Sunday Herald - First Timer's Diary (3)
The anxious wait for the first reviews takes its toll, not least on the newsagent.
James Grieve
18 August 2002
The man at Alldays is rapidly going off us. Working the night shift in a 24 hour mini-mart can't be fun at the best of times, with relentless waves of garrulous partygoers traipsing the aisles on the scrounge for late night munchies. But at least your average inebriant only clasps their grubby paws on edibles. Our intent is far more sinister.
Our target is the bundle of fresh newsprint tightly tied and stacked alluringly in the corner, out of bounds till dawn, like chocolate ice cream withheld till every last sprout and kidney bean has been chewed and swallowed. Within the confines of these tantalising mounds lies our destiny, hidden away on page 43 of section 8, within a few innocuous column inches, somewhere beneath Cat Watch: Moggies Lost and Found.
'Reviews'. The word shimmers with hope and exudes menace, a linguistic version of the A Level results envelope. Visualising five stars has cost me innumerable hours of sleep in recent months, and the daylight hours are haunted by no stars at all. "Please, please, please like us," I wail. "I'll buy you champagne if it helps."
The poor check out boy has no concept of the torture his bundles inflict on us. The first time we descended upon him, begging for scissors to slice into the pack and put us out of our misery, he humoured us with the good natured grin of one who is thanking his lucky stars he turned out normal. Even our jig of joy and conga round the deep freeze was excused, with raised eyebrows and a suspicion we'd just discovered absinthe.
The novelty soon wore off. He now greets us sympathetically, reaches for my cathartic pack of Marlboro Lights and hides beneath the counter whilst we rifle through the pages. It's all been good news so far, thank goodness, or we may have been barred.
Our lunatic behaviour is now being caught on camera by Lucy, a documentary maker who has moved in with us to capture the Fringe experience. Ten people sharing one bathroom is bad enough normally, but with the extra preening necessitated by the watchful eye of the lens, you now have to call Ticketmaster to book your seat on the toilet. Stage Manager Andy, who has clearly been gripped by reviews fever, posted a notice on the door which reads, "Nice bathroom, lacks polish. Two Stars."
We're considering dividing the flat in two, Big Brother style, with those who do the most show publicity sleeping in comfy beds on the rich side, and those who fail to get out of bed at all consigned to a roll matt on the stairwell.
Floor space in the flat is at a premium in any case, strewn as the carpets are with assorted friends, relatives, random dossers and the debris of two weeks worth of fast food containers and cigarette butts. There's no room at the theatre either, thanks to the kindly critics, whose notices have ensured a sell out most nights. Problem is now, I don't ever want it to end.
[Final Installment]
