The glittering premiere of Everything Is Purple was all set to go: the Dragonfly is a beautiful cocktail bar, just up from the Bacchanalian delights of Grassmarket, just down from Priapic pleasures of the strip bars, and boasts a friendly staff and a doorman who likes a joke. Raph looked dashing in his tuxedo, and I was demure in silks and chiffon, a few artful pieces borrowed from Asprey twinkling at my décolletage and a sprig of heather in my hair. It wasn’t until I stepped out of the Rolls Royce that I began to suspect all was not as it should have been.

I snapped out of the daydream just in time to walk around a puddle of sick, my reverie shattered by an argument in the kind of Edinburgh accent I struggle to reproduce in this font. I have to be twice as careful what I’m treading in at the moment, because I’m wearing Crocs, a comfy shoe not known for its impermeability.

We saw three fights in Grassmarket. There was a chill mist as we handed flyers out to pedestrians of varying interest (both us in them and them in us), and in hindsight, perhaps shorts and a t shirt weren’t ideal dress for the job.

On arriving back at the venue, the friendly doorman have us the bad news: a pipe had burst under our venue, and the shows were cancelled. Indeed there was a blue, chemical smell about the place, completely at odds with the dark wood, sensitive lighting and faux-chinoiserie that I’ve fallen slightly in love with. Not a good atmosphere for comedy, unless you’re an audience with no nose, and even the Fringe doesn’t cater to that niche.

So we walked home, all in all a bit of a washout; no gig, and for me, a spectacular fall from my health kick. Earlier in the day, I’d passed a shop selling hot Scotch pies for a pound. Now this, I reasoned, could keep me full for an afternoon at very little cost, so I bought one as an experiment. I now wish I’d gone into the control group. I took two bites. The second bite because I couldn’t believe what the first bite tasted like. I assumed some neurons had accidentally rerouted through something unfortunate. I threw the rest of the pie in the bin, and felt sorry for the bin.

For three hours afterwards, I felt greasy and sordid, and the thought of food made me headachy.

Acclimatised, in other words, to the Edinburgh Festival.

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