An audience of one

It was thirty years ago that I last played the fringe. Difficult, not to say hell. I was a complete novice.

I had translated a French monologue Un Gros Câlin after the novel by Emile Ajar, and driven all the way from the south of France with wife, two small children and director. The only accommodation we could find was a caravan on the site at Port Seton, alongside Cockenzie power station. Opening night produced one man on stage and one in the audience.

As I had never even done a run through, we decided to go ahead. The man was great: did everything right - laughed in the right places, gave the right sort of silence when moved, applauded all on his own at the end. We chatted then that was that. Off he went.