The end of August is always such a forlorn time for me in Edinburgh... the Festival draws to a close, and no matter how much you did and how good a time you had, there are always myriad missed events and lost opportunities to bemoan. I'm kicking myself for missing the musical "Psister Psycho," about a murdering robot nun. Overall, though, I think it was the best Festival we've been here for yet, at least in terms of the events we saw. I have the feeling that participation was down, based on nothing more than my perception of how crowded the streets were, compared to how crowded I think I remember them being the past two years.
We ended up seeing mostly serious, weighty productions. Our final events included a book-festival appearence by Edinburgh's (currently) best-known author, Ian Rankin; a concert by the great man of Scottish folk music, Dick Gaughan; and the most recent play by Athol Fugard (my favorite playwright), "Exits and Entrances." The Fugard play was sad and poweful, as they always are, and Dick Gaughan rambled and sang through most of his usual set despite having a cold. Kristi is the Ian Rankin reader in the household. We had tickets to see William Gibson as well, but I decided I just wasn't that interested, and we found other takers. I did want to get to one final event on Monday, the last day of the Festival, but was just too sick - I've spent most of the week fighting off a bad cold.
Along with the end of the Festival comes a predictable yet always disconcerting shift in the weather. BANG - it's autumn. Everybody cross your fingers; I usually go through my deepest depressions in the fall. Fortunately the pets are working extra hard to keep me entertained, it seems. Oakley, who normally spends most of his time curled up under his blanket, is out roaming around or watching me every day, and Mojo Jojo is so constantly playful and cuddly we think he's having a second kittenhood. Our pigeons keep coming round (today we are out of food, and they seem very unhappy with our ersatz substitute, shredded wheat) despite the traumas I've inflicted on them recently. After the bathing indignity of a few weeks ago I tried to catch one of our visitors who had some kind of twine wrapped around his leg. I didn't get a good enough hold of him and he got away. All the fuss kept our regulars away for a few days. The jackdaw no longer visits, but a seagull landed on the ledge a couple of days ago to see what was going on.
I'm feeling restless and bored, and have been flitting back and forth between several books, unable to commit myself to any particular project. Television doesn't interest me (not even with the generally higher quality of UK TV) and my anxiety problems make going out a real struggle. Work is more than the usual grind - with most of the staff away on leave, the workload is overwhelming. I have an interview for a new job on Tuesday. I'm just looking forward to an excuse to wear a tie.
We ended up seeing mostly serious, weighty productions. Our final events included a book-festival appearence by Edinburgh's (currently) best-known author, Ian Rankin; a concert by the great man of Scottish folk music, Dick Gaughan; and the most recent play by Athol Fugard (my favorite playwright), "Exits and Entrances." The Fugard play was sad and poweful, as they always are, and Dick Gaughan rambled and sang through most of his usual set despite having a cold. Kristi is the Ian Rankin reader in the household. We had tickets to see William Gibson as well, but I decided I just wasn't that interested, and we found other takers. I did want to get to one final event on Monday, the last day of the Festival, but was just too sick - I've spent most of the week fighting off a bad cold.
Along with the end of the Festival comes a predictable yet always disconcerting shift in the weather. BANG - it's autumn. Everybody cross your fingers; I usually go through my deepest depressions in the fall. Fortunately the pets are working extra hard to keep me entertained, it seems. Oakley, who normally spends most of his time curled up under his blanket, is out roaming around or watching me every day, and Mojo Jojo is so constantly playful and cuddly we think he's having a second kittenhood. Our pigeons keep coming round (today we are out of food, and they seem very unhappy with our ersatz substitute, shredded wheat) despite the traumas I've inflicted on them recently. After the bathing indignity of a few weeks ago I tried to catch one of our visitors who had some kind of twine wrapped around his leg. I didn't get a good enough hold of him and he got away. All the fuss kept our regulars away for a few days. The jackdaw no longer visits, but a seagull landed on the ledge a couple of days ago to see what was going on.
I'm feeling restless and bored, and have been flitting back and forth between several books, unable to commit myself to any particular project. Television doesn't interest me (not even with the generally higher quality of UK TV) and my anxiety problems make going out a real struggle. Work is more than the usual grind - with most of the staff away on leave, the workload is overwhelming. I have an interview for a new job on Tuesday. I'm just looking forward to an excuse to wear a tie.