Our night in the shadow of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh was hot, satisfying and as cheery as you could ever hope for
A couple of years ago, before the world shut down, the Guardian sent me to the Edinburgh festival to write a piece on all of the nude shows taking place that year (there was a record number). This is the type of extremely fun commission that journalists dream of, and this particular piece resulted in me being on the cover of G2, smiling, with the strapline: “Fifteen naked people, and that was just Monday!”
It was a work trip that was as much fun socially as it was professionally. The weather was glorious, for the most part, and the atmosphere buoyant. A few people I knew were also there for the festival, and I had time to see them. In particular, a woman I had known tangentially a decade ago, when we both lived in Oxford. At the time, we were both sleeping with men. I was at a college of further education; she was studying at drama school. She was fun and smart and free-spirited, but our paths only crossed at parties. I couldn’t in all certainty tell you if we’d ever had a sober conversation – but I am pretty sure we had kissed a lot of the same guys.
