EDINBURGH 2011: BWW Reports: Life In Edinburgh

A word from the restless natives....Clare Maddox reports.

Up here we have an August ritual. We adopt a weary tone of cynicism and indulge in grumpy rants, Arthur Smith-style, as the annual influx of Fringe fun hits our city. The tirade of bitching starts early: our favourite café is knee-deep in luvvie propaganda, the Filmhouse is full of ‘intruders' from London, and our bus is late because it's hosting a flash mob from the rain poncho appreciation society. We're late for work because the Singing Henry Hoover accosted us in the street, and the juggler ate our homework.

We are the shadowy scowling figures lurking in your Edinburgh photos, frowning proprietarily as you disrespect the Greyfriars Bobby statue by giving it a cheery thumbs-up with your mates. Here we are, ostentatiously walking in the road with our noses in the air, risking death by self-pity to bring attention to our sorry plight.

Except that we secretly...love the festival. We're suddenly at the centre of it all. It's exciting to grab the spotlight from London for one month a year, and stalking the comedians can become slightly addictive until the restraining order kicks in.

Walking home, we think we're on holiday, and we feel a sudden rush of joy at living in one of the world's most beautiful cities, even if its imposing skyline is blighted by the odd inflatable cow. It's fun for us to play the host, and recommend you our favourite dram of Laphroaig, and laugh as you make a face. We'll even share our Irn Bru and square sausage hangover cure when you roll in bleary-eyed from Late n' Live.

But before we know it, you're all gone, although the stubborn durability of poster glue means that some of you stick around for a while. Then September comes - and it's time to bitch about the students instead.

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