Flyering At The Fringe

The Royal Mile was more like a river than a road. All of us had our hoods up against the rain, my own waterproof jacket had seen me through far worse storms than this, but my jeans were soaked to the bone. A couple of the girls had had the foresight to bring umbrellas with them, or maybe they just existed permanently in the oversized suitcases they carried around with them be it raining or not, but regardless the rest of us all crowded underneath and tried to keep warm. I checked my watch. 9:20 in the morning, and the sun might as well have not existed.

There is no experience quite like flyering at the fringe. In the day the mile is a mele of bodies, a heaving, vibrant, fantastic frenetic throng of bodies, and models, and creatures, and ideas. There are so many different shows on offer that it seems impossible that they should all be crammed into so small an area. The street is lined with groups of dancers, jugglers, musicians and magicians. Acapella groups sing out from the advertising stages, crowds gather around street performers in their dozens, and over all of it are the shouts of advertisement. A hundred different shows all vying for your interest. Flyers are thrust at you from every which way, some are bland but most are bright. Each comes accompanied by a man or lady desperate to start a conversation with you.

If you flyer yourself you quickly learn what does and doesn't work. Nothing works. Only some things don't work less than other things don't work. You quickly learn that anyone who stops and agrees to chat probably wants to give you a flyer rather than take one. Most people storm on by. Costumes don't help, being in character doesn't help, holding a banner the size of Switzerland merely helps you to blend in. So difficult is it to get rid of flyers that many people resort to clever deceptions. I once saw someone standing on a bollard straining to pick up the flyers he'd dropped. When a passer-by picked them up to help he was gone. Five minutes later I spotted him at the other end of the mile, standing on a bollard, straining to pick up some flyers.

The rain pattered heavily on my hood, the umbrella only serving to deflect more water in my direction. There was almost no movement on the mile. The posters that covered the pillars were sodden top to bottom and all but unreadable, the few people that were out and about hurried past without so much as a glance in my direction. I felt the flyers in my pocket, rolled tightly to prevent them getting folded. Today was going to be a challenge.