“This is a surreal moment, isn’t it?” I say to the people carrying novelty boobs made from pilates balls, en route to the Royal Mile.
“Yep,” they reply, nodding at my pink princess gown. Again.
Having spent the better part of 13 days on cobblestones, dressed as Princess Aurora (aka Sleeping Beauty), procuring Princess Cabaret to strangers from all over the world, surrounded by scores of shouters, stilt-walkers and unitard-wearers (or ‘multi-tards’, if you will) who are also procuring themselves, amid a festival which prides itself on living up to its name, The Fringe – on the edge, out there, sometimes a bit frayed - I have a question burning inside (or that could just be this crappy wine I’ve resorted to).
What drives us to partake in all this madness?
Did we not get enough attention as children and, hence, are now doomed to spend the rest of our lives making up for it? Or did we get too much attention and were so over-indulged that we can’t help but continue to seek out our fix of the limelight, with our threshold ever-increasing?
While a sensible person would fear an overdose of attention, my greatest fear – and primary motivator, like any addict - is not getting enough. If I approach someone to tell them about our show and they shun me, I am simply outraged.
To your complete lack of surprise I’m sure, I’ve taken to snide under-the-breath remarks between rejections to get me through the day.
“Yes, please ignore me – that’s why I chose this casual gown today.”
“Clearly, you hate fun”
“Clearly, you have no soul.”
“Clearly, you… don’t speak English? My bad.”
Then there’s the all-powerful thought that there could be fewer people out there on seats than there are on stage. That image alone is enough to make you whore your wares with gusto until right before lights up at 5.45pm at the Gilded Balloon every day of the Fringe (I may have said this once or twice in the last fortnight).
I feel blessed that, at the half-way mark, this horrifying image has not materialised for us (yeah, yeah, yeah – *touch wood*). Mind you, blessings are lovely (just ask the guy Elise and I spruiked today who informed us, without a shred of Blues Brothers-related irony, that he’s on a mission from god), but we’re working our fingers to the arse to that end.
It’s both a blessing and a curse that whatever we’re doing is working. People are coming to the show because of our charming Mile demeanour. But on the flipside, we have to keep doing it and, ideally, not develop a permanent hatred of humanity in the process. Being nice is so much hard work!
A more Edinburgh-centric aspect to all of this is the inevitable issue of weather. We awake and it’s pissing down. We decide it’s too wet to wear costumes. We arrive at the Mile and the sun is strong enough to burn. We put on our costumes and the rain starts again. After several hours of this, getting on stage is the least stressful event of the day - at least there it’s climate-controlled (albeit a sauna).
A few days ago, at 11am on the Royal Mile it was raining so hard that Smil and I had little choice but to stand mid-torrent and wait. Were it any other time of year or in any other place in the world, the image would force you to question your sanity – a green fairy and a pink princess standing on deserted cobblestones, huddled under an umbrella that says “I [heart] Scotland” (FYI: not). But during the fringe, Edinburgh is, by definition a madcap parade in which no corner is safe. 
Out of necessity, we frequent cafes, sandwich shops, and festival bars in full garb. Between flyering shifts, we have arvo nanna naps in Starbucks and in the park, buy supplies at Boots drug store, order coffee, and catch buses, all dressed as the iconic fairytale characters. It’s become so ridiculous, we’ve started a photo gallery on Facebook called “Princesses are people too”.
The most bizarre part, though, is when we do go out in ‘civvies’ (talk about a balmy army) and are suddenly not stared at, not photographed like landmarks, and not accosted by children we have to disappoint with the phrase “It’s a grown-ups’ show”.
So while every day teeters on the fringe of sanity, it’s pretty obvious that normalcy is a crashing bore. ‘Clearly’, all this madness suits us just fine.
