tourists overflowing, spilling over royal mile, trickling into back alleys

a taster concert at the urban garden. stairs that wind down from Adam House. 'through a door and down the stairs again, then through the maze'. a hastily set up temporary maze of metal fences barely concealed by green drapery - an urban garden. paths strewn with rough stones that end in abrupt dead-ends, till one comes out into the centre and a group of girls in pink bob to the music, singing their hearts out for the little kids in their prams, the little girl in a pink dress running around, for the next band waiting in line for their performance - the trombonist nervously checking his slide, for the elderly couple in front of us, and the Asian couple that just walked through the maze.

Hull's Swing Band came up next. two trumpeters, a young uncomfortable guy and an old seasoned man; two trombonists, one hidden behind the showy saxes and the other heartily addressing the crowd; two saxophonists, the tenor driving the music on and the alto doggedly follows on and the single drummer. through the music stands, one could read 'jazz classics for swing ensembles'. they don't smile, except the trombonist who addressed the crowd and the tenor sax who tried so hard to cheer the alto up. the quality of the music is stunning for this motley crew - the piercing clarity of the top notes from the gold trumpet and the careless flair in that saxophone vibrato. but they couldn't get the crowd jumping or swaying or dancing along. it wasn't easy to get into the mood.

the pink bus. next to the urban garden. an artistic project towed 400 miles from Reading, West of London, constructed by two (now anonymous) final year Art students who collected brics and bracs from random shops to decorate 'the pink bus'. one boards the bus through the steps covered with CDs, grabs on to the railings carefully wrapped up in ancient scores, peers through the windows all covered up with thematic displays. one full of glass bottles, one full of cuddly soft toys. the front seats are smothered with pink cushions with girly touches hanging from above, enveloped by posters of loving couples with mushy slogans. across, one sees a sturdy fireplace, whose mantelpiece is covered with pamphlets and leaflets and notes. up the stairs we go, noting the gramaphone records plastering the walls, into yet another area. on top of our heads, red christmas decorations dangle happily. far off at the back of the bus lies half a mattress, covered with pink sheets, pink cushions and a giant smiling teddy bear. at the bed post, there's a sign that says 'look above and laugh'. if one lies on the bed and look. one sees mirrors of all sorts, and your curious reflection peering back at you. laughs? yet another patch of the ceiling is covered with extravagant lamps of all sorts. some oriental, some victorian, none familiar.

we're going back to the pink bus.

a stroll along the congested royal mile. one sees little stages perhaps 2m by 1m, framed by a shoddy curtain, housing earnest actors acting out snippets of their plays, performers, singers in kilts. at every other corner, one sees the usual street stunt performers, the clowns, juggling knives and fire torches, swallowing swords, balancing precariously on high ladders or wobbly platforms and saying the most ridiculous things to tease a laugh from the audience. out comes the hat, in goes the money and the crowd disperses.

i don't think words (or hastily taken photos) can do justice to the sights and sounds that assaulted me during that 3? hours i spent out in the city i've been walking around for the past 3 years. i wish everyone could see this.