It’s a shame John Hegley only performed a handful of dates this Fringe - his first after a three-year gap – as his agreeable whimsy, distinctive comic perspective and ear-catching poems and songs make a joyous start for any festival day.

This collection of material old and new, heading out on a sporadic tour after this brief run, is advertised as ‘devised to suit adults, but of interest to some nine-year-olds’… although not that many based on the profile of this audience.

It all starts with a drawing from the Luton bungalow where he grew up, which featuring inspirations for the ensuing hour of warm reminiscence, from the Dalek on TV to the goldfish named by his French grandmother, a former Folies Bergere dancer.

That’s key to the poet’s worldview – seeing the exotic and the wonder behind the mundane. He is, after all, a man who has made the wearing of glasses an enduring matter of pride and entirely on-brand, he dedicates a few minutes here to the topic of picking up dog hair with Sellotape.

Other animals, not just the titular dromedaries, feature prominently, too, notably the guillemot whose actions we obediently act out. For audience participation, of a gentle singalong kind, is a crucial part of the show, with Hegley exerting a schoomasterish control, looking disappointed in us as he gently berates us for falling for one of his traps, or any other minor misdemeanour. There’s another argument for the primacy of glasses: they are great for gazing disapprovingly over.

He delivers his poetry and stand-up with a subtle physical animation, too, a sort of restrained but punkish vibe as carefully controlled as the tricksy rhymes in his verses. All part of the exquisitely curated package that is unmistakably Hegley.