Greetings from the edge of England, specifically Ashbourne House
B&B in Carlisle, where we have just rocked up after a solid six-hour drive
north from the County of Opportunity, making only one slight detour to Brum to
drop off an attractive green sculpture of a lady badger with some nice people
who make metal things. This is in accordance with one of the Ocelot’s other
identities, as a purveyor of fine 28mmm steampunk aminal people. Like the crime
fighter Moon Knight, I wear many diverse masks though none, sadly, are of a
dashing millionaire, hard as nails mercenary or colourful New York cabbie.
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| Not the Chocolate Ocelot. Or is it? |
But I digress. You join us on Day One Minus One of our 2013
Edinburgh Fringe adventure, resumed after 2012’s exciting tour of the highlands
in a crime solving motorhome (no crimes solved). Whilst last year’s roving
Scottish hols were both picturesque and um, glenny, we did feel the lack of a
week spent tramping the streets of the Athens of the North, being pestered by
drama groups brandishing flyers and cramming thirty plus comedy, dance, theatre
and musical shows into a single mental week. So Edinburgh, we shall be in you
tomorrow.
A brief word on our residence this evening. A very pleasant
guest house or B&B (I have no idea what the difference is), Ashbourne House
sits on the southern edge of Carlisle, wherein we shall venture in search of
food in less than sixty minutes. Our room features a rather comfy bed on which
to rest my twingey back (hilariously strained whilst bending down just prior to
helping the Ocelot’s father pull down some unwanted tress in the parental woodland.
For some reason, my back decided to go before
the tree-pulling rather than during. I suspect my body may be manifesting injuries
in reverse order, against the natural flow of time, and am expecting further such
phenomena in the coming week, like some kind of doomed coffin-dodger from a Final
Destination sequel.
(Herself interrupts this narrative to adjust my writing
position on the bed to a more back-friendly posture. I am now typing lying down
and resting on my elbows, chin barely above the mouse pad. Whilst back strain
has indeed lessened, finger-key accuracy has just dropped by 75%. I wonder if
this is enough to get me a regular themed writing gig for a Sunday magazine –
Slightly Hurty Back Blog – and conclude that no, it really isn't.)
Other features of note in our room: a disturbing buff suede
lampshade that looks like it was made by Ed Gein and a swanky slate floor in
the en-suite. I note that, upon stepping out of the shower, I do leave a very
fetching wet footprint or two upon the dark slate. The sort of well-defined heel-other
bit-toes arrangement that, were I to be stranded Crusoe style upon a desert
island, I would be proud to leave in the damp sand as I wandered the lonely beach
collecting firewood and pondering which eight pieces of music I would have
liked to be inexplicably washed up beside me.
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| Basically like this, but with a shower and small loo. |
In other news, the Ocelot has been offered a grown-up job,
thus bringing to a close over a year of creatively productive but negatively remunerative
activity. Six weeks and counting before I have to start getting up early and
getting dressed before lunchtime. It’s like school hols all over again.
Tomorrow: Carlisle to Edinburgh, possibly via Glasgow, depending
on how the universe steers. Then a quick establishment of base camp in the
shadow of the castle and off to the first show. Let the madness begin.
Note to self: do not, repeat not, fall into the trap of
writing up massively long diary entries for every single one of the next seven
(eight? I have no idea) days, with painstakingly obsessive accounts of every
bloody show we see, what I thought of them, what famous people I saw on the
street, and how much pizza/tablet/shortbread I consumed. Try to keep it down to
a page of A4 at the most.
Another note to self: this first day’s entry is already over
one page long. I am fail.
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