Ultimately, Oxfringe turned out very well indeed. hatmandu and bluedevi have beaten me to the typewriter today, as a warm blanket of hangover and sleepiness has prevented me from reacting even to the minor emergencies I’ve had to deal with at work. You might not see their posts, mind you, as they’re both for friends only. That’s what I’ve got, you see: friends in high places.
Without turning this into some self-aggrandizing Oscar-acceptance speech, it’s all those friends who deserve thanks for coming to the event. While we may well have managed at least some of the tranches of literary entertainment without them, the people we know and (largely) love put some spine into the evening, both morally and structurally. Thank you very much for coming along, risking being terribly bored. Thank you to the contributors, the helpers and the just plain listeners.
Grass-roots events can suffer from too much organisation, and we were just plain lucky that on the night a certain affable, shambolic chaos was on our side. We take the credit for the event that’s due, of course, within the limits prescribed by false modesty and overweening pride: we flyered, emailed, rang round, sweated, attended other people’s events and chased our own tails (and, we have to admit, enjoyed a lot of the stress and nonsense); but ultimately there’s no plan and certainly no planner that can guarantee a success. The more we let go, in fact, the easier it was for Oxfringe itself to develop and be silly, boisterous, distracting fun.
Ah, we’ll know next year. Well, we’ll have recovered, which is sort of the same. Pencil us in, will you?