I was an 18 year old dishwasher on Princes Street, working alongside a French girl called Priscilla Tournant. Gorgeous, with an accent to match. I can still hear her voice, so I guess that means I was besotted with her.
At the weekends we would meet up to take speed or acid and go walkabout, visiting drug people or wandering the streets till dawn, to see what would happen.
Completely chaste of course. She had a fiancé in the west, but she hardly ever saw him. "I like being with you cos you don't try anything. You respect that I have Andy in Ayr." I was too young to know that they all say that.
One night on acid, we stopped in at the Gorgie flat, and the news of Hendrix's death was on TV. I remember thinking: if I wasn't drugged up I would grieve.
On the Sunday morning after the big trip at Gerry D's place with Reg etc., I was in bad shape but I had to turn up for work. At least I would be able to shelter in the kitchen and just work the dishwasher. But that was the very day they chose to promote me to work the coffee bar. Out in public in a hairnet, filling teapots with writhing snakes.
Priscilla told the boss to send me home. Instead of going home, I met Gerry et al in Princes St Gardens, for a smoke in the sun.
A few weeks later, my room mate Eddie went away for the weekend, after he was shopped to the squad by you know who.
So I invited Priscilla to the bed-sit for a sleepover. When she turned up, she had her chum Monique with her as a chaperone. The two of them drank vodka in Eddie's bed and giggled in French. It was a farce. They say some women can't respect a guy who respects them. I wore my best pyjamas too.