Edinburgh Festival: Diary

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The Independent Culture
SOME MORNINGS, I just get up, prepare my apologies, and I'm off. Today, however, the cosh of lethargy has fallen and I am unable to leave my bed. Is it my bed? I neither know nor care. The stench is familiar, certainly. So either this is my room or the room of someone so similar to me as makes no difference. I heard grunting earlier that was not my own. Perhaps a pig lives here and has kindly agreed to let me have his room while he's out rooting for truffles, chasing sows etc... More likely, some fools have done a sex in an adjacent room. But they can't have finished or there would have been weeping. After grunting, there is weeping, generally, I have observed. It's the same with thunder and lightning. Ah, Nature. People love Nature, don't they? Except when it's growing out of cups.

Indifference is my greatest failing. "To what?" you ask. I don't care, is my reply. "Listen, I'm serious," you say. Ignore me, I'm joking, I reply. But this is no argument, just the prelude to a fight.

Why get up? What for? There's nothing to do. Nothing that needs to be done. There are things that should be done, I am informed, by the voices. You'd think, in deference to my indifference, they'd shut up. Or at least stop poking me. I'm letting the side down, apparently.

I distrust them. The word "should" makes no sense to me in this Godless afternoon. And if I got up, what then? More of the same, if not worse. At least here in bed I am minimising my debts. Please send me money. Show time approaches. The Edinburgh festival is the biggest arts festival in the world. The World Cup of Art. Every show is the Final. Today I am Ronaldo. Mais demain? - Zidane!