Friday 17th of August, 2001
the now bewildered and stage-struck squirrel
Lie in til 9:00, but I need the sleep.
Sit at the kitchen table catching up with this diary, then shower, dress, do some scales on the SoloEtte and set off for the Ross Bandstand, picking up some bottled water on the way.
I notice that there is an ice-cream stall that appears to be called "Freshly whipped Kes". A sort of Sacher-Masoch/Barry Hines crossover thing.
Stopping at a park bench to read some fringe guides and see if there are any shows I want to see, I notice a squirrel pilfering from a bin. So does everyone else. A crowd of people stop to watch the now bewildered and stage-struck squirrel. The best free show in town. Edinburgh is now populated by people driven mad and hungry for any kind of distraction.
Back to the flat to drink tea and move all the pictures out of the camera, and then at 7:00 off again to On The Mound for another gig (la the frantic life of the international superstar).
As I get to the castle, I find my way is blocked by the police, as coachloads and coachloads of Tattoo performers are bussed in to perform. The Tattoo has to be the only stadium event where the cast may outnumber the audience. There is a crowd of people waving Danish flags and cheering. I have never seen Danish national pride before. Not that there's anything wrong with it.
By a gross miscalculation I manage to overshoot the Mound and go down the next major turning on the left. This is also down quite severely. So I have to go to the bottom of the hill, then back along then up to the top again. I know you're asking yourself "Why didn't t'idiot just turn back to the right road?" That is a very good question, for which I have no sensible answer. Probably because I wanted to get away from the crowds of tourists as precipitously as possible, perhaps because I was misguided as to the most efficient route. Most likely because I'm bloody-minded and not very bright.
After the gig, I go with Ellie to a place over in the New Town called The Oxford Bar, which is infinitely preferable to her original destianation (a bar called Tonic, filled with leering, drunken media types): a proper pub, not too crowded, full of actual Edinburghians. A couple of them in the corner – a Sandy and a Hamish if ever there were – are earnestly discussing the relative merits of various malts, and are obviously speaking from extensive and recent experience. I am drinking Grapefruit and Soda. The Landlord registers this with a proper amount of pain: I have to drink squash, but would be suspicious of any Pub landlord who was too happy about it.
At half-eleven I wend my way homeward, leaving Ellie to meet her friends. As I walk up the hill towards George Street I see Sandy and Hamish ahead of me, still discussing malts, no doubt.
Princes Street and Lothian Road are Friday night madness, compounded with Festival Insanity. i am very glad to get back to the flat, drink cocoa, sketch out a possible lyric for the song I started on Monday (working title By the Way, by the way) and go to bed.
