A little old lady sat beside me at the open terrace café, sipping her morning tea. Resident of Edinburgh for the last seventy years, she said, “Darling, I'm too old for the Fringe. It's too much of a merry-go-round.” Indeed, a carnival it is, for the light-hearted, the swift-footed and those with an insatiable appetite for not growing up. For them, it's like having extra scoops of ice cream all in a go – quick, before it melts.

Pounding the streets of Edinburgh , I was swallowed by an ocean of people who had descended from all corners of the globe. The squeaky clean August air crackled with electricity as each street corner offered drama in all its avatars – from the silly to the sad to the outrageously funny. Most often, admirable, for the sheer effort of performing with the least of resources and a profusion of enthusiasm.

A fire-eater gobbled red hot flames with no heartburn in one corner, while a gaggle of twenty-somethings stomped on a makeshift stage urging you to believe that growing up was bad for health.