I rang in 1999 at Edinburgh’s street party. It was my third one in a row and the novelty was wearing off. We arrived early, before they’d cordoned the streets off, because we didn’t have tickets; this meant a longer period of time out in the cold. At midnight, I kissed #28 and #42 and #43 and #60 and #61. #42 also kissed #60’s friend, a straight boy who was visiting from their hometown in England and became increasingly irritating the more he drank, but I avoided him. As his blithering continued, even #60 was turning to him and going “Oh, do shut up.”
We lost people eventually and #60 wound up walking back to my place with me. I had some offloading to do. My best friend was a sweet, cosmic, hippie sort, very much a lost soul, and she’d started seeing my brother. At the same time, she and I had both plunged into some sort of depression, and living together was not a good mix because we dealt with it in different ways. Our relationship had become somewhat antagonistic, and everyone had swiftly concluded that this was because of her involvement with my brother, which it wasn’t. It was kind of a messy time. #60 dutifully listened while I ranted a bit, and then my brother showed up and drunkenly told us about his epic journey home from the wreckage of Princes Street.
I also kissed #60 when I held a post-Pride party about six months later, but we’ll get to that.