ME AND the Edinburgh Festival have been strangers now for a few years. In my young days as a teacher in Edinburgh I saw it as my duty to take my pupils to shows and then as a young actress it was another duty to appear in Edinburgh with whatever show you happened to be in and hopefully get noticed.

But about six years ago, cynicism set in as I watched the Fringe in particular become a giant comedy fest for largely male stand-ups with Oxbridge accents performing to audiences with Oxbridge accents and for judges and critics who were the same.

The usual West of Scotland chip on my shoulder became a giant fish supper and I could be heard saying things like: ``Festival, what festival? Oh, the one in Edinburgh. No, no, no, not for me, too arty-farty, full of guys on stilts and comedy revue groups trying to be Monty Python and failing miserably. No, no. I'd rather be in Partick, thank you.''

But the truth is that I think somewhere I got scared. Scared of going to Edinburgh with a show and it being a disaster. You see, it wouldn't be my natural audience in Scotland. There would be Americans and English folk, and it's too scary as the proverbial big tadpole in a small pond to be slagged off.

It's easy to think you're great when audiences in the Glasgow Pavilion like you. When you can read a street map of Drumchapel from the stage and still get laughs. But it doesn't mean you can make people from Yorkshire or California laugh, does it?

Now, by that I don't mean that Glasgow audiences laugh at just anything, because they certainly don't. I've seen many attempts by comedians and actors to read the said street map of Drumchapel and fail bloody miserably (of course, they then go on to Edinburgh and win the Perrier Award for Comedy). But, generally, if they like you in Glasgow, they like you. And that can sometimes be a bit too cosy.

So going to Edinburgh was scary. But at least we had been asked, due to the success of my show at Mayfest. Karen Koran at the Gilded Balloon invited us.

I had got a bit of courage from seeing shows at last year's Fringe that were quite good, but not brilliant. So I started to believe I had as much right to be as ``average'' as the next performer. A huge step forward.

The Festival does bring problems though. Everything is rushed. We had an hour to light the whole show, rig the sound for a 10-piece band, build a stage, get the audience in and start at 10.30 every night. Weird, for me, since I am usually in my pyjamas by 10 o'clock. The night before we opened we finished plotting the lights at 3am.

Opening night: We get through the day and then it's time to go to Edinburgh. That sick feeling rises in my stomach and I want to run away. But miraculously we get there, the band show up, the lights come on, the show goes on. They laugh, they applaud, and they don't throw things.

Most importantly, though, they turn up. Thank you, God. A few drinks after the show and it's back home with a drink, a chicken pakora, and the good old M8 . . .

The day after an opening night you just feel relief. But then comes the awful dawning that you have to do it all again tonight. I work on the script, work out what I am going to cut because the show is too long.

Over the weekend the audiences are great and there is a feeling of relief that the word has gone out that the show is good. But as I walk through the bar on Sunday night just before the show, I spot writer Willie Russell, whom I adore though have never actually met. I feel as if I know him because I appeared in Shirley Valentine for four months, and we did write to each other, but I'd never say he was my best pal. However, I pluck up the courage and go and say hello and find out to my horror he's coming to the show.

I spend the next 20 minutes in the lavvy hoping I'll be funny and remember my lines. Pathetic, I know. But he did say he loved it and who am I to disagree, darling?

By the second week we know the show is all right. We didn't get a review but if you get 300 people on a Tuesday night at half-past-10 then you know you're all right. It always amazes me that so many performers can tell you they are sold out but then you discover they are in 60-seat venues.

I do an interview with BBC-News about women in the Fringe. What else? Then it's time to be interviewed by Ned Sherrin, which is always very nice although I am surrounded by the London comedy boys in the Fringe, which is a bit intimidating, because they all seem to know each other and I'm just the jock wumman on the panel.

This is the night my band decide I should go for a drink and unfortunately it lasts until 4am. I know I am going to regret this in the morning, but it's great at the time!

The day from hell. Hangovers and the Festival appear to go hand in hand, but I wake up feeling sick, knackered, and full of self-loathing. I have to be at The Traverse for a press conference at 10am and I am delighted that Janet Paisley's play, Refuge, has won the Peggy Ramsay award. So that cheers me up a bit to be a part of all that.

I leave to see the Chris Dolan/Ian Madden/Eric Coulter short film, Poor Angels, and hope it gets a release or, at the very least, a showing on television. The hangover worsens and I do the worst thing. Go to see a play that isn't very good. It feels like the longest hour of my life and I can't believe I have got to do a show that night.

But old Doctor Theatre kicks in and I end up doing the best show of the run. I think it is something to do with being so close to being awful that it makes you focus and concentrate really hard.

So the run at the Fringe ends well and I am free to enjoy myself. Home. A chicken pakora. A can of Coke. And the Good Old M8.