One Edinburgh Fringe staple is the “me show”: an hour of material about the performer or their family, whether theatrical or comic. I have already written of Matthew Zajac’s search for the true story of his father, The Tailor Of Inverness. Ben Moor’s Not Everything Is Significant is not, strictly speaking, a “me show”; its tale of a man following the entries of a mysterious prescient diary, interwoven with that of someone footnoting the first party’s writings, is clearly fictional. However, the gracious, lateral-thinking, joyously clever Moor seems to inhabit all his stories. This is a more muted affair than his recent previous offerings (soon to be published), with less of the wide-eyed, unabashed wonder which he can make so surprisingly palatable; nevertheless, three stars for Moor equals four and a half for most of humanity.

Wonder is also in less plentiful supply in Daniel Kitson’s latest storytelling show. Hitherto, these pieces (which he first began working with five years or so ago) have tended to be fabulous and luxuriant fictions, in contrast to the autobiographical misanthropy which largely fuels his primary stand-up sets. On this occasion, his material is drawn from his own experiences: recollections of the flat he occupied for some six years, “the longest relationship of my life”. Consequently, and particularly when he speaks of his odious landlord, the polished phrasemaking which is Kitson’s trademark is tinged with some bile, which a delightful stage design of miniature apartment-scapes contained within suitcases cannot quite disguise.

Stefan Golaszewski, of the comedy company Cowards, is the winning wild card in this hand. His account of a brief but spectacularly intense relationship during his teens is never underplayed. Indeed, for the first quarter-hour or so I wondered whether anything of note would emerge from the mildly amusing but unexceptional account of a banal east London teenage life. When the poetry of love fountains up from this tale, it is enthralling precisely because its language is not purple or overdone; he describes feelings, images and epiphanies precisely as they have struck us all at one time or another. We don’t need language to make them transcendental – we have the common bond of lived experience. Golaszewski ends with another common but touching insight: he gives his beloved’s name, Betty Wallace, just in case she might Google herself.

Written for the Financial Times.