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Lots of playing today. I built a mildly complex fort out of cushions, blankets and cardboard for the kids, with secret entrances and little rooms that they could hide in. It needed constant rebuilding of course as it was structurally unsound, but it made the kids happy and me feel like an effective parent (which doesn't happen too often).
My wife had bought a couple of water pistols for them too, which seemed like a bold decision to me, but everyone had fun in the sunshine shooting them at each other. Lots of laughter and screams and only a few tears. Catie took the brunt of the game, whilst I avoided getting drenched by mainly acting as the reloader. I am a coward even when the bullets are made of water.
Strange to think that we would be in Edinburgh now were it not for that bloke fucking that bat. The repercussions of the spread of the virus are obviously huge on all of us, even if we've been lucky enough not to get ill ourselves. But how different our days would be now if this hadn't happened.
It's been OK to get a little summer holiday instead of the stress of the Fringe and I suppose getting overcharged for the Dart Charge is nowhere near as bad as what we'd have been forking out for the people of Edinburgh right now (not that we've had our accommodation refunded yet). I know many Edinburgh residents will be delighted that they got their city back for August, but the financial impact of the absence of the festival must be pretty huge. I wonder if we will be back next year. I wonder if the Fringe will ever be the same. How many comedians are going to be able to afford to go up next year after so many months of no work? Will we be able to get match fit to do it if live gigs continue to be so thin on the ground?
Perhaps it will be good for the Fringe and make it less sprawling and cheaper to perform there. Or maybe it will destroy it all.
Chortle is doing a review time machine to make up for the lack of an Edinburgh Fringe, and
today they landed on 2002. A time just before Warming Up. That's how long ago it was.
This was the year that the cupboard doors got smashed by a mystery figure (Stewart Lee) in our flat, but also the year of Jerry Springer and Talking Cock. 18 years ago apparently. Ancient history. It's interesting to see the luke warm reviews of future stars though. And I love the gentle prediction in John Oliver's poster. As well as Steve Bennett failing to spot that he would be a star. I always like John's act, but it would have taken a Nostradamus to predict where he'd end up. The world is unpredictable, which is why I am writing about water pistols and pillow forts and not complaining about expensive flats and poor ticket sales. I'd love to see the version of 2020 where the virus hadn't struck.
Have you seen the film Sliding Doors?
Idea for sequel - Fucking Bats.
