After a sadly fruitless search for a piano and lindy hop dancer as a
gift for a young lady's birthday in the early hours of yesterday
morning, the Butlers' habitual breakfast was followed by their
habitual daily homage to William Topaz McGonagall in Greyfriars
Kirkyard. I declaimed the deeply affecting "The Funeral of the German
Emperor", which he had declared to rival in merit the greatest plays
of the Bard of Avon. I then accompanied Butlers Jancis and Newsam to
an unexpected and gently appealing presentation of Commedia Dell'Arte,
and thence to an emporium which purveyed fine chocolate (since, quite
rightly, life is like a box of chocolates, according to a certain Mr.
Gump). How do you kill two commissions with one stone? You take the
commissioner/commissionee to the environs of Summerhall, and this is
where we concluded our meanderings, perusing the work of Wolf Vostell
and enjoying a small vin rouge in its cultured quadrangle, cooled by
the first rain of our sojourn. Lunch was subsequently taken in the
local mosque's most wonderful kitchen, washed down with a refreshing
mint tea at the Hunt and Darton Cafe, before a stroll along the Royal
Mile and a short rest and recuperation back at our butlerial lodgings.
But it was back out into the excitement of the Fringe Festival before
long, first to deliver a Certificate of Fringe Accomplishment to Venue
163, before attending a late-night Russian dance presentation which,
though lacking in some respects, contained the most stirring musical
accompaniment with which to conclude my day.
Fletcher the Butler