Sleep deprivation is the blight of the Fringe

It's not that I am up half the night, partying or trying to catch the last knockings of my ukulele-playing friend Des O'Connor's late-night burlesque extravaganza at Ghillie Dhu. Far from it. I am in bed by eleven, shattered, exhausted, wrung out, run dry - but unable to sleep. Why? Because The Times came to see my play Wonderland at the Assembly Rooms on George Street days ago (days and days and DAYS ago!) And still the review hasn't appeared! I know there are 2,472 shows on the Fringe and they can't all get equal attention, but this is my baby. It's torture and it's stopping me from sleeping.

The other thing that's stopping me from sleeping are the loud bangs from the Tattoo. It's great having a flat around the corner from the Royal Mile, but just as I am getting drowsy, there are huge eruptions from the vicinity of Edinburgh Castle. Eventually, of course, I do settle and I begin to sleep - at which point the largest, loudest seagull in Christendom lands on my window ledge and launches its dawn chorus. The caterwauling begins at 5.00 am. I am a broken man.

And a fat man, too. This waiting on the non-appearing review has driven me to comfort eating: the full Scottish breakfast ("The Big Belter" cooked lovingly by Latvian chefs with extra haggis and black pudding), followed by Starbucks cupcakes for elevenses, BLTs for lunch, toasted scones for tea and steak and chunkie chips for supper. (And then last night, I blew a week's wages on the Chocolate Marquise at the Scotsman Hotel on North Bridge. And I have run out of statins. I am falling to pieces.)

Anyway, the point is I am exhausted, so Amanda Symonds (love of my life), when I come to see your Fringe First award-winning play, Real Babies Don't Cry, when I fall fast asleep bang in the middle of the front row, please UNDERSTAND. It's not my fault. Blame the reviews. And the Tattoo. And the seagull.

STOP PRESS. Reviews for Wonderland have just appeared!! Four stars!! A rave!!! Yeah!!! I am going to bed. Goodnight.