I don’t understand the concept of the “day off.” I don’t mean in general. I mean in Edinburgh.
I got all the days off I need and don’t want all year long. During a limited period of time when you’re spending a lot of money, trying to make as much as you can, and trying to spread your notions to as many acolytes-in-waiting as you can muster, a day of dormance seems wasteful to the point of obscenity. Probably even worse than leaving a room without turning off the light.
Yes, I understand the supposed weariness come Fringe midpoint, but you know what? The big name comics who take a day (or more) and the tinier-named (some only two letters) who imitate their indolence don’t work as hard as I do during a festival. I work off more weight in desperation than they do telling their words. I beg people to come to my program while they drink real ale and go whoring with low-waged native guides.
And I find a day off to be a personal momentum killer and little else.
Of course it might be different if I had money and companions with whom to spend it.
I could take a bus somewhere.
And get off!