It was a typical Edinburgh afternoon. the hills of Holyrood Park were covered by cloud as we drove past, bound for Nicolson Square, where my middle son was playing jazz piano in a production of Peer Gynt. we parked in the car park by the mosque that looked like a medieval castle and ate in the Mosque Kitchen, where my son joined us. he agreed that the proximity of the mosque and its restaurant facilities would be convenient for his elder brother when he came next week. A, the driver, had had a daring brush with henna in an eyebrow shop in Darlington High Street that morning, so she kept her flat cap pulled down.
I wanted some down time before the show so I wheeled along the square to the venue, chatting to my son. in the 1980s I’d been to the festival as a journalist but never as a performer; the closest I’d been was having a short shown at the film festival in 1997. but my son’s performance was more typically Edinburgh, in a way, playing riffs on Grieg via Duke Ellington on the keyboard while acting in a French accent. wow.
After the show we drove back south and the rains came again. at least it was straight down the A1(M) to Darlington, I thought as we peered through the mist, but the satnav somehow directed us onto the A68 where we aquaplaned through 20-mph ghost villages. when we finally made it back onto the A1, sometime after Newcastle, the driver’s-side front tyre blew out. the car was manoeuvred skilfully onto the hard shoulder by A, where it perched perilously as juggernauts hurtled by. it was raining too hard to get out. ‘it’s as good a way to go as any,’ I remember thinking.
But I lived to fight another day. at Darlington station the next morning, the sun came out as I was assisted onto the London train. I got off at Peterborough. it was a longer journey down to Essex via Stowmarket and Manningtree than it would have been via Kings Cross and Liverpool Street - but calmer, I hoped.