Return of the Spring

Do I have the keys? Gemma, lend me your keys. Damo? Keys? Where are the keys? Does anyone have any keys? -I open my eyes: I'm no longer in Edinburgh, I'm in London. I'm no longer rousing myself at 10am after 4 hours of sleep to flyer the unsuspecting public with Chav related material, but padding around barefoot in my house trying to decide between toast and cornflakes. This is very strange, and it's easy to feel a little anticlimatic now that each and every one of the 31 days of August is now spent and over, like coins in a phonebox; it's easy to let a lot of sadness creep into the end of one chapter and the beginning of a new, but we've achieved something amazing, so let's focus on that: We played to an average audience of 140, we were the only musical of 90 to achieve official sell-out status, mythical celebrity figures appeared in the audiences, we appeared on BBC news and in all the national press, people loved us, people hated us, we were hugged and shunned in equal measure, and most unbelievably of all, the show turned a profit. Not only that, but magicwise, having been advised of the dearth of magical based employment during festival time by almost everyone I knew or heard of, I managed to clock up a record nine paid gigs in the town, due in no small part to the awesomeness of my new manager! So what better way to celebrate than to spend yesterday in an MRI chamber, being injected with hormones that would subsequently lead to me hurling in Hyde Park, spewing the liquid based contents of my overworked, over tired, on the verge stomach into the clean green grass? A cake you say?