A year or three ago, in Edinburgh for the festival, I found myself in need of a sit down. The heat in Princes Street Gardens shimmered like the echo of a gong. I was not alone in feeling clobbered by sun and culture; most of the park benches were fully occupied. Eventually, I found a space between two youngish men, one seemingly asleep, the other absorbed in a newspaper. After a few peaceable minutes, the reader rolled up his paper, reached across me and swacked the sleeper on the head with it.
This initiated a violent argument, mostly consisting of surreal non sequiturs, in which I found myself embroiled as a clueless mediator. A small crowd gathered, not shocked but amused in a knowing sort of way. In a horrible lurching moment, I understood that I had fallen victim to dreaded street theatre that instead of taking time out, I had been well and truly taken in.
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