Working on the Royal Mile just before the Edinburgh festival is an interesting time. After cursing the bum notes of the piper all last week (all day, people, ALL DAY) we couldn't have welcomed him back more after we were subjected to what can only be described as an ecrucitaing din of a trio of accordian-violin-bongo ensemble.

Walking back down the Mile after the end of a hard day's graft, the wizards and hobbits were already on the streets handing out leaflets, dancing around in front of tourists like possessed madmen.

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However, we soon came across one of those 'statue' people. You know exactly what I mean. Painted from head to toe in silver and won't move until money goes in his little hat. An evil cousin of the mime, that one. It took all our willpower not to go over and attack him with the exteremely heavy and expensive piece of site equipment we were carrrying at the time  - I'd gladly fill in the insurance papers - 'had to bludgeon a mime to death'. They'd understand.

I'm just  glad we didn't see any harlequin clowns. It would have been a bloodbath.

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