I feel certain this where the tradition of superstition amongst actors begins. The sparkling comedienne Lynn Miller who makes me instantly relax on shipping up at Sweet Grassmarket with her spiky Jewish humour pops a penny inside a shoe before a gig. Similarly the order of putting on a costume in our changing facilities by all venue performers remains unchanged from opening night. My own lucky rituals are embarrassingly obscure. On the way to the venue I eat a rocky road biscuit and tell the same Big Issue vendor on Meadow Park who wishes me good luck before my first show to have a nice day. I think he would rather I bought a newspaper
On the way back from my fourth show today I feel I can release my tight grip on the rituals around me as a daily routine has safely emerged from what seems like an initial chaos. Then with my boring suburban bag of supermarket groceries swinging in the rain I get held up in the park by a Hare Krishna procession. I start crying hot tears against the cold damp rain on my cheeks. The heady mix of chanting in the air makes me reflect on how far I have come with my work in one week. Working at the Fringe in whatever role surely has an impact and depth of meaning for everyone. We are part of an ancient tribe carving out our bit of culture come hell or high water. I join in with the tambourines like a deranged fool, my orange carrier bag swaying in the downpour and I sing to Hare Rama. The old customs are the best. I cling to my wee rituals for dear life.
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