too many speedos

A week at the Edinburgh Festival where I was yet again cruelly ignored for all audience participation (Nick was asked where he came from at Emo Philips, Emily got a coloured pencil - grey - at Edward Aczel) which was probably just as well since I tend to get hysterical and wet my knickers as I demonstrated when squashed into half a seat at kit & the widow. We'll just gloss over that bit. The theme for this year's festival was the male body in general and speedos in particular. Penelope at the Traverse was way too wordy and had all four suitors mouthing off in an empty swimming pool. The strongman with the fake eastern european accent in sub rosa also appeared in tight lycra and was very, very close. The Alonzo King ballet was just over an hour of male body fetish stuff with teeny, tiny velvet speedos. The exception was vieux carre by the Wooster group where, such was their reliance on technology such as radio mikes - so groovy and new yorkery - that when the main character stripped off to fantasise (this wasn't left to the imagination, a dirty video was superimposed on his filmed image) he was wearing a black jockstrap and leather straps holding the microphone battery. Another layer of artistic exhaustion was added with the arrival of sixteen year old Beth and Rosie who tried to take Edinburgh by storm in high heels but were foiled by the four flights of steps up to the flat (they didn't make it as far as the cobbles). I brought over west coast provisions to see us through all the art and the obvious winner was the potato salad (a mix of anya and charlotte potatoes with a jar of Hellman's) but I'd like to give a special mention to the mushroom sauce, if only because the making of it had a bit of gothic magic. On the way back from Drumbuidhe I stopped in Inverness for lunch and then meandered south on the old road from Aviemore. I pulled over at the first parking space I found next to a likely-looking wood and, straight out the car got a stack of chanterelles and ceps. Only one of the ceps was uneaten but I bagged them up anyway and, in Glasgow, sliced them and hung to dry in the window. The next day the cleaners came for the monthly visit and were appalled to discover the sink crawling with maggots who'd dropped out of the drying ceps. After a respectful period of mourning for the dead insects (and a quick drying day in the oven just to be sure they were all dead and gone) I rehydrated the mushrooms in hot water (the drying improves their texture as well as killing the beasties) sauteed them with garlic and then popped them in the blender with a packet of boursin. The sauce was a dramatic dark grey but proved very acceptable after a couple of hours of experimental drama.