Pressed for time

It was media day at Fringe Central today - an opportunity for participants on the Edinburgh Festival Fringe to promote their shows face to face to members of the press. The Scotsman would be there (scoff not, ye ignorami, The Scotsman's reviewers wield great power in Fringeland), as would the BBC, Broadway Baby (they too are rumoured by the cognoscenti to be Critics Critical To A Show's Success), The List, Three Weeks and various other printed and online publications Whose Word Can Sway Thousands.

The circus was scheduled to start at two. I decided to go early and turned up at 1.30. There was already a long queue stretching along the rainswept pavement. I joined, put up my umbrella and took it down as necessary as clouds passed over. At two the line began to move and by 2.30 we were inside the building. The packed building. The very packed building. The line for The Scotsman we were informed, was upstairs to the left; everyone else was to the right.

I headed left, got to the balcony, saw the long line of people waiting. That's all right, I told myself. There will

The queues - those for The Scotsman
are peering over the balcony

be several reps there - a comedy reviewer, a drama specialist, music at least. That's all wrong, I was told. There were only two reps from the newspaper, one from online and the other from news. And they were only interested in a news angle. And, by the way, from the point where I was, it would about two hours until I got to speak to one of them. I looked down at the masses below - at least there were ten or so organisations represented, I could go and down consider my options.

Down I went. The line for the British Theatre Guide and The Times was relatively short. I joined it; we edged forward. News came that the Times rep hadn't yet turned up. No matter, I thought, s/he might make it by the time I got to the front of the queue. We inched forward. Short conversations popped up and died down. Another announcement; the Times wouldn't get there until 5pm. No matter, I would get to the BTG and then choose another line. More movement. I chatted with an academic of Iranian heritage about changing sexual practices - did people really behave differently over time or was it simply that what they did wasn't always recorded? Finally, the end of the queue was in sight. At that point we were told that the BTG rep had to go, but yes, he'd take our press releases. I pressed some paper into his hand, tried to say something memorable about our shows but he was already moving on.

I won't mention the organisation that I spoke to next, in case they do come and give us a review. Suffice it to say that the individual I spoke to after another thirty minutes' standing in line was all smiles and laughter and handshakes when it came to women presenting their shows and a mask of utter indifference when I tried to enthuse him in my work, despite the fact I knew it was very close to his line of interest. I was tempted to slap him across the face with a wet fish - he would have remembered that - or even better slap him across the face with a hard fist - I would have briefly enjoyed that - but politeness got the better of me and I thanked him for his time and walked away.

Four o'clock. I had spent two and half hours waiting to see two people who were either unable or unwilling to give me the attention that I had naively thought I would get. I had a cup of tea and muffin, trying to balance them with an umbrella, heavy backpack and jacket that I couldn't wear because it was so warm. Would I try another queue? Why not... There was almost no-one waiting to see Scottish Television. That was because the line was closed and they were going home soon. Ah well, the line for The Times was short. I joined it, but despite a pleasant conversation with a writer who had adapted a Tagore story and regrets over the current state of politics in Tower Hamlets, the minutes passed slowly until the next brief excitement, when small free tumblers of lager (damn, I've already forgotten the name and I should thank them) were handed around.

Once known as The Glasgow Herald
Scotland's other national daily

Then a queue for The Herald opened. I was fourth in line. This time conversation was with casting director Martha, who swore that my looks, could get me work through her every day  - if I only lived in the same city as she did - New York...

At last I was sitting with the lady from The Herald and no, I didn't get her name, and no, I'm not convinced that she decided that above all Fringe productions ours was the one she would move hell and high water to see, but she was efficient and polite and showed interest and asked questions and made me feel that actually there was a possibility that something I said might just linger in her mind and so when I got up and thanked her and left, I felt that for at least a short moment someone, somewhere had taken note of what I said.

The rain had stopped when I got outside and after a brief run for the bus I was soon home, a lesson learnt. It is uncertain if I will bring a production to the Fringe again, but if I do, it is certain that on media day, the last place I will be is Fringe Central.