It was only when he shouts "effing yuppie idiot" [1] that I realise he is talking to me.

 

Thursday afternoon. I'm walking up behind Edinburgh Castle when it happens. I've just come from discussing the nature of evil with one film director and am on my way to discuss sex with another (ah, the joys of the Edinburgh International Film Festival).

To be honest I am not really paying attention to my surroundings. Certainly not to the tall, thin, middle-aged man with a plastic carrier bag who is mumbling something about closing time as I pass.

I'm a few yards past him when he shouts. I stop, look around. He is glaring at me. "Sorry?" I say. I am not so much offended as confused. What have I done? Or not done?

The man is a tall skelf of a human being. Etched in worry lines. When I walk back to him I catch his Irish accent. The southern variety. [2] That and the smell of beer on his breath. He has a few more cans in the bag.

He asks me the time. Of course. I look at my bare wrist. I don't have a watch at the moment. I never have a watch. Batteries in watches just seem to fail on my wrist. I'm a natural power drainer. If you're reading this you probably already know that.

Nearly a quarter to three, I tell him when I finally manage to locate my mobile and remember the pass code.

He pulls a betting slip from his pocket. "I've got a horse running at 2.30," he says.

"It might have already won," I say. Or lost of course. I keep that to myself.

I start to walk on and he walks alongside me.

We fall into a companionable pace. The cans are clinking musically. Like a promise, I think. I want to ask him where he's from originally. And what brought him to Edinburgh? But the silence is peaceful. We seem to be getting along.

He looks at me, looks at his betting slip and then at me again. "What I said there," he begins. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I was being rude ignoring you."

"No, it was out of order."

I say nothing. We carry on walking. I realise I need to get a move on. There's a director waiting to talk to me about a different form of effing. "I'll have to go," I tell him. He waves me away. He apologises again as I stride on.

"I almost wish I was an effing yuppie idiot," I shout back. "Well, not the effing bit. Or the idiot bit. Though you might have nailed me on that. But the yuppie thing.

"I'm not sure I really qualify. I'm not young. And I'm pretty certain I'm not really upwardly mobile. And as for professional ..."

I pull out my mobile again. Turns out I'm already late.

[1] As you may imagine "effing" is not actually verbatim.

[2] Unfortunately I can't tell a Galway accent from a Dublin accent. You're appalled, I can tell.