I just couldn't manage the Fringe. Here's why, with a potted summary of my week so far.

Thursday and Friday: two openings, with an increasingly heavy head cold. Saturday: my nose in full flood, I cancel my plans to see Red Stitch's production of Jack Goes Boating. Early Sunday evening: a quick visit to Emergency with severe breathing difficulties (yeah, I know, I gotta stop smoking). Monday: armed with sufficient steroids to ensure several lifetime bans from the Tour de France, I fly to Brisbane to see a preview of Michael Gow's QTC production of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Tuesday: I fly back to Melbourne, slightly less bug-eyed than when I left, thanks to said wonder drugs. Wednesday: recovery. Sort of.

So I'm planning to write up last week's openings tomorrow - before I fly to Adelaide on Friday, to see another play. I'm not complaining, I swear. It's all brilliant. But I really see the point of those performance-enhancing drugs. Just don't tell Dick Pound...