i left my left ventricle in edinburgh - II

next morning, i gradually woke up out of a hangover to pretty Stockbridge (which is rather like a Cotswolds village - no wonder nbb who is from Gloucestershire chose to live there) - and then into Edinburgh's New Town, of which i retain some fuzzy impressions. of fading decadence in wide vistas, sloping up to Princes Street on the one side and sloping down to the North Sea on the other. From pretty much the centre of town on a fairly clear day, you can see the cleft of sea called the Firth of Forth, and the settlement of Fife beyond. Inspector John Rebus is from Fife, so you can be sure I took a good long look. We walked through town aimlessly, stopping here and there to eat and drink.. a perfect urban wander. well maybe not that perfect for new buddy boy, as he has a horrible split toe, full of pus and whatnot. He is rather macho though and kept walking on like a brave soldier. I took advantage of this good humour and dragged him across the ex-loch after lunch number one (or breakfast at 1300 hrs) to Greyfriars Kirkyard on Candlemaker Street. this is now pretty much my favourite cemetery in the world. the first time i visited it, in february, i had no idea it was famous. i just thought that this was how a graveyard should be, green and growing, graves a little faded and sooty, set on a slope with views of a castle above and rooftops below, and pushing up against the living city, clamouring for attention from those who are yet alive. The back windows of the terraced houses on Candlemaker Row look into it, those windows that are not obstructed by vast stone tomb ornaments. [I once came across a blog which diarised life in Greyfriars Kirkyard, as seen through a window in one of these terraces. every time nbb and i saw movement, a curtain flicking, a shutter twitching, we tried to see if it was the blogger, typing away at his imac, feet up on the windowsill, recording our movements for posterity.] Next to the kirkyard, there is a more famous spot still - the elephant house cafe - the place where J KRowling wrote the HP books. sigh... i do love the series, in spite of all its flaws, but the red t-shirted american tour guide we encountered here was a bit much. we actually spied on her with her tour group (all american) from above as they stared at the cafe's back windows from a street between the cafe and the kirk, and pretty much got a blow by blow account of how J K had trouble paying her gas bills when she lived in the flat above the cafe (really??) and how this led her to spending her time writing in the cafe itself. the commentary was in keeping with the gaudy window display in the front of the cafe... too colourful and spurious looking. the american tourists then came into the kirkyard and litle red t shirt gave them an awesome account of how parts of the cemetery were now gated off because of the lewd sexual acts with ancient skulls that people had been caught performing here. er...? wouldn't that, like, kinda, hurt a li'l bit? once the tourists moved off, i sat around drinking in some more kirkyard joy, before we decided to challenge nbb's toe to another walk, this time up to the castle. we were talking of going home, getting his car and driving to one of the surrounding hills by this point - get the city views with minimum pain, literally. oh, and the morning so far had been punctuated by phone calls and texts to and from n.b., who was really suffering. apparently, our night out had tipped him over the edge of continence, and he was spending the morning alternating between bed and um.. not breakfast, but a kind of reverse dinner. eurgh. we scolded, jeered, coaxed and teased the poor lad to come out and join us, but in bed he stayed until much later that night.

when nbb and i reached the castle, we found these stadium like seats adorning the forecourt, much like a rock concert. indeed we found that some band was going to play that night, and i wondered if n.b. would hear it from his kitchen and if he would survive it (his kitchen has a view of the castle.) from a distance these grandstands look wonderful, like an open spaceship perched in the sky. i LOVE contours!
we changed our minds about the drive because on the way home, nbb felt hungry, even though we'd had a biggish brunch about a minute ago. it's unfair how boys like him manage to put away loads of food and still stay quite fit. yes. so we had another lunch, which nbb spent much of trying to catch the curvy waitress's eye. no wonder then that i got into a bit of a mood. i'm not romantically interested in him, but wtf, i felt rejected or soemthing. people who hang out with me, especially men, should know to insert a gendered compliment into the conversation every hour or so, to ward off a bad bose mood. is this high maintenance?

well. i managed to talk myself out of the miffedness, and somehow we were talking about art, and we thought we could go to art gallery nearby. nbb was quite impressed with the frequency with which i change my mind. as, earlier this morning arthur's seat was supposed to have happened but we gave that up because n.b. was incapacitated. he got a bit derelicte after we left him last night apparently, and drank unidentified alcohol with random people he met on the street on the way home. after all our sambuca adventures. tsk... his spanish friend thinks he's an alcy. i tried to defend him for awhile, but then realised that most survivors of our hallowed halls of architectural education probably fit that description, so we should just embrace it. didn't feel i could go it on arthur's seat with only nbb somehow. he does tend to go on a bit about himself and his (rather interesting) love life. in the city i always have things to distract myself, but didn't trust myself to keep up the good humour while possibly scrabbling about on rocks and such, out of breath for all you know! i feel guilty even writing this because he was the best host in the world and a dear sweet boy, who took good care of me even while carrying on a flirtation with his next paramour, at the same table. it is a fine art, and many men i know would do well to learn it. maybe it's just old fashioned good manners or something, which we forget in these desperate times of get laid or be screwed. did that idiom make sense? work at it...
so we were to meet paramour and her sweet dumpling friend (interestingly a recent dumpee of one of our gang in the london office - this too was deconstructed over sambuca fumes early saturday morning) later that evening. we wandered and missed calls and called back and wandered and missed calls again. then i suppose it just seemed easier to meet later for a gig and drinks (of course).anyway, i then made up our minds to go home by the scenic route, via the water of Leith.

right, now have you read Lord of the Rings? d'you know when the army of the free peoples walk to make their last stand at the gates of Mordor, and go through these pleasantly overgrown places, in one of which a King's head lies quietly crowned in the grass? that's the Water of Leith walk. the light is filtered green, and sometimes it enters a little stone dell someone built by the water, to house a graceful statue, which, at sunset on certain days, has a halo round its head. nbb pointed out a bronzed swan amid mill waters, and my pleasing fancy that this was a place out of a legend of Gondor, pretty much came true. seven stars and seven suns and one white tree.

the evening passed in a daze. i suppose this was because we were at half power all day long, not going full throttle and not resting either. night came after a long walk (don't walk to morrison street from princes street), a long wait (don't pay for random gigs), and a fat man telling lewd tales about selling his arsehole as a rentboy (basically, don't go to gigs on morrison street). not my ideal saturday night entertainment. but hey! n.b. had revived enough to come all the way to meet me. we'd caught up in rose street, over a dalwhinney sigle malt (me) and a sheepish look (him). so n.b. and i tried to shout critiques of the music to each other over the tuneless jangling of fat guy, sharing our irritation at the girl accompanying him as she tried to wiggle her inadequate butt on stage.

saturday night faded fast; we took a cab home and then it was sunday.