trying to spot the first signs of the culture relief column battling through the Borders with cargoes of Shakespeare, modern dance and comedy.

You're not lifting the Siege of Lucknow. We've got our own supplies of footless tights and one-liners, ta.