August.
Edinburgh.
Simon shaking me at dawn and demanding, 'mummy, is it morning-time and what show we will see today?'
It must be the Fringe.
And Simon is a 3 year old groupie...
If he could write his reviews, he would. Verbally, he's deconstructed the performances at length and it goes something like this:
ALIENS LOVE UNDERPANTS - 'very excellent funny'
That's good, because neither of us had read the book before we went. We have since. Many, many times. Nearly as many times as we, and all house-guests, have had to check our underpants have not been stolen. However, it seem we're okay: we live on the second floor, and aliens, like Darleks, can't - apparently - climb stairs...
BIG RED STORY BUS - 'mummy, why don't all buses have stories?'
A trip up Arthur's Seat, accompanied by songs and stories from top-deck storyteller, Peter Snow, was very well-received but has set us up for a lifetime of disappointment on Lothian buses. Still, if there's nobody singing on the Number 4 bus home from nursery, Simon has no problem entertaining commuters with a rousing '5 little monkeys jumping on the bed'.
MR BLOOM'S NURSERY - 'very wriggling worm and lots of poo.'
Well, what's not to like there, then?
TIDDLER'S TAILS - 'there were no sharks, just pretend ones. Real ones need big sea and that would fall out the tent.'
Quite.
A bit of a lukewarm response to this one; it just wasn't sufficiently like the Julia Donaldson books to pass muster...
I did manage to sneak out and see one grown-up show, called, ironically, My Village and Other Aliens. An excellent one-man performance by writer/singer Terence Blacker, which reminded me of a previous life... and where I'm looking to in the future. Can't ask more of a show than that. Although, I expect Simon would have said it suffered for the lack of real aliens. And underpants.
Anne x
