Ships in the Night: My friends and other strangers

Thinking about the 10K. Feel like it but it depends on if I can get some more people to come along.

As I walked home yesterday, late because the last meeting overran, I passed by my favourite stretch on the way home: the bit where I turn off princes street and walk by the small opening into "the world of rose street". I always like to think of it that way. It seems like so much is always happening there, anytime day or night.

Tonight there was someone singing floyd at the top of his voice, playing along a little badly on the guitar. There was something in his tone that just dragged out the reluctant grin. I walked past, but then walked back. Gave him a full pound. He grinned cheekily and sang 'just another beautiful girl'.

It was raining as I reached the bus stop. There was a man in glasses with a big black box and a massive canvas bag full of records. He was rolling a ciggie, in a way that always fascinates me. We talked about the weather. He was a DJ, on his way to work. He was late for work. Then we gave up waiting and ran to the next bus stop. It was so late, but there was no bus in sight. Some days I love Lothian. Then we talked abt Led Zep and Deep Purple. It was still raining. In front of the playhouse. All around there were people dressed up and going out. Dressed down and coming home from work. Dressed anyhow and just hanging out. A youth in a black jacket, immaculately stoned, smiled at us and said 'he's something else man'. Then he said something which no one caught and lovingly covered the black box with his jacket, to save it from the rain. Just then, the bus came.

Just another evening. Dad had come over. We were pub-hopping on Rose Street. We walked into a small one and sat down. There was a man sitting alone in a corner with a drink. He had tattoo's all over. He smiled at us and helped us shout aur drinks over to the lady at the bar. What do want? Surprise me: something bitter, maybe? not sweet or orangey. We talked for a while like that: The three of us shouting at each other over the music and across the empty chairs between us. Then he asked if he could come and sit at our table. He and my Dad told tales about the crazy places they had been to while I "really!'d" them on my cues. He was a writer. His first book was on its way out. He recommended a nice mexican joint for dinner next door. We smiled thank you's, but we didnt go there.

There's a nice lazy feeling that you get sometimes. Like you're not going anymore, like you dont need to be going anywhere, like time and place dont matter. Like nothing matters for a while: destinations, ambitions, the constant fight to be ur best possible self ever.

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