It’s been a month since the One Day reboot was released on Netflix. As people all across Edinburgh may think of their days of ascent and descent, I realise I have yet to receive any messages of the ‘Do you remember that day we climbed Arthur’s Seat?’ ilk.
I didn’t think I had a type, but truthfully, my eyes widen with those who enjoy a slight scramble off the beaten track…
You recall the rainbow which formed the weekend you brought an article about Japanese pizzaiolo to dinner at 1926. Or the sunset with mulled wine as the winter evening turned to Spring.
If my life were a TV serialisation, the most dramatic encounters would include the muddy scramble in horizontal rain followed by Holyrood 9A burgers and whisky and a hot, necessary bath. That disheartening distance the time you tried to find solace; at the end of a day you’d had to tell your friend their former partner had died in a mountain blizzard. How eventually, years later, you two rekindled, but during days when the missing and their deaths were unrolled in real time on Twitter; you ended up being ‘cockblocked by a terrorist’ the week they were next due to visit. Or that summer climb with the one who had the motorcycle accident pelvic injury; the one who later brought you a tomato.
The unresolved one, the un-closed One Day was not Arthur’s Seat. Instead, it was an autumnal scramble up Blackford Hill. Cute dogs approached us, not because of my wholesome and honourable vibe, but because I had chocolate from Mary’s Milk Bar in my pocket. Smooth. Sitting on rocks at the top, we chatted about the nuances of ‘public school’ being private education in the UK, about how there was less contrast between the horror of Bolsonaro in power and British politics than you’d imagined. I remember how I slurped on hot black tea as you hoisted me up against the wall, and we then drank red wine and fucked hard with a touch of lust, and you told me ‘sabor’ meant taste, but some things you refused to savour. How Outlander was piquing certain interests back home and I realised…Oh…! My hair wasn’t exactly not-red at the time, and the trees and scenery that day were bronze and gold and green, and quintessentially a pleasing Scottish aesthetic. How you told me how proud you were when I did my paper presentation; and I brought you Pastel del nata (back from Lisbon no less) and an Africano Wrap to King’s Buildings whilst everyone around said ‘Hi…!’ to you in the canteen like you were some kind of superstar. How after too many beers late one night in a deserted Grassmarket you unzipped many layers to reveal a scar, whilst proclaiming ‘Did I not tell you I had cancer?’ whilst I swallowed tears and said ‘No..!’ How we stood and kissed in the pubic triangle before I ran home in fear; overcome with anticipation because you cast off your gloves in the bitter cold, as our breath spiralled into the night. The time I text you about the Leith fire in the stair, with friends and doggo being lifted through windows. How I cooked you fishcakes made with Arbroath Smokies, as you brought me a variety of all the Scottish craft beers you could find from the nearest Tesco. Ate frozen persimmon with fermented figs, ginger and cardamom crumb. How you later told me a secret you had only shared with a few; a fear. How you were the first person crossing the threshold of my Gorgie flat - standing on the bed to change a lightbulb I couldn’t reach. How there were only a few others who entered that flat for the rest of the year and the next. How I remember you explaining how, to you, ‘The Crown’ was all castles, fantasy and royalty, but for me it was real life, and I pondered, then agreed, as I showed you a pic of me as a kid with Princess Di and the now King. How we said goodbye stating: ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again…’ and you opened your gifts on the bus home; and told me the figs reminded you of summers spent with your father harvesting and doling out fruit in the countryside. How the day you left, I sat in the cinema with a lump in my throat as Vivaldi rattled around and flooded through my body in a way I’d never experienced before. How I had forgotten to take a breath, let my words cascade incessantly; my desire swollen and bent.
How you text ‘Come to Brazil!’, maybe because you really, really hated texting. But I never would…so it transpires…
Images: Arthur’s seat & Arbroath Smokies on a few of many days over the years