I Stayed In Edinburgh

Dear Fat Pete & Princess Normal,

There are a few words and phrases unique to Scotland. "Outwith" is the obvious example. It is immediately apparent what it actually means, but outwith Scotland, no-one uses it. "Next again day" meaning "the day after tomorrow" is another, as is "so that's me," meaning, "that's everything".

Also the meaning of the verb "stay". The English stay only in hotels. At home, we live. So while I "lived" at Montrose Terrace, you two "stayed" in Stead's Place and MacDonald Road respectively. In my first job in Edinburgh I was asked, "Where do you stay?" and this made no sense to me. I was about to answer, "Well, uh... here at this desk, I suppose..." But then the questioner recognised my confused, apologetic English manner and amended her question.

Of course, I have adjusted to this over the past 23 years. That's a decent amount of time. It's the longest I have ever stayed anywhere. When I first got here, Scotland had no parliament and Ewan McGregor was sprinting past John Menzies. Here we are in 2017 and that statue of Donald Dewar has lost umpteen pairs of glasses to Glaswegian vandals, while Princes Street is now a dull parade of mobile phone shops and sports outlets.

I didn't mean to stay this long. I arrived full of trepidation, and meaning to return to Yorkshire once my first twelve month contract with Scottish Widows in St. Andrew Square had ended. I'd only moved here after applying for every job in England and being forced to turn north. I packed a blue Vauxhall Nova full of thick sweaters and thermal underwear to arrive in a Scottish heatwave the like of which I've not encountered since. I was showering three times a day and living on ice-cubes.

One year later, it was the Scottish summer that persuaded me to stay too. I remember sitting in Princes Street Gardens on a beautiful day in June of 1995. A band was playing in the distance, and I was happy and I decided I couldn't think of anywhere else I'd rather be.

But here we are and I am on the verge of leaving. I am excited, but leaving is painful. I've grown accustomed to Edinburgh. The maroon buses, the locked gardens, the morning smell of hops settling over the city like a sweet haar. The stillness of Princes Street Gardens in the midst of all the bustle. The atmospheric closes of Old Town and the grand houses of New Town. The sound of tyres on cobblestone. The dark Autumn evenings, the sharp winter mornings, Spring in the botanic gardens. And the tranquil Water of Leith running through it all, trickling over the orange rocks before ending up at my old front door in Leith.

But most of all I'll miss the people. So many people who have made me laugh and treated me with kindness because I have a silly Yorkshire accent. 

And here's the painful part. Memories of you lot are superimposed on this city, you see. I catch remembered glimpses of all of you all of the time, disappearing around corners or waiting at bus stops. Sometimes you are looking at books in Waterstones, or queuing for a fish supper, or waiting for me in the foyer of the Dominion, or ambling by my side through New Town, or browsing sandwiches in Pret, or waving from the back of a black cab, or standing by me in the street as the fireworks fly and we clonk plastic cups of champagne together.

It's the city where I met Er Indoors. Our first date was at the Cafe Royal. Our first concert was Garbage in the Ross Bandstand, celebrating devolution. Our first flat was on Montrose Terrace where we had our first Christmas and her Kiwi mates took over the living room. I have waited for her outside offices on Hanover Street, Rose Street and Alva Street and got drunk with her in flats from Gorgie to Newington, from Tollcross to Leith.

Every street is a memory and every memory is a smile.

Whenever I enter a bar, there you are, dear fellow, sitting in the snug. You are doing the Guardian crossword and sipping on a pint of cookin' lager. You hold your cigarette thoughtfully over your shoulder and when I arrive you move your coat for me. Underneath is a book you've brought along just because you think I'd like it. Bokhara is with you, carefully making a roll-up and telling stories of Africa. When you light your cigarette, he lights his and then I have to duck because of imaginary German snipers. Princess Normal comes in last, she's late because she needed to waz first. She always seems so small in a great big jacket. She greets me with a wide grin, kisses me on the cheek and finds a V sign in her jacket pocket for me. Her purse is already in her hand, she never lets me buy the first one.

We would have had a good night. There would have been stories about books and history, telly and music, farts and fannies, mischievous animals and embarrassing mishaps. As the evening wore on, we would put the world to rights and tell each other things we couldn't tell normal people. There might have been dancing.

Then there would be hugs and promises to do this again soon, and a blurry wobble home through cold night air. Maybe I'll stop off for chips with sauce. I'll get some for Er Indoors too. She'll appreciate that at 1 in the morning.

So that's me. I stayed in Edinburgh. Because of you, my memories will stay here always. That band plays on in Princes Street Gardens and I still can't think of anywhere better.

S.