My first experience of the Edinburgh festival was in 1891. I travelled up by cart with my wigs, silly props and a huge bag brimming with youthful enthusiasm.....It was probably 1991 but feels like another age entirely as I write this half way up Arthurs Seat; an overweight man in his forties sweating like George Melly in a Banjo factory. (I don’t even know what that means. I think I am starved of oxygen. I’m thinking George Melly loved banjos and it was a very hot factory.)

Anyway, it’s bloody lovely up here. A bike race is going on down below and lots of Japanese tourists are asking me how far it is to the top. My time sense is off. I have told one group that’s it’s only five minutes and another that it will take the rest of the day and they should turn back.

I’ve got a couple of Greggs sausage rolls in my bag somewhere but I have forgotten to bring any water. Still, I’m sure I can find a puddle on the lower slopes. God I am knackered. I’m sure it wasn’t such a steep climb back in 91. Being up here in one’s middle age is alarming. When I go to the performers bar now I feel like I’ve gone to pick up my daughter from the school disco. “Come along Susan, put that cider down. Your mother will be worried sick.”

This is all grist to the mill of course as I am playing a dad in our double act. The marvelous Rufus Jones plays my son. And it’s going great guns; great reviews and lovely audiences. Couldn’t ask for more… except maybe a chair lift so I can get off this rock and back down to base camp. Right I shall sign off and gird my loins for the last sausage roll and final descent. Charge!!!!